Desiraling (rough and ready, unmixed and unarranged)
Desiraling
Taking a leaf from the great traveler Basho, I’ve written the remembrance of a journey, capturing moments along the way. In old Japan this kind of record was called Haibun - a combination of prose and verse. 'The Narrow Road to the Deep North’ was the book I grabbed from the shelf as we rushed to the plane, and it’s because of this I find myself following an old master.
Chance set us traveling. Recently, after years of poor hearing, I decided to record an unfinished song that kept playing in my mind. I couldn’t do this myself; as Merniere’s disease has left me hardly hearing a tune; but an old band mate got me over my difficulty, by offering to produce and to find people to play parts.
The first person he phoned was interstate and strangely enough, looking for us. She was arranging a birthday surprise for a friend who’d moved there, and we were wanted for that. With all the fun of the invitation, we put the song on hold for a while and made bookings.
The following were written on leaving home, just as we were rising through cloud. I don’t travel very often, so setting out on a long journey acts kind of like punctuation. There’s a gentle pause as present thoughts fade and dreams draw close; or else I’m placed back in a seat with the high hopes I had, setting out on other trips, maybe five or ten years ago.
My desire is to Lay things bare, But also to cover up As much as I reveal.
Isn’t that The only way, To show the full picture?
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Another journey by plane; And though many days and miles have Passed since I last took to the air, I’m still not much closer to the center. When will I cast off all the ideas Wrapped round my head Like these misty clouds?
All my journeys seem to be heading one place, I just haven’t got there yet. Maybe once or twice I’ve had my foot in the door. Since then though; for right or for wrong; I’ve been been caught by the idea of losing myself in giving.
Recently, it’s brought me close to exhaustion. It’s strange how even when helping others, you can fool yourself along a number of lines and for a number of years and then all of a sudden be shown the truth of a matter. This crossed my mind when we were half way to Launceston:
Looking down on this city Of three million souls I feel small, Wondering how many I’ve truly helped:
Maybe one, Maybe two, Maybe none...
That’s got me thinking: My ego must be at least The size of this city!
My friend and I arrived at the Airport in the late afternoon and were met by one of the birthday plotters - an artist in residence at the old gatekeepers cottage in Cataract Gorge. We were led on a walk through the gorge at sunset, enjoyed a night of good company, food and wine, and we even had a go at my old tune.
For the first time in years, The dreams of the night Were friendly, companionable.
Looking out the window this morning, I wonder if I’ve truly woken.
After the party, our small group spent a couple of days together. Everyone needs a holiday from their ideas at times, and what better a way, than amongst friends, in nature, and with time for thought.
These came through on a grey, windy morning.
I like sitting here In the quiet of the morning, Before the house stirs:
The wind blows where it likes, Leaving the sound of its passing.
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With all that’s happened I’ve become a bit of a lonely soul; But it’s good to catch up With old friends again.
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Holiday shower - Refreshing aroma of Other people’s soap.
On the last day of our travels we drove down to the old lighthouse at Low Head on the northern coast. It was windswept there and rugged - the sea stretched for miles in all directions. As we were heading for home, thick clouds rolled in.
That night, we decided to have a go at recording my old song. The parts were long ready, but words had never come to match the feeling of the tune. I remember thinking: there’s no point forcing the words - it’ll have to sound alright without them.
But just as it was time for vocals and I was describing them for the singer, these came:
