ART/LIFE
Practicing humility today, from my bed, throat coated in mucus. Yes, a pretty picture of humility.
I feel excited about life and also close to the bottom of a long-denied void. I feel/see/taste my six-year-old self telling me things.
There I am, sitting for hours in front of the karaoke machine my grandmother bought for me. It had a gold-wired microphone with it and was, undoubtedly my most prized possession until high school.
There are tapes and tapes and tapes of me, of my voice, archived in my childhood bedroom. Most of them unlabeled.
Humility today comes from knowing how important my voice has been to me for decades. Humility comes from the different ways I have insisted on being heard and that in all this time, my voice has only gotten stronger and deeper and more persistent.
Humility also comes from this unexpected vocal rest that has always been hard for me to execute thoroughly. Will try again to give my voice and break and relish in the silence while I recover, or uncover, more.