Whenever I am alone, I am probably singing to myself. Sometimes its snatches of a piece I’m working on (“Where is Love” has been a favorite this week), but mostly its a glimpse into my subconscious. I’ll tune back into the real world after my hands have finished washing dishes and realize I’ve been singing the same two lines of “I Got Plenty of Nothin'” for five minutes and my patient roommate is probably getting irritated. Walking to class yesterday, I sang,
The sun comes up–
I think about you.
The coffee cup–
I think about you.
As I entered my apartment block, taking my RFID tag out of my backpack to scan into my building:
Ain’t that I mind working,
Work and me is travelers,
Journeying down the road now
To the promised land.
Old man Sorrow,
Has come to keep my company
Laying there beside me,
When I say my prayers.
My diagnosis: a little lonely, a little tired, but still happy enough to be singing Sondheim and Gershwin.
When I’m singing unconsciously I usually just let myself finish the song; but today I caught myself humming:
Prince Ali, mighty is he, Ali Ababwa
Strong as ten regular men, definitely!
And shut up immediately. I simply don’t need to have a conversation with my fellow students about Disney’s orientalist movie.
I’ve been singing these songs to myself for so long, I’ve reshaped the lyrics to fit the rhythms I want to sing (that is why the lines above are subtly different from their published versions). It’s
Inspirational Quote:
“Music is the purest form of art… therefore true poets, they who are seers, seek to express the universe in terms of music… The singer has everything within him. The notes come out from his very life. They are not materials gathered from outside.”–Rabindranath Tagore
Your favorite song was always “How can I keep from singing?” it filled your life, defined it – and the song defined you.
Much love, Baba