Insufficient Profanity

It’s Easter Sunday, the day the Christians stole from the Pagan Goddess of the Dawn, Ostara, and latterly, Oestre, to replace our Spring Equinox festival. Like a loaf of bread, he is risen, like an egg, he is consumed.

Taking a few days off from my intense (but welcome) songwriting project, has thrown me into a state of quiet reflection and I have been hearing the resonance of various truths emanating from the depths like a sunken ship’s bell sounded by the Spring tide swell. I recognise this metallic calling as a sound of clarity heard previously from time to time, and just now ringing all the louder in the relative silence.

I am not doing the work I need to do. I am condemning my best to the books of forgetting. It is not enough to have the ideas – they must be realised. Like Charles Ives, I know totally and without question that I would rather do a job which left me completely free to operate culturally in my “spare” time in the manner of my own choosing than compromise the work I must do.

The fact that I posit this as an imperative shows the urgency that I am experiencing. I know that I must move forward with some speed and determination this year and from that will emerge the real and still somewhat hidden purpose of my work to date.

I feel like the last kid in the sweetshop as it’s about to close, still clutching my fiver and with my eyes fastened on the top shelf where all the big chocolates live. I can’t yet tell which one I’m going to get but I sure as dammmit know I’m not leaving without at least one of them.

In the middle of this lies the knowledge that I’ve been far too polite recently – I’m in danger of losing my rude and healthy punk; I’ve been far too serious about all the wrong things – I’m in danger of losing my sense of hummous. I’m going to have to move things around, including my arse. I need to go out and dance my celebration. I need to swear a lot until the words mean nothing and can’t stop smiling.