The Songwriter

The Songwriter

The Songwriter

 

The Songwriter

He comes alive in the bright light of a computer screen;
The place where he sits and toils at writing;
The place he works to capture his creation in sounds and moving pictures.
The place he searches for inspiration in the vast, dense forest of sites and pages;
Overwhelming in it’s immensity;
Scattered with time eating cats and talking fruits and shells and marsupials;
But filled also with knowledge and insights from people;
People like him and unlike him;
Living in places like the place he lives;
Living in places unlike the place he lives;
Knowledge and insights distilled into soundscapes and movies and paragraphs and essays and pictures;
An evolving and growing mountain of creativity that serves to prove how unimaginative and uncreative he is and yet spurs him on to create and imagine new things.

He comes alive at the touch of a stringed instrument;
Alone in a room strumming lonely chords;
Crying the pain and loss;
Jubilating the triumphs and joys;
Expressing the deepest thoughts of his heart;
Things he cannot speak for his speaking is limited;
His words fail in the moment of import;
But here in this lonely room he writes;
Scratching and scribbling words into lines;
Lines into stanzas;
Striking through the trash;
Circling the worthy;
In the hope of capturing the essence of the story and the emotion and the feelings that can’t ever be captured in completion.

He comes alive in the moment when the lonely chords and the vocal strains and the rhyming paragraphs come together;
A beautiful union more powerful than the elements from which it came;
Elements drawn and teased, pulled and twisted, placed, contorted and morphed;
In an effort that he can’t understand or control;
An effort which seems effortless at times and impossible at others;
An effort which lifts him to his highest heights
And drops him carelessly from there into darkness;
Into a place where he stops and feels and reaches again for that high place;
Reaches again for that stringed instrument in that lonely room;
Reaches again for that scratchy notebook and pen;
Reaches again to find his heart and soul;
Because it is there that he finds himself;
It is there that he comes alive.

He comes alive on a stage,
With people watching him;
With people listening to him;
A microphone and a guitar shielding him from their naked scrutiny;
Their deconstruction of his construction.
Though he is no exhibitionist;
Though he shies from attention in every other space;
Though he is uncertain of himself;
of his hands;
of his voice;
of his song;
of his clothing;
of his very face;
Though it breaks his comfort of solitude to do it;
He reveals himself and his imaginations there in the spotlight;
Because it is there in that spotlight where everything he does culminates;
There it will soar and there it will come crashing down;
The result is never certain.
But whatever the result,
It is there he comes alive.

 

Tim Pepper – 2014Share on Facebook

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