1971 saw "Killing Me Softly With His Song" sung by Roberta Flack
become an instant classic. Penned by Charles Fox and Norman Gimbel, it
was inspired by a poem by Lori Lieberman which she wrote after seeing
the then unknown Don McLean ("Bye Bye Miss American Pie") perform his
song "Empty Chairs" live. From the book "The Fifty Minute Hour",
Norman Gimbel lifted the line "Killing Me Softly With His
Blues" which morphed into its eventual title.
1971 is also the year the possibility of the power and magic of
transformation first became real in our world.
I am indebted to Victoria Hamilton-Rivers and to Gwynn Barton who
inspired this conversation, and to Josh Cohen who contributed
material.
Life is a series of miracles strung together like beads in the necklace
of my time on Earth.
Each bead is a time I'm beingwho I am.
They're the times life itself validates
who I am
rather than diminishing
who I am.
As far as I can tell, that's the only definition of "miracle" worth
anything.
From time to time, to my chagrin yet being human, I forget
who I am.
They're the times between beads when life drags, is simple drudgery,
requires effort, and is often accompanied by a soundtrack
of frustration and, occasionally, sadness.
I'm between beads for only as long as I'm between beads.
When I realize I'm between beads, I'm again at source. Realizing I'm
not being is all it takes to realize I am being.
Then I'm again
who I am.
The miracle repeats itself as if I've not known it before, like a
virgin all over again.
All the libraries filled with so many books say so many things about
this, the miracle of transformation, even if that's not the word
they use to refer to it. All the fabulously intelligent honorable
people who, from all walks of life (sociology, religion, psychology, to
name but a few), speak volumes of erudite words describing
it.
The one thing they all have in common is this: in describing the
miracle (which by my reckoning is exactly three feet from
me at any one particular moment in time), they can only tell me how to
traverse the first two feet eleven and three quarter
inches towards it.
The one thing you don't have in common with
any of them is this: when you speak, the miracle itself
comes alive. You don't have to say anything specific, really, and yet
you often do. You could, if you wanted to, read the telephone directory
or recite the dictionary, all to the same effect. When I'm with you
I'm dying in ecstasy. You're killing me softly and I'm alive again.
I'm really alive. Around you I cross the final quarter
inch. It's the miracle, and my life is, once again, a
bead.
When you're speaking, my entire horizon fills with two things:
1)
what you say;
2)
who you're being when you say what you say.
I'm no longer flushed with fever. I'm not embarrassed by the crowd any
more. You're reading my letters out loud, and yet I've never shared
them with you. How did you find them? It's not necessary to ask that
question. You don't get a miracle by having it explained.
If you did, by definition it wouldn't be a miracle. The way you
get a miracle is by getting it.
You're telling my whole life with your words. You're killing me softly
and I thank you. I love to die to whom I'm not when I'm
with you. It's a
privilege.
I know who you are. If everyone had you, life as we know it would be
over. There'd be nothing left to defend. There'd be nothing left to
make war for. Nothing would be worth lying about again. There'd be no
more scarcity for anyone, strangely, in the midst of abundance. No more
necklace. Just one bead.
It's your song, the music of your words and your being, to which I'm
humming along as I end, again and again and again.