Do I write the songs or do they write me? Words seem to be constant companions in my head as the days pass through me. Some days I am narrating to myself, other times odd phrases will pop up, placed as though written by another's hand. Reminds me a bit of the Griffin and Sabine books at times. 

I am waiting, as the CD is mostly out of my hands, changing unseen to me in the dark workspaces of others. It is difficult to hand it over, when I have cradled it so long against my own chest. I am longing to sit with them, letting the changes wash over me, but time and money do not allow for that. The digital world opens many possibilities, as I work with people around the world, but I long at times to have a shared glance, and quickening of breath as we move as one within this music. As I wait, I work on new songs, already daydreaming about another CD, which feels almost like cheating ~laugh~ 

There is construction on my hill, behind the house, and the swath they have cut through the wild grasses feels like a line ripped into my own chest. It is a pox mark on the land, that was so sensuously inviting in its curves before. I feel violated by it's vast ugliness, and by the cars, now visible to me, endlessly swarming over what used to be a peaceful haven to me. I feel stunted by it, silently screaming in my head. The words overflowing in my mind, without a vessel to place them in. And yet, at night, I still hear the water flowing down the deepness of the ravine and it soothes my restless spirit. I smell the fragrant flowers that frame my window and feel my heart eased. 

And I am endlessly searching for the words to shape the thoughts



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