Austin — I open my screen door that creaks like all doors that signal home, and before my foot lands on the concrete stair, something falls onto my shoulder. I look to see its consistency and see nothing, just feel the echo of it through my shirt on my skin. It’s Halloween and things are falling, knocks of acorns on the roof all day, changing leaf compositions on grass and table and road.
This falling enters my practice too, as I decide to let go of any discernible pattern for a while, realizing how much I see pattern and repetition, rhythm, refrains, as anchor points, as the ID cards that legitimize sounds into music. I sometimes cling to them out of a need for control.
This is freeing and meditative, continuously bringing me back to what is right here, right now. My sounds change as I look at different things, the box of window light on the floor, the house across the street, the buzzing of my chest, the potted philodendron, the popped ceiling plaster, inner judges, electric lawn mower engines.
Sailing like this on sound and image and sensation for a while, I finally end up repeating a very short phrase, arriving there naturally, like seeing row houses on my ride through the valley.
Every time I sing this “same” phrase it is different. Subtly slower or faster. Shifting emphasis on different syllables. Evolving mouth shapes. A tiring of the muscle complex that supports it.
There is repetition, pattern, but it is never the same; nature doesn’t harbor such control. She offers cycles and not sameness.