#NewThisDay Writing From My Photo Stream
Under the Trestle Bridge, Charles Rivr, Abstract; Blind Spots
I put on the music that I came to later in life. My shoulders dropped. . . I grieved more deeply. I prayed. And I wept. I stood at the window and watched the people on the sidewalk below. The parents with children, the groups of friends, neighbors bringing home groceries. I thought of all of us who, like me at that time, lived in danger and in fear. A fear that might seem inexplicable, yet, also, concrete and real. Dear God, take care of my brothers and sisters, take care of our families, take care of the people in hospitals and on the streets. I put on records, and prayed. I was sitting in music. I wasn’t wired, I was wired. . . I found my communion with others who were alone. . .
Excerpt from Music Will Be Important, an essay by Donald Antrim, New Yorker Radio Hour Podcast, performed by Russell G. Jones
It’s light out so early, and we’re awake with sunshine. Not enough sleep, but I don’t mind. It’s summer, and we sit on the deck comfortably, in the ease of warm air. I have time to water the gardens before walking. I am thinking about the skunk too. We have a plan. Frank read that rags soaked in apple cider vinegar, in plastic bags with holes, can be used to trick the skunk into smelling a predator’s urine. I fill the bags; we place them under the shed.Now, we wait and see. I have an empty trash bag with me today. By the time I return home with the heft of it over my back, it will be filled with four pizza boxes, countless bottles, three beach towels, many potato chip wrappers, several plastic straws, bottle caps and lots of miscellaneous detritus. I like the looks of this party spot, these trestle rails over the Charles, tidy. I write a new poem, on paper, one that has been in my head for a long time, a complicated poem. I am meeting with the poetry pals tonight, and I want something new. My friend from Texas surprises me by being with my friend in Mississippi! We have our poetry exchange across the miles, and they really help me with my poem. In the afternoon we swam in Farm Pond. Both daughters chatty, we have much to dissect. From my friend, Karin, who joins us for a swim, I learn that our flamboyant skunk is an albino. Who knew? I dearly wish this one would find another home. On my walk, while I picked up trash, I listened to the New Yorker Radio Hour podcast, noted above, to the poignant essay about healing during deep depression by listening to music. I took a picture, under the trestle bridge, the reflection of paint and graffiti on the Charles, and this made me see, more clearly, the way listening to music can be immersive as prayer in a troubled time.
