All this time
The sun never says to the earth,
With a love like that,
It lights the
I had someone come up to me while visiting friends in Maryland this weekend and say, “I knew you wrote, but I didn’t know you were an actual writer”. That was unbelievably flattering. For the past year and a half, I have been patiently building a small empire of sorts. I want to be a writer, I know where my future lies, I know what I want. To hear someone say that they’ve read something I wrote and actually enjoyed it is music to my ears.
I’ve been doing a lot of writing lately. Blame it on the lovely weather we’re having in North Carolina, my positive outlook on life, or all of the inspiration that surrounds me on a daily basis.
And I have something else very exciting to share with you all! I’ve been developing this since the summertime, when I took a graduate poetry class at North Carolina State University (my alma mater). I’ve been developing an entirely new way of looking at my writing, and I’ve investigated ways in which I could incorporate a new angle: magic realism and surrealism. I’ve studied Chilean writers like Neruda and Allende for many years and wondered how their brains worked, how they cultivated these visions into words.
And do you remember that grungy rock band, Nirvana? While Kurt Cobain admittedly creeped me out as a kid in the ’90s, I was always drawn to the song, “Where Did You Sleep Last?”. The macabre tonality of it mixed with Cobain’s eerie, I-see-a-bright-tunnel-of-light-ahead-of-me voice, immediately made me think of decay, heat and death. I did a little research to discover that it was actually a remake of a 1917 recording called “In the Pines” sung by a black musician named Lead Belly. Being the history buff and research enthusiast that I am, I dug a little deeper to discover that the song dates back to the 1870s, believed to be of Southern Appalachian origin.
Cool, right?Without further delay, I’m introducing yet another short story for my growing repertoire, appropriately entitled “Specter”. Without giving too much away, imagine an failed writer suffering from delusions and heartbreak, a old plantation reformed into a hotel, and a pretty, young stranger who doesn’t remember who she is.
Aren’t sufficiently creeped out yet? Check out these lyrics, and the accompanying music provided below.
I can’t wait to share this with you guys! 🙂
“Black girl, black girl, don’t lie to me
Where did you stay last night?
I stayed in the pines where the sun never shines
And shivered when the cold wind blows”
because i love you)last night
clothed in sealace
appeared to me
your mind drifting
with chuckling rubbish
of pearl weed coral and stones;
your face smile breasts gargled
by death:drowned only
again carefully through deepness to rise
these your wrists
thighs feet hands
to again utterly disappear;
rushing gently swiftly creeping
through my dreams last
night,all of your
body with its spirit floated
(clothed only in
the tide’s acute weaving murmur
Here I love you.
In the dark pines the wind disentangles itself.
The moon glows like phosphorous on the vagrant waters.
Days, all one kind, go chasing each other.
The snow unfurls in dancing figures.
A silver gull slips down from the west.
Sometimes a sail. High, high stars.
Oh the black cross of a ship.
Sometimes I get up early and even my soul is wet.
Far away the sea sounds and resounds.
This is a port.
Here I love you.
Here I love you and the horizon hides you in vain.
I love you still among these cold things.
Sometimes my kisses go on those heavy vessels
that cross the sea towards no arrival.
I see myself forgotten like those old anchors.
The piers sadden when the afternoon moors there.
My life grows tired, hungry to no purpose.
I love what I do not have. You are so far.
My loathing wrestles with the slow twilights.
But night comes and starts to sing to me.
The moon turns its clockwork dream.
The biggest stars look at me with your eyes.
And as I love you, the pines in the wind
want to sing your name with their leaves of wire.
Let me live in a house by the side of the road,
Where the race of men go by –
The men who are good and the men who are bad,
As good and as bad as I.
I would not sit in the scorner’s seat,
Or hurl the cynic’s ban;
Let me live in a house by the side of the road
And be a friend to man.
Sam Walter Foss, The House By the Side of the Road