stream of songs
And then, Mama, my boy William says, the plane is like crashing in the water, but then it swoops up, all the way to the moon.
With this, he flies his lego creation by me, guiding it out toward the lamp. Stories like this one spill from William now, strung together like patchwork quilts, odd patches, unexpected combinations.
I feel the same when I re-read a story I’ve written. Months passed and I wonder where those particular characters came from. They may have started with real life: a sliver of conversation overhead or an image. (Like that beautiful morbidly obese black girl, 8 years old, who always waves at me from 1st street). But in the stories, they inevitably become something different. Something I myself could have never imagined.
Maybe there’s stream of songs from which artists scoop, or sip, or siphon. It would be fast moving, a million unsong songs rushing past. And the painter, the singers, the poet, the musician, well she’s just the one curious enough to stand there by the water, struggling to decipher those odd high notes, brazen enough to plunge herself fingers into the wet dark cold.
Photo by Billy
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