The way I sing off key

No, no, you can’t take that away from me

An AI generated me. For real I look twice the age and half as good, but I feel twenty-three nonetheless….

I have become afraid of my voice.

I never was fully confident with it but I remember times of being less frightened to use it. Times I sang. Of course it is my own judgment first that shuts the vocal cords with the practical gaffer tape. I also believe it is in line with the times. Singing is foolish unless you live up to a high and mighty standard. Each season adds another layer to the stage. And only if you can climb all the way up there you may remove the sticky tape. Otherwise you are shushed. If not by your own helpful self, then by the guardians of the good and the pretty. They know beauty from crap. You must sing with the voice of someone recognised, or lose all recognition...

I hate me not being courageous enough to open my mouth and sing. Lately, even when on my own. Do I self-impose expectations honed by a lifetime of admiration, of hearing near perfect songs, sung by the very best and then some? Tweaked, auto-tuned, enhanced. The one in a billion selection. In that band of brothers and sisters my voice is no way near special enough to make itself heard. And I really am a lousy singer. I fuck up lyrics, I struggle to find the note, the key, I refuse to imitate and loose my way while wandering off. I can carry a tune, yes, in the wrong direction.

On the other hand

When I dance I care much less. I can get through the first cold bit and let go, I accept the horky limits of my moves and just allow the music to lead. It’s so off, it could go viral.

Writing and dancing are alike. For me they come easy because I don’t care. No longer care, I should say, because in fact I care so much that nothing can hold me from showing up despite the crappy voice, the wording, lousy interpunction, my lack of erudition and/or intelligence or whatever stupid standard is out there. I don’t give a shit because I care too much.

Widening

Painting and drawing are similar to writing and dancing. For me at least. I can accept my typical and limited ways of expressing myself and explore the limits with not too much fear. This is me. And it’s not even half bad. Well on its way to become full bad in a beyond evil sort of way and stand out from the ugly pretty squad up on the main stage. So, that’s good.

Bald action?

Why is singing so different? And why is that nasty self-conscious shame so infectious? Why does it introduce itself to new areas if not addressed or countered with bold action?

In last week’s essay I expressed my aversion to pyramids. To the imposed artificial vertical hierarchy. In which high frequencies are considered better than low. Purple as a colour high above greens. Where pure and inert buys the penthouse and fragile and short lived sleeps on the naked impure soil. That’s not vertical, that’s horizontal flatness laid on its side¹ Not for me.

There is a vertical order I am inclined to hold.

Writing or painting are good attempts at levelling up. Of emerging from the depths of ignorance and coming alive. I don’t want to order each activity on this ladder because it depends on the how. Not all writing is equal. I do think dancing taps a higher rung on the rank-ladder. But singing, oh lord, is way up there. Can’t think of anything we can do that even touches that plane. Singing pulls with. Singing makes us look up. Makes us long to step up, to ascend.

Now let me share a small discovery. And read the next few words slow. Singing is a how in all doings. In any activity. Yes, you can whistle a loud tune while hammering in the nails. Sure one can hum replacing the Hummer engine, or do a proper Kate Bush while running up that hill. But I point at the inner singing, the inner groove, the inner melody, the inner beat with which you ‘perform’ the thing you do.

Make it sing

Sing while doing it, make it sing, the whatever you touch, the whatever you do. That’s the gold we’re after. Make the voice of it come alive, make it heard. Allow it to be heard. Find it, tune into it, and let it come through. This involves listening yes, and quietness, yes, and reverence, yes, and opening up the channel that is your breathing canal, the pipe, the organ that inspires by outspiring² all other actions. Sing. Don’t you ever let them take that away from you.³

One week from now I launch my novel here on substack. Serial fiction, a chapter a week. All the other posts are free, reading along with the story will set you back the price of a printed book. It will earn you the excitement of a collective discovery. You can subscribe for free, read the first three chapters and then decide to upgrade.

I’m not gonna sell you the contents, if you like my writings you’ll love the story. And reading along with a ‘worldwide’ group is a very special gathering indeed (and very close to the narrative). Let me draw you into the sphere of TCOTNK….

If you long to read with but have no funds, there are two options:
Send me a mail and tell me why you don’t want to miss out (bertus@substack.com)
Or use the referral page to ‘earn’ your access by spreading the spheres.
You may do that anyway even when filthy rich…

Nothing final, just me messing around with a possible book cover. Tell me what you do and do not like?

1. If you have no idea what I mean with this, read my post Sketchy Habits, it explains how I see the now, not as a point on the time-line but as a vertical. A fifth dimension of depth, unseen by the horizontally oriented. Just an imagined perspective for something pretty mystical.

2. After inspiring comes the outspiring. Don’t forget that, it may be the last thing you do.

3. Thank you Ira and George for this marvellous song.