No less a language barrier than ever, and since a picture is worth a thousand word, you’ve got three-thousand above and they lay out the narrative for this morning’s sounds. The photo of the bridge is a particular favorite. Bridges fascinate me anyway but this photo tells its own story. The vital point is that there is no view of the other side. There is no discernible destination. It is a bridge to anywhere, or nowhere at all. This particular photo is uncertainty The other two have their own stories, indeed many stories, and though they may be about uncertain people, they all have a beginning and an end. They are not happy stories. Photography is a funny art, as nuanced as a haiku, or momentous like an epic saga.
But the music… we’ve been here on so many mornings. Do you need to know the language? Do they matter? It seems to me that they are similar to the photos when you don’t know the language. The songs still tell the stories.
Some of these songs are familiar. It would be more of a surprise if there were none that rang a bell, after nearly 20 months of these long mornings. Lockdown mornings. Quarantine mornings. Semi-quarantine mornings. Isolation daybreaks, etc. Life has changed some, for better and for worse, and there are fewer of these quiet, settled moments. I miss them and I’m not sure if that’s a good thing, but I do remember saying many times since March of 2020 that I don’t really want things to go back to the way they were. What is there from those long mornings and months of mornings that I can hold onto and keep for my own? I’m not sure yet. We are on the bridge back into the next chapter. We are dragging a lot of fucking baggage with us, but we’re still at the on-ramp, shuffling forward. Or maybe shuffling backward but we’ll see when we get there. Am I being dragged along by the press and momentum of the crowd? It does feel that way, and that’s definitely not a good thing. That’s for certain.
I don’t want to be in the parade to the past.