Years like days and Here We Are. / by Emily Busch

It has been years since I wrote a "blog" piece. My old blog, birdiebusch.blogspot.com accumulated some dust and tucked away into the coral reef caverns in the deep dark sea of the internet. You see, I love to write, more than most methinks. In fact, if that old predicament came up, the one in which your house is burning and you need to grab some things, I'd grab a little nightstand with a chicken-wire front that holds the entirety of my journals. 

My guitars, they are dear to me, but still they are possessions. My thoughts however, even with my elephant never forgets skills need to look back into these books to see things. I also want all my nieces and nephews, when they finally get past that certain time of pesky middle youth, to realize I am, was, and always will be a lady of the world. My mind, just like the internet, is a coral reef in a deep dark sea. 

I've become fascinated with what memories stick around. You know that common recall of near death experiences that all involve memories flashing before your eyes? Well, I'm the odd-bird that does that process actively pre-death on a regular basis for kicks and song fodder.

Example: The time I found a well in an abandoned desert mining town in Mexico on a mountain overlooking Real De Catorce. I dropped a rock into it and it fell with a velocity that gathered all the air around it like everything I had ever known was being pulled into the vortex and I was at the edge of the drain of this universe, a peculiar observation deck that had no museum ropes. The swoosh felt collective but the end sound, the driest thud, happened in a place that felt forever deep. I'm not sure what to do with this memory yet, but I can't get it to go away, and all I want to do sometimes is to be back there on that mountain with that rock and the donkeys in the distance making their noises while they eat. Why this memory? I need to get to the bottom of this memory.

I guess what I'm trying to say is I think I'm back with this whole "blog" thing. I still just wanna call it a log. Or perhaps the "b"-log: thoughts of the bird. A common thing I hear in interviews with some of my favorite artists is how they are never resting mentally. Their brain is always processing the world in an overactive dance. I understand this completely and am still trying to find my place here in this as a person of this tribe. Half the time anymore I can't tell what expectations I'm self-projecting and what I am imagining coming from the exterior at large. What does this world want me to be and also, what do I want to be in this world? What if we can't come to an agreement? Can you make agreements with this elusive thing? And does this thing, if it were to speak, would it sound like the rock in the mine in Mexico falling for forever?