The Fado Suite
A cry for hope. Tenderness? Sure, but so little. Just because a swallow dies, spring does not end. The soul gets tired. The fingers take orders from the heart. We leave our bodies when we sing. The alchemy of sound and poem, it’s inside us from birth. ** I cannot remember if there was a candle on the clothed table set for one. I do remember the vinho verde chilling in a teakwood bucket, poured solemnly between sets of fado, smoldering and mournful tearful singer, wet cheeks lit by dying candlelight. I remember. ** Listening to Amalia with the windows wide open, saudade piercing the autumn evening gloom. My new Portuguese guitar yearns for me to learn, to teach old fingers new licks, so I dream I am wandering the calcadas in Lisbon inventing my own heteronyms, humming melodies born under different names. I greet Fernando Pessoa, “Bom dia, Senhor. I saw you sitting outside the Brasileira today but you were not actually there nor anywhere else.” “That is how I prefer it,” they replied without inflection then vanished scientifically in the color-swarm of Chiado hordes… I awake to Amalia singing life’s last song, to the gray-soaked murk and swirling fog. The music pours through my opened heart. My weeping eyes listen to the distant, wild ocean wind. (c) Eric Walter 2022 Days I wake up Disappointed that I’m still alive But I get up and brush my teeth Shower sometimes Light a candle and weep For a while at her altar, Make tea and meditate Go about my solemn day Trying to fathom the pain Loneliness and fear Trying to see a future beyond The gloomy uncertainty That makes me wish again for sleep From which I’ll awaken Disappointed that I’m still alive. I am scared to go to sleep. Not because of the nightmares and claustrophobic dreams, but because it is even scarier to wake up and remember it all anew. I walked up to Council Crest today. It was good to get out. It was so hard coming home. I am not sure what home is anymore. I feel like I can’t do this anymore. I’m so tired. I’m so angry. I am so overwhelmed. I don't know what to do or where to go. I want only to forget. On rare days, I trick myself into believing that I will survive this. Today was not one of those days. It has been eight months. There are times when it feels like eight seconds, times when it feels like eight years. The Chagall windows at the Art Institute of Chicago are stunningly beautiful. We fell in love with them when we first saw them three years ago. Today I broke down and wept openly and audibly in front of them. The kind museum guard asked me if I was okay. I nodded. That was a lie. It should have been me You were stronger than me You were braver than me You were smarter than me You were better than me It should have been me One day it will be me and You will welcome me with open arms I look forward to that I’m lost I’m broken I’m failing I’m falling Apart Pretty sky this evening Four hummingbirds at one feeder At the same time, And a mosquito Equinox mackerel sky and another dose of morphine nights getting longer Angel Blue evening weeps outside Tearful melancholy Gone angel on my mind Blue Moon One more empty night Lone candle at her altar A cold silent moon Wind River music and raven song Sagebrush daydreams The wind doesn’t care if I wail Flower Deep well of sorrow Tries to pull me down then I remember a flower Calm I feel a strange calm picturing My own bleaching bones Glistening Undisturbed Beneath the immensity, The indifferent desert sky. I will be with her again. Exiled
I can be happy for others, but not for myself. I should be exiled to the desert. A shack in the canyonlands, a horse, a place for a garden. Days of ancient ruins and solitude. Nights of weeping, blue stars and icy planets. A cold spring not too far away, not too close. Effort is necessary but being tired is so exhausting. I want to leave off where I began, at the end.
This song is played on a double flute (drone flute) made by Odell Borg.
The waterfalls seen in the video are located in Skamania County, Washington, USA. Dedicated to my beautiful Nikki. |