To be honest, I don't feel the need to say anything a lot of the time. There is so much out there, so much already said, so much chatter, so much wonderful, lucid, erudite pontification on every conceivable subject, I think: why bother? Why take up the airspace, the time and energy - of my own and of the reader(s)(perchance there is more than one) when it could be spent more rewardingly.
Let's say you are sitting in an alcove, outside a closed bakery, playing your recorder. Let's imagine you are fooling around with some new sounds and sequences, at the early stages of composing a new tune perhaps. Let's imagine that you are taking your time, enjoying yourself. Maybe there's a hat there, in front of you with a few coins in. Or maybe not. Anyway, next thing you know a fully fledged marching band comes around the corner and heads up the street you are on. They are practiced and co-ordinated, they fill the air with their syncopated music.
Are you still going to sit there, squeezing out your squeaky little song? No one can hear you - but that isn't really the point... You can no longer really hear yourself. It is definitely not so enjoyable anymore. Why bother, right? Why compete. You put your shiny stick with holes into it's elongated, purple velvet, draw string sack and move on. You might stay a moment and watch and hear the spectacle with everyone else - or maybe not - it's really not your thing.
You walk to the edge of town. Into the trees. You wander. You come across a stream. It is calming. You sit on a nearby rock, dangle your feet in the soothing water. Rays of sunshine penetrate the canopy, glisten in the water. Nature surrounds you. You inhabit it and, for a time, are one with it.
You consider pulling out your recorder again and having a play. But somehow it seems superfluous. You are encompassed in a serene perfection. Just being there is enough. Time passes.
You get up, walk some more, absorb the gentle, glorious nature. You feel calm and content.
Eventually, it is time to leave, to head back home. You walk out of the bush, back to civilisation. Then, you remember. You don't have a home. You are homeless. You grab a cardboard box on the way back to the alcove. It is starting to get dark, people are scarce, there's a chill in the air. You take your seat on the door step, bum on the cardboard. It's going to be a long night. You take out your recorder slowly, thoughtfully. You begin to play. It sounds lovely.
Let's say you are sitting in an alcove, outside a closed bakery, playing your recorder. Let's imagine you are fooling around with some new sounds and sequences, at the early stages of composing a new tune perhaps. Let's imagine that you are taking your time, enjoying yourself. Maybe there's a hat there, in front of you with a few coins in. Or maybe not. Anyway, next thing you know a fully fledged marching band comes around the corner and heads up the street you are on. They are practiced and co-ordinated, they fill the air with their syncopated music.
Are you still going to sit there, squeezing out your squeaky little song? No one can hear you - but that isn't really the point... You can no longer really hear yourself. It is definitely not so enjoyable anymore. Why bother, right? Why compete. You put your shiny stick with holes into it's elongated, purple velvet, draw string sack and move on. You might stay a moment and watch and hear the spectacle with everyone else - or maybe not - it's really not your thing.
You walk to the edge of town. Into the trees. You wander. You come across a stream. It is calming. You sit on a nearby rock, dangle your feet in the soothing water. Rays of sunshine penetrate the canopy, glisten in the water. Nature surrounds you. You inhabit it and, for a time, are one with it.
You consider pulling out your recorder again and having a play. But somehow it seems superfluous. You are encompassed in a serene perfection. Just being there is enough. Time passes.
You get up, walk some more, absorb the gentle, glorious nature. You feel calm and content.
Eventually, it is time to leave, to head back home. You walk out of the bush, back to civilisation. Then, you remember. You don't have a home. You are homeless. You grab a cardboard box on the way back to the alcove. It is starting to get dark, people are scarce, there's a chill in the air. You take your seat on the door step, bum on the cardboard. It's going to be a long night. You take out your recorder slowly, thoughtfully. You begin to play. It sounds lovely.
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