RIP Grandpa

The oldest man in Awka dies; A son’s tribute

There is this stillness in the air that is the silence of my cries

The easy rustle of the leaves just as consistent as my agony

Does time pass? Is there the bustle of movement? Alas my sorrow…is it solitary?

My face is turned to the past and the present pulls me back; a strong wind.

 I see the rubble that is the past I cannot fix

I might reach for hope but it fades just as swiftly as your last breath

I might fight this wind but it gets nearer like the forceful storm that is now my reality

I knew a lifetime with you; the angel of my history

The words that we said were longer than the seconds of a thousand minutes

The laughter that we shared even sweeter than the bass notes of a million drum rolls

The bareness in our love just as simple as dusk will change to dawn

Perhaps the pain I feel is selfish?

 It is true, I knew it, but did I believe it?

Always in my knowledge but hardly in conscious thought alas I have been taught once again;

“That all that lives must die, passing through nature unto eternity”

  Indeed the oldest man but today he is just my father.

Rest in peace Grandpa.

My Creative Process

(NB: intended to be read with the music, not after (if you can). Usually if I link a song, that's what I'm going for).

Dear Friends,

I cannot stress enough, how connected all art is for me, in particular: music, dance, and literature.

More often than not, my art begins with a bud of inspiration from music. Certain songs just have an automatic, almost visceral response from my body that elicits feelings so strong, they demand to be made whole. Initially, my body shuts down as the music soars through, becoming part of me. Every hair buzzes, as I radiate the notes from my very core to a song which seems to play from within. In my inner eye, without much thought, I see a story that plays perfectly to its new soundtrack.

Here, the story changes with the music, and not the other way round. Sometimes I am the protagonist, other times only a bystander. Each time, however, I am entirely invested in the outcome. At this point, I am likely to start dancing. The sound within me now comes without, searching for some immediate expression. No matter the genre, I'll dance.

After playing the song a good five times or so, I start to feel like I've sufficiently embodied the spirit of the piece. It's that spirit that help me keep the mood as I write. Sometimes, I'll play the song over and over again until I'm done. And when I'm through, I'll read over it with the same track, to see if what I've written compliments what I feel. Serious editing takes place much later.

Many say books are amazing because they give you the rare opportunity to live life much more than once. I say the same for a good song, a good dance, a good performance.

Stay inspired,

Cathy.

A Thought

Imagine this:

You come to the library like any other day, mind set on getting through the inhuman volumes of required reading and essay-writing. As you set down your book bag, you can't help releasing a mini sigh of relief, now that the sharp pain in your shoulders has begun to fade. Like many others, you try to fight back the increasing worry you feel as you rumble through your stuff for two essential library items: your laptop charger, and (of course) your headphones. You secretly high-five yourself on remembering to bring both.

As you lift your laptop screen, it flashes with a subtle buzz to life. Fingers braced, you watch it with angst, waiting for the second the mute button is ready to respond (you're a master at this by now). You're satisfied at having evaded any potentially life-scarring music explosions, even though you're pretty certain you had nothing playing before you left home. Excited to play an amazing song you recently discovered, you quickly plug in your headphones and open up YouTube. You set the volume soft and low, aware that no headphones are perfect.  

As it plays, it carries you away with it, and amidst the fully-packed desks, you are truly alone and free. Each second that passes transforms the building into a hearth of solace, and only a small part of you still spatially aware could feel sorry for the others around you suffering the silence. It is so good, you decide then and there to get through the entire recommended playlist.

Three hours later, you're ready to go. You lift your headphones off your ears, only to realise that all along they had never been fully plugged in.

And all around you are the soft sounds of Soko's 'We Might Be Dead Tomorrow'. They fill the void, teasing ears that- willingly or unwillingly-would hear.

Yet no one complained.

Cathy