In the novel Housekeeping, by Marilyn Robinson, a book that holds some of the greatest English prose ever written, there is a passage that describes the layers of water that make up a mountain lake: there is the groundwater, the water in the lake itself and then the water aloft that rises and dissipates high above the mountains that ring the lake.
I thought of this passage the other afternoon, when I was out walking by the Bay. There had been rain, and as I looked out on the seawater, the fog above and the clouds higher, I mused that the suspended water was like my songs, a thing in-between, transient, unresolved, uncertain.
I cannot put into words how desperately I want to finish/record all the songs I have written and started writing. Sadly, the finish line seems to be something I can only ever get halfway closer to. I was SURE I would be finished with at least one collection of songs by now, but I had to cut the last recording session short for health reasons, and so I am still ever so close, but ever so far.
Argh… this has happened to me so many times and I confess I am tired of it. But, onward, right? And in time, my dissipated, unformed, mist-like music will coalesce into something solid, possibly even something vinyl.