i can’t quite seem to find the words to express everything on my mind this week, so i’m adding to the noise in a more literal sense. i did some guitar improv this morning. it’s not a very good recording, but i don’t care. i didn’t need a quality recording. i needed to shake the walls of my house, hear all my guitar cases rattle, feel the rumble in the floor.
the song ends in dissonance. it’s loud. it’s angry and melancholy and frustrated. my wife would have asked me to turn it down. but that’s what it is.
However just and anxious I have been,
I will stop and step back
from the crowd of those who may agree
with what I say, and be apart.
There is no earthly promise of life or peace
but where the roots branch and weave
their patient silent passages in the dark;
uprooted, I have been furious without an aim.
I am not bound for any public place,
but for ground of my own
where I have planted vines and orchard trees,
and in the heat of the day climbed up
into the healing shadow of the woods.
Better than any argument is to rise at dawn
and pick dew-wet red berries in a cup.
Recommended further reading and listening:
This Is For Our Sins, by Lowercase Noises
No Country, by John Mark Mcmillan
The Church in Exile, by Lee Beach
1 Samuel 8