I had this piece of wood since my days at WSU at Kingswood. It had followed me all this time as a mute piece. Sometimes it disappeared for months, hiding behind books and artworks. At times waiting in a dark wet silenced corner. Now and again a visitor or two, mice and other in dark shy creatures.
There is always that rare occasion of cleaning up. This piece of wood would be the first, that is put up on the pile to be discarded, but somehow from within that piece of wood, a cry for a reprieve, for surely, its day that will surely come. That day, of all days, will make the day. The day when it will no longer be ignored and abandoned.
That day was the early 29 November 2020 morning. As the calligraphy brush primed itself on The Australian newspaper, a daily ritual, infusing the black paint onto well-versed minds. The first rush wave of brush strokes comes thick and fast. Carefully, and instinctively weaves around between text, the images, and the ads with a constant look for fine adjustment.
The paint, the messenger, cannot be too wet or too dry weaves across, and plough a trough of paint, that when it dries, the creases of the paper leave a fingerprint-like distortion which relates to the quality and the wetness of the paint, the speed of the brush travelled, and the quantity of paint in the brush.
The wood.
But today the 29th Nov 2020 is my day ( the wood). Before I know it, a quick face wash for the porous to open, and then left to just about to dry, Then, before I know it, as quick as an eye blink, it was done. My wet voice ( the paint ) proclaiming in quarter notes, CEFG a pause, and then in half-note D.
What a glorious moment, this wetness of the voice, it’s only a gift to its creator. For when in a short span of life, the wind will dry the paint, leaving just a remnant of this shot life. But my voice will echo and come again, alive to those eyes that read beyond the dried lines.
