Music is a tree, an ongoing conversation: I opt to be a chime, one of many hanging from its branches, as the wind off the coast continues to shove past. And the wind really shoves, doesn’t it.
A tree knows no agenda but to stand up as long as life allows. Weathering wind off the ocean, it does not pretend to be a mountain. It does not claim to be the birds in its boughs.
I am me, but I am not. I am me just enough to hold space and turn the movement of air into sound. I am an observer.
An observer. I wish you could hear me say it. With all surrender, as if my voice were a pair of hands hanging by my side, an observer does not demand “look here.”
I live smack dab in the middle of my country’s largest populated city. Out my window, chimes hang on another building’s fire escape. I could be here to seek thrill, to further an intention, to sneak onto pedestals where people kneel their subconscious to pray. I know many who use the name of music, who use names, in this way.
I opt to be one of many chimes speaking a language, for conversations sake. I opt to observe, I opt to listen, I opt to curatively exchange truth and be cured by making music.