I decided to take my dead friend’s advice and sing Andante Andante to South, in hopes of not getting thrown around so much. I’ve never had such an intense physical connection with a Guardian before. He fucking loved it. Would not stop singing it, wanted to me sing it to him all the time. Who knew ABBA would be so popular? But what is better is that he/they got the message. All of them get all the messages. So he’s been much gentler with me, which is good, because I’m a little fragile right now with this wound vac and everything.
He, like East, has asked me to do something for him. To write him a song. I don’t write songs. Ok, I have written one song, but in general, not my wheelhouse. That doesn’t really matter to the hoops of heaven. They don’t really care if you undersell yourself or what kinds of insecurities you have. It’s more like you’re my witch, I’m your Guardian, I come when you call, you write me songs because you love me. Get with the program. So once again, as I was wheeling past the desk in my room, I got grabbed, albeit far more gently than before. That sweet sweet voice saying, “let’s write a song. Sing it to me over and over again. I will remember all the words.” Baby shoes. You know how people used to bronze baby shoes? It was a way to remember a person’s babyhood. I kept seeing baby shoes and it didn’t make sense. And then all of the sudden, it hit me. He wants to remember me this time. I have been so many people over the millennia, and I will be more. But there is something about Sewa that he wants to keep. It makes me cry just thinking about it. He wants a piece of me to live on. He coos at me, that what he made me write down is not a poem. It’s literal. He wants me to lay back against him and open my mouth and make a sound, any sound. I have to write this song. And he will help me. It’s my gift to him.
He guides me gently to the bed. I pile up the pillows and I feel pulled back. And it feels like leaning against a ball of electric snakes. I jump. I get pulled back, my head tilted back to open my throat. The words came streaming out onto the paper. And then, it all slowly dissipated. I felt breathless.
I decided to get up and have some lunch. I thought my work was done. I figured I could get help with the music. Except later that afternoon, I got pulled again. “We’re not done,” he said. Back to the pillows, back to the electric snakes. And finally, I sang it over and over. I had written a waltz about the end of the world. This seemed hilarious to me. What was worse was that the tune was just a little too hard for me to sing. So I had to practice it over and over. I cried at the end of the day, to be swept up in a process where I was literally held while I created. I could not stop weeping for the love.
Even being a witch of some 30 years or so, I still often wonder if it is all in my head. And then there are times when you are held tenderly in the arms of spirit and you make magic that you cannot do by yourself. I was left staring at this song that did not exist that morning. The glistening continued, a beautiful “thank you” from a deep mystery. I was singing. My voice was once more heard upon the Earth. Cracked and wavery, not really beautiful at all. It struggled and tried and sang. I was imperfect, a wonder, whose voice would always sing for the covenant between spirit and witch.
Would you like to hear it? I will share it with you.
Seyewailo 