Invisible Hairshirt

Lyrics to 20+ year-old songs like Alison Moyet’s “Invisible” (which stopped by the brain this morning) has redressed the idea that the subconscious does have a soundtrack and puts the needle to the proverbial life vinyl when an appropriate “groove” arises.

My whole life, I’ve seen the world symbolically, through letters/characters, language/words, sounds/sights. It is amazing to me, when I observe waves that crash against rock, that I can process it to the point of feeling, for a moment, as if I am a wave. My reception to nature could further be tuned, but the frequency has at least registered.

Between Moyet, REM, and the torrential and seemingly chilling waves this morning, I recall a conversation last night with a few writers about music’s role or importance in finding a voice in writing. The poetic is fictional and fiction is poetic and reality is only word in the language that should always be used in quotes.


“So here I am. Here I am.”

I am not the type of dog
That could keep you waiting
For no good reason
Run a carbon-black test on my jaw
And you will find it’s all been said before

I can swing my megaphone and long arm the rest
It’s easier and better
To dispute it from the chest
Of desire

I could walk into this room
And the waves of conversation are enough
To knock you down in the undertow
So alone, so alone in my life
Feed me banks of light
And hang your hairshirt on the lowest rung
It’s a beautiful life
And I can hang my hairshirt
Away up high in the attic of the wrong dog’s life chest
Or bury it at sea
All my life I’ve searched for this

Here I am, here I am in your life
It’s a beautiful life
My life
It’s a beautiful life
Your life

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