...myself, and music...
It used to be that not a day went by that I didn't think of St. Petersburg, of Russia. It wasn't burned into my memory; it was frozen there, a great glacier of memory, immovable. No matter the madness that would fire my mind, my spirit, it remained untouched...
In the last few years, that habit has waned. Blinded by my southern sun, I lost track of the mountain. It no longer rose to meet me; time and grief are mists that do not burn off, no matter how warm the sun.
But this morning...this morning that glacier shone through the mist, heightened by my southern sun and my double-edged habit of associating events with music. My flesh felt the wind; felt the ghost of Russia rise. I would swear that I held the whole country in the bounds of my bones, my blood, and felt melancholy, the good kind, keening throughout. It has stayed, this melancholy. It is older than the usual one that visits me--older, and better. Wiser. Less cynical. Not burned out. Not tired.
blue days, black nights
I want to hold this feeling, from when I felt the world in a different way. Can I keep it close, a path back to the memory?
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