The Beat Goes On

I sat on my front porch and sang to the birds and my invisible friends this morning. At least I can still sing. I don't remember the words to a lot of the songs I had to learn earlier in my life. I don't really care. I know I'm only using the words as an excuse to make particular sounds in spontaneous sequences. If I can't remember some song lyrics to use I make up my own words. Words that ain't even words yet. If there happens to be a listener somewhere within reach of the sound of my voice, they'll decide for themselves what I'm trying to do over here, and whether they liked it, lumped it, or wanted to rake it over the coals. That ain't up to me.

I don't sing the songs I composed myself much any more or at least not often. They have reverted back to their original form and I recite them in conversation as poetry just to stay in touch. I remember catch phrases of songs I learned with great pride in my youth. I remember the patriotic songs and anthems I was taught to revere as a child. I went for the God and country dogma all the way into puberty. Line, hook and sinker.

Life is not a romantic affair to me. That's the value I add to it.

I sing a lotta vowel sounds to warm up and stretch my voice. This morning I sang the Doxology a goodly number of times. going up one-half step up the scale each time. I make sure I sing at least one exercise for each of the vowels. I sing these old songs I don't have to think about to remember as enchantments. Just like anybody chants anything. It's the ritual of a dying animal. It's a practice. My body stops hurting me just long enough to listen. It remembers too.