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Two Tongues of Gaia

Clara & Bill at Bird and Beckett Books

As the last tone on the singing bowl fades away, we know we’re ready.  Bill looks at me with a smile on his face and I smile back.  Next Wednesday (July 27) will be the premier at the Sacred Grounds.  Our new set of poetry, Two Tongues of Gaia,  includes the usual instruments of Bill’s shakuhachi and my drum.  But we have added some vocals and the Native American style flute.

Whether we rehearse at my house or Bill’s studio, the ritual always begin with a cup of tea.  Conversation ensues on the state of the world, friends and community, with Bill warming up his shakuhachi in between.  We like to run the set through, pausing in between to discuss the issues that come up—the rhythms on the drum, the tempo in the recitation, the balance between voice and instrument, etc.  Sometimes things work out smoothly.  Other times we struggle through, tolerating each other’s point of view, but ultimately a decision is made.

We sit back, feeling good about what we’ve done, and drink some more tea.  The gestation part has been rewarding.  We look forward to bringing the child into the world.

Photo by Richard Beban

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The Shakuhachi Man

My poetry partner Bill Mercer and I have a duo called “Lunation”.  Aside from being a poet, Bill plays the shakuhachi, a Japanese bamboo flute.  When I first heard him play I was still running Clarion Music Center.  I was struck by his sound–free–was the only word I could use to describe it.  You can’t plot his notes because there is no scale.  You can’t define them because there is no meter.  You can’t confine them because there is no rhythm.  He plays by how his great body and mind feel.  His music is like the cosmos, infinite and mysterious.

We practice regularly before a performance.  The challenge for me is to harness his freedom so that my verse and his music may come together and not be entangled.  After five years we are beginning to tap into each other’s psyche.  He understands my needs if I can verbalize them.  There are moments in our practices and performances that are exquisite and heavenly but they will never be repeated.  Only a memory remains, but indescribable.

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