November, 11, 2013. 1:40am. Brooklyn.

well. i’m certainly not complaining. its Monday morning, going on 2am. there is something to be said for the pleasure of spending a weekend playing one’s own music. and for very pleased audiences no less.

sometimes, the hours and miles traveled seem completely out of wack with the aggregate fruit of their labor. sometimes — still, even now — it seems like the way through is a kind of pervasive madness.

sometimes, it keeps you up at night.

its been a while since i did any real sleeping, so, I don’t think it will be a problem tonight. but tomorrow is a new day, another chance to wrestle the saints of inspiration and the demons of despair. another day full of wind, and sunlight, and tribulation to leather one’s face, and one’s heart, and one’s soul.

this is what the fledgling sword in its forge feels. heat and energy and pressure — all conspiring to make one fly apart from their component parts. only to be hammered back in line and made, possibly better… certainly, at least: less imperfect.

and after tomorrow — another tomorrow. and on. and on.

and tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow
creeps in this petty pace from day to day
to the last syllable of recorded time.

every evening, when the last note is struck, and the lights go out. and there is nothing but flux-thinking, breath still in the throat, and the silence before the (possible) eruption of applause from a happy audience: i hear Macbeth. and i am the walking shadow.

and then, the lights come up and we all go home. and i am trying to do it again, the next day. and the next.

sound and fury. signifying nothing.

so glad my 11th english class did a whole two-weeks on Macbeth. WITH a test. that soliloquy was the extra credit. and i didn’t remember it. but from that time to this, i have always had it in my heart — to cross Shakespeare over into some Whitman (and why not, after such a lovely evening playing with Jus Post Bellum?)

now, then, this is enough. too much perhaps. and it too has strutted — though its hours are upon the page.

with that, i fade into night and sleep. and, of late, memory.


About akiebermiss

pianist, composer, singer, writer. hater.
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