“Singing as the farm was home,” Thomas wrote.
Walt sang the body, and so many others have sung the soul, and now it’s as though I sing the self. Or psing the psyche.
Singing implies a voice, and it’s voices that have fascinated me all along. “Voices carry.” Voices in the mind (or in the sky if you’re blue moody), voices in the head, voices that carry, but carry what exactly?
Exactly. They carry things, matters, Sachen, con-tents (in which the opposing voices secretly camp?).
I suspect that voices carry things even if no one listens.
Is it ever the case that no one listens? Voices in my head play off one another, and that would imply that they listen to each other. A voice that listens (a passive voice?) might have to stop speaking to listen, and then would it still be a voice? Ah, here might lie the problem: Voices speak even when they listen, so we might as well say that they don’t really listen, though they sometimes react.
I’ve followed voice rather than singing for a bit there, but doesn’t a voice sing even when it is not doing what we call singing? Tone of voice. I don’t know much about Chinese languages, but my sense is that their speakers must sing to speak. And surely this is not false with regard to the rest of us.
I so often sing to myself, and sometimes it seems to be a song that I made up. I say “seems” in the wrong place there, perhaps, because I worry that making up a song is a forgetting of where and how it’s been sung before. But making up a song might be like making up a bed, as in Jesus making up my dying bed (MINE, my own).
Sure, I make up songs, and I also sing songs that I don’t make up. When the voice carries in song, is there really a distinction between voice and what is carried? “Song” is often the singing AND what is sung.
“…I sang in my chains, like the sea.”