This was not a song when I wrote it. I’m now even sure it can be called a song now. I think of it as more of a piece, like a post-modern chorale, but when I wrote it in 2014 it as just a diary scribble born out of being home alone and awake in the middle of the night, wrestling with guilt and grief.
My upbringing in the church informs my intuition, whether I resist it or not. Prayer and worship remain precious to me and free-writing has that same, meditative quality of attention I first discovered as a child kneeling in pews, listening for the voice of god. I never heard anything but I learned to like that feeling. I’m drawn to writing about love and loss because it feels like yearning for the divine, even if I start from a mundane place.
In college I had a special interest in composing for unaccompanied voices. Culturally it was the peak of Glee, plus I was singing Eric Whitacre in choir and listening to a lot of contemporary classical artists who were playing with voice and tape. Though I’ve mostly left high art music behind, I treasure the memories I gained and the lessons I learned from that era of my life. I’m grateful that I was allowed to repeat New Music Workshop multiple times for course credit to follow my curiosity. I’ve long admired how Bjork and Imogen Heap have used their voices to create waves. This vocal poem is my small contribution to that pool.
I Wonder
I wonder
If these words are wasted then why don’t they die when the ink runs dry?
If the tomb is still empty then where do you lie?
I wonder
If the sight of the sunrise will always remind me of your blue smile
If Venus steals your breath away like once did I
I wonder
How the constellations enjoy the view of you
Or if you’ll ever return