Extemporanea

It's hard starting a new blog. It's as hard as writing the first chapter in a book...or coming up with a title for your poem...or finding an introduction for the piece you're trying to arrange.

I've been doing this all, trial and error, for at least a half-hour. I finally decided I didn't have anything philosophical to say, and anyway, I must be on adrenaline or something--sobbing my heart out because of the song "Going Up Home" performed by Jerimoth Hill. I love that song; it's so true! But it doesn't generally make me cry. Must be teen hormones or something.

I thought I'd describe this room to you, but that seemed pointless. I thought I'd talk about the McIntoshes and Auchindoun castle and the ballad that sparked from that, but I didn't want to bore you with my ideas about what a great historical fiction book that could be built around that. I thought I might describe myself--but I'm no judge of who I am. How could I tell you the right thing?

So, I decided to simply start this blog. It's Gravelly Homestead--an alternate translation of my last name. I meant to start it in August, then that became July, then June...now May, because I didn't want anybody taking my address. If you spell it the British way, apparently somebody has. But I'm not British, I'm American, so I didn't need to worry.

It's raining outside, and, earlier, before the sun set, I saw it all green and gray--my favorite colors. Not even blue matches the strange mixture of mist and hills which comes with a rain. Now I'm listening to Atwater-Donnelly--my favorite music group--and their haunting, wistful harmonies and instrumentation...which make me think about rain and the strange world I built in my heart for the wispy spirits of the folksongs they sing. The rain blends eerily with them.

I love rain. I know there are folks who get depressed during winter and need to go to a sunnier place, but I love rain. Sun gets too cruel, sometimes. I just love rain and the softening of things...the feeling of gritty mud on my feet where it seeps over my sandals...the feeling of raindrops in my hair...the mist on the mountain.

On right now is Aubrey Atwater's song: "Quiet Sky", written about 9/11. I haven't heard many songs or poems in response to that, but this is the best I've ever heard. One line that sticks in my head: "Such a perfect day, in a perfect month". It did seem a perfect day that day, before I knew that, across the country, there were evil, twisted men shattering the lives of thousands.

And yet, Ms. Atwater's wistful voice, her quiet guitar doing a strange but beautiful accompaniment pattern--it all seems to match the rain, too. I suppose that's the way a song is. It starts out one way--written for one thing...but then brings more meaning to something totally different. I wish I could write like that.

I know this post is disorganized, but I think life is truly what Dorothy Parker called, ironically, "a medley of extemporanea". At least, my life is. So perhaps it's fitting that I start the blog this way.