The Singer/Songwriter

Another free-write. I like to go back and find these things in old notebooks. I was actually listening to someone sing a tribute song like this - but this is not their story (or my opinion of them...).

She sang a song for him, piano and voice, to remember him. He had always hated her songs, her voice. He didn't have the courage to tell her - he didn't trust that she liked him enough to survive telling the truth. But now she sings what she calls 'his song,' thinking it is a tribute to him, to their relationship. But really it is a tribute to her own perception of their relationship, which has little to nothing to do with him, or reality. If it had been up to him, the best tribute might have been moments of silence, pure silence, expectant silence which is more full than empty absence of sound. That is how he would have remembered them, who they were together.

But she. She remembers them by covering over that silence with her words, her voice, her playing the piano, her thoughts, her attempts at poetry. And she remembers him with her own creativity, which has little to nothing to do with him, with reality. It is only her, covering over their perfect silence with herself, afraid that in the silence he will disappear. And that she will as well.

She sounds the siren...

This is a short free-write I did a few months back in my notebook, writing to the song "Stay (Faraway, So Close)" by U2. Not sure what it is, really, except that I've come back to it time and time again as I flip through the notebook. Something about the character, I like. If you want, listen to the song while you read...

She sounds the siren. The cry for help. Supersonic, and only the dogs come running. She's been beaten before and expects each embrace to end that way. It's all temporary, she's learned, but it doesn't mean she lives that way. Each meeting is a desperate goodbye, each loss the dawn of a new morning. When he passed, she half expected him to walk in the door the next morning. She opens the door every day expecting the same.

She's a walking invitation to a party in an empty room. Her hair flows down in front of her shoulders. She's long since given up pretending to be attractive, which has only made her more alluring. Do the men that approach her want to be her savior or her damnation? She gives none of them the power to be her either. What can make a girl lose this much of her soul? Where has she given it away - where is it hidden now?

She's the girl who when she wants something, puts her hand in her pocket and, no matter what when or how much, the money is there - in crumpled bills and change - and she's learned to keep her wants to that scale. To want more is only disappointment. To want more is a luxury she can't afford. It costs more than her pocket can provide.