Everyone's Muse
Writers, performers, artists, dreamers.....we each draw inspiration from somewhere. Couched in poetry, music, or neoclassic snapshots, we are each trying to say what our mouths often cannot express so eloquently, wrapping our feelings in brightly colored ribbons, monochrome steel boxes, or rainbow colored humor.
People ask me "Is this based on someone you know?" and I answer glibbly "Yes, vaguely, it's based upon a friend I knew when I lived in Zanzibar", politely sidestepping further probes about my black sheep past. Soon enough they will move on to mind-numbing boring talks about how turquoise the water is in East African archipelagos and the true protagonist of my words remains my secret.
It doesn't bother us when our acquaintances are fooled. Sometimes we prefer their naiveté. It keeps us from having to spill the skeletons from our protective closets exposing our naked muses for prying eyes to see.
But when we share something we have created with a loved one, and they fail to recognize themselves in our painful shyness, when we can only speak obliquely, the wounds of their oversight are crushing on the soul. It is as if their blindness has the ability to makes razor thin cuts over and over again, crosshatched up and down upon our psyche. Looking into their eyes, we search, furtively, hungrily, then angrily, desperately, for some small acknowledgment, a glimmer of insight, that gives us hope, and helps us to believe that they really do understand and perhaps love us enough to see through our fictional characters.
Until we finally give up and stop trying.
Our truest friends will read our words, hear our music, or watch our movies, played out like a passion play, and know instantly that there is something more here than just pretty thoughts strung together like colorful pearls.
They are the ones who cry with us, wrapping us in their warming coats when we mistakenly seek acceptance in sugar cubed glasses of peridot colored absinthe. Sometimes they just listen, patiently on cell phones while standing on noisy streets or quietly as the sun comes up, half the world and an ocean away.
I often wonder why it is that that so few can hear what isn't said, see what isn't shown, read between unwritten lines. What gift do they possess that allows them to sense in us something familiar, touching it, finding it beautiful, no matter how vulnerable, no matter how scarred, no matter how naked a soul can be.
E non riuscire ad incontrarsi in mezzo,
e l’orgoglio ci impedisce di
uscire allo scoperto.
Quanto è più facile dare la colpa a te,
perché non sopporto il peso di
guardare quel che c’è
dentro me….
E non potere ritornare indietro,
quanto è alto da pagare il prezzo
per quello che abbiam detto
Far finta sempre che niente sia successo,
ma la volta dopo è sempre peggio
e non troviamo il verso..
Fai un passo anche tu
ed io 1 in più.
Non importa chi ha ragione sai,
non stiamo bene mai.
Fai un passo anche tu
ed io 1 in più.
Non rimane troppo tempo ormai
e il male, gratis, non guarisce mai.
Rabbia e rancore non sono parole,
fucili spianati,
trincea di dolore.
E come l’acqua va via fra le dita,
in un batter d’occhio,
la vita è fuggita.
Fai un passo anche tu
ed io 1 in più.
Non importa chi ha ragione sai,
non stiamo bene mai.
Fai un passo anche tu
ed io 1 in più.
Non rimane troppo tempo ormai
e il male, gratis, non guarisce mai.
People ask me "Is this based on someone you know?" and I answer glibbly "Yes, vaguely, it's based upon a friend I knew when I lived in Zanzibar", politely sidestepping further probes about my black sheep past. Soon enough they will move on to mind-numbing boring talks about how turquoise the water is in East African archipelagos and the true protagonist of my words remains my secret.
It doesn't bother us when our acquaintances are fooled. Sometimes we prefer their naiveté. It keeps us from having to spill the skeletons from our protective closets exposing our naked muses for prying eyes to see.
But when we share something we have created with a loved one, and they fail to recognize themselves in our painful shyness, when we can only speak obliquely, the wounds of their oversight are crushing on the soul. It is as if their blindness has the ability to makes razor thin cuts over and over again, crosshatched up and down upon our psyche. Looking into their eyes, we search, furtively, hungrily, then angrily, desperately, for some small acknowledgment, a glimmer of insight, that gives us hope, and helps us to believe that they really do understand and perhaps love us enough to see through our fictional characters.
Until we finally give up and stop trying.
Our truest friends will read our words, hear our music, or watch our movies, played out like a passion play, and know instantly that there is something more here than just pretty thoughts strung together like colorful pearls.
They are the ones who cry with us, wrapping us in their warming coats when we mistakenly seek acceptance in sugar cubed glasses of peridot colored absinthe. Sometimes they just listen, patiently on cell phones while standing on noisy streets or quietly as the sun comes up, half the world and an ocean away.
I often wonder why it is that that so few can hear what isn't said, see what isn't shown, read between unwritten lines. What gift do they possess that allows them to sense in us something familiar, touching it, finding it beautiful, no matter how vulnerable, no matter how scarred, no matter how naked a soul can be.
E non riuscire ad incontrarsi in mezzo,
e l’orgoglio ci impedisce di
uscire allo scoperto.
Quanto è più facile dare la colpa a te,
perché non sopporto il peso di
guardare quel che c’è
dentro me….
E non potere ritornare indietro,
quanto è alto da pagare il prezzo
per quello che abbiam detto
Far finta sempre che niente sia successo,
ma la volta dopo è sempre peggio
e non troviamo il verso..
Fai un passo anche tu
ed io 1 in più.
Non importa chi ha ragione sai,
non stiamo bene mai.
Fai un passo anche tu
ed io 1 in più.
Non rimane troppo tempo ormai
e il male, gratis, non guarisce mai.
Rabbia e rancore non sono parole,
fucili spianati,
trincea di dolore.
E come l’acqua va via fra le dita,
in un batter d’occhio,
la vita è fuggita.
Fai un passo anche tu
ed io 1 in più.
Non importa chi ha ragione sai,
non stiamo bene mai.
Fai un passo anche tu
ed io 1 in più.
Non rimane troppo tempo ormai
e il male, gratis, non guarisce mai.
posted by ~Sparrow | Wednesday, February 06, 2008
|
1 comments
