Mavia returns for another one as our guest narrator in episode 46, reading six pieces. The Hell of other people never sounded so beautiful...

Here's a link to the show.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Q_-Kdrqbzs8

And here are the featured pieces.

https://www.theprose.com/post/817603/lenfer-cest-les-autres-jean-paul-sartre https://www.theprose.com/post/817432/lost-your-keys https://www.theprose.com/post/817976/heaven-lies-in-me-and-you

https://www.theprose.com/post/817509/hell-is-other-people https://www.theprose.com/post/817470/im-hiding https://www.theprose.com/post/817435/les-autres

And.

As always.

Thank you for being here.

-The Prose. team

"hey mom?"

I'll whisper the words as I start to drift off, surrounded by her warm embrace

the dark scent of earth filling my nose, my mouth, my lungs; fingers rooted, holding me secure -

whispering my question, a quivering, thin voice of fear, of uncertainty, of what will be when I awaken, what I could ever be without her, just a soul when she is gone.

whispering, still."mom, do you think I'll ever get to the part of my life where I finally get to live?" tears blinked back, voice heavy with grief, with sleep, with exhaustion at the weight of the years that I have carried.

"Oh, my dear," she will say, squeezing me tighter, wrapping closer, flowers and grasses and leaves and curls all fluttering, the wind stroking my hair with her reply, gently brushing at cheeks, wiping tears that fall fast and far away from above to keep them from peppering my skin.

a hint of a smile, but wiped clean, quickly, no trace of amusement, simply pure, unadulterated love for the ignorance and purity of one as new as i in this universe: "My dear, sweet one... what do you think it is, up 'til now, that you've been doing?"

close your eyes, when you hear it. can you hear it, yet? i nearly, nearly can - one day i will... that voice, singing me to sleep so far away, given sparsely, only at the tipping point, helping me to recognize the past-gone time for living. the future will be mine to rest in for eternity.

You always said, 'I'm telling you what my father told me, don't wait too long to have kids.'

When I turned thirty, you took me on a long walk - and explained my own dwindling fertility to me - as if you couldn't understand why I hadn't yet produced a child. Another disappointment I suppose. I made many excuses - my low wages, my high rent, my partner's reluctance to become a father, the increasing conflicts within the world, the collapse of ecosystems, pollution. All of these reasons were real - but none of them is what was truly keeping me from motherhood.

The truth is - I didn't feel equipped to become a parent. I was painfully aware of my hair-trigger temper, my disproportionate reactions, the undercurrent of violence that flowed through my veins, always threatening to come to the surface.

My own world felt so unsafe that I could never imagine willingly subjecting an innocent being to it. Because children are supposed to be nurtured and kept safe. They are supposed to be encouraged and loved unconditionally, so they can grow into the beautiful and unique (and yes sometimes frustrating) person they are supposed to be. And I didn't get that from you as a child. The home I grew up in felt like living on the edge of a volcano. Sometimes dormant, usually spewing lava - but occasionally blowing up and destroying everything in it's path.

Now I am healing and learning healthy communication and emotional maturity. Maybe one day - with the right partner, I might feel safe enough to nourish a child. Maybe not. Either way, I am determined to break the pattern here.

I just wish you would take the time to come to terms with your own childhood trauma - I can't imagine what you have suffered to make you as you are.

I firmly believe that we never hear a song twice. And I don't mean, that it's the first time you hear it that matters most. It's the time that you heard it, really held it, within a circumstance that sets the music for you, fitted like in fine jewelry. That gemstone, that cameo, or picture in the locket, becoming surrounded by auditory gold, or silver if preferred.

Then, with every glance back at the music, we see it as if turning in another light...

yet, somehow, that most significant instance, is there in the tint of the shadows, or highlights, and becomes a near or distant accompaniment... as mood that goes with, in the background.

We seldom sang at home. It turned out that was a great regret, to our adults. Our dad sang us songs sometimes. Our mom once confided, when we were grown and on our own: "I thought for sure having two girls meant there would be constant singing around the house..."

She never sang. We dare not either, except in private, where there were no adults to criticize. (I make a point now of singing loud with my little boy, and my heart cheers and flutters at every attempt of his to follow along with lyrics, to hum a tune, or invent his own songs. I want for him to know that freedom of spirit.)

Criticism was taken very seriously in the household, immediate and extended family, as an art form in itself in the oratory tradition. I understand now why mom held her tongue rather than be scolded and reminded that her tastes were too common.

I'm listening now to Diana Ross and the Supremes and remembering the grimace that passed across faces. No one wants to be shamed of the music that finds resonance within themselves; for reasons, more oft than not, hidden or incoherent, and psychologically complex.

As I'm dwelling on music that moved, emotionally or intellectually, impacting our path in some way, I can't help go back to this one song involuntarily, that on hearing once as a teen, I could not listen to again, but would shut it off, or walk away. I have blocked the title, and the artist, only to say it is a commonly played 80s tune by a rock band with female vocalists, and it must have been, objectively speaking a powerful number, to have that gripping effect on a young person. I had trouble wrapping my mind around the moral implications, the ethics, and where I would place myself into the situations of any one of the characters that would be involved. It was story song, a rock ballad. (I am leaving no clues here, so don't trouble the mind in trying to retrace any leftover grains.)

I won't listen to it even now, yet I commend the impact. That is art, isn't it? and we remember the footprints in the sands of memory long after they have been wind swept and near irrelevant. Things change. They certainly shift. A little bit of sensory input, goes a long way, many a times.

I've never been to a grand concert... It would terrify, I imagine. Once, on impulse I bought tickets to the unlikely proposition that 10,000 Maniacs was to play live at our nearby ski and summer resort and conference center called with southern homeliness Mountain Creek. That was very bold of me, but familiarity built up confidence, and I sometimes make a gamble on odd chances. Tickets, for me and my sister; we never went. The concert was "canceled" a day or two before, and it took months to get a refund. Maybe cynical teenage imagination was at play, but we decided somebody had swindled a quick loan from the community... it was quite hard to believe that our little locale would be visited by any such name brand in music, just too good to be true...

https://youtu.be/c0b7ltFrB34?si=yZZz542f3eufMGef

As a theme, I've been drawn to songs about the passing of time. Maybe it's because the first cassette I ever owned was Cyndi Lauper's 1983 She's So Unusual album, and my favorite track was Time After Time.

https://youtu.be/lx8-95fPjHc?si=uEe9FB3qZCnDqi6P

I remember receiving the cassette soon after starting school, so I would say I was six or seven years old. By that time mom had already run off from our home twice; with us and without us, children. The tune has continued to grow in meaning for me.

Eventually, I did some church choir singing, and to this day those hymnals, memorized, are among the most comforting musical tunes for me. I'm thinking of songs like Here I am Lord; On Eagles Wings; and Amazing Grace, among others.

I'm trying very hard to think of a song or album that I felt initially one way about, and then, on rehearing, changed my mind... and it must have happened, but apparently nothing that strongly felt, as I am not recalling. Maybe I feel less dismissive of Frank Sinatra or Linda Ronstadt or similar voices that I thought, early on, lacked depth... unfair judgements, immature, and I chide myself against these notions, nowadays.

It takes quite a lot of vulnerability to create songs, lyrical or instrumental, of every kind, especially as a cohesive body of work. Yes, there is music that doesn't suit the moment, but it ought not be dismissed altogether... Or deemed as good or bad. I've tried very much to be open to all music and to its ability to nurture our soul along the journey. We are blessed, when we can turn and return to music again, if only reliving it in our hearts.

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