Side B: An Exchange

Memory: Part 6

Keep a tally.

Each day when you wake, tell yourself:

‘This is the morning of a new day.’

Be clear with yourself on this matter.

This is the morning of a new day.

⌘

—Samantha Harvey, Orbital

You will find the entire series here:

Memory: Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6

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Dear One,

Let me tell you about a weird experience from last week.

I had come home from a very busy day at work—exhausted—completely spent. Famished. I ate a good supper and then lay down for a little while on the couch, just to rest my eyes. But, I slipped immediately into a deep, sweet, velvet darkness.

When I awoke, I had absolutely no idea how long it had been. The quiet, ambiguous sunlight provided no clue. The screen on my phone said 7:13—but was it still today? Or was it tomorrow morning? I honestly could not tell.

For a moment, I was completely outside of time . . .

There’s a peculiar suspended moment when consciousness returns after sleep—a threshold between dreaming and waking, where you can hover, untethered. It really doesn’t matter if you’ve been asleep for hours or minutes. You get to arrive as both a familiar stranger and an intimate observer of your own life. For a few breaths, you're both who you were in the dream world and who you are in reality.

Gradually, the memory warms, and the ceiling becomes familiar.

Your body re-members itself.

You return.

This daily rebirth offers a strange amnesty. Yesterday's burdens seem to belong to someone slightly different from who you are now. You've shed the dreamself, but haven't fully resumed your waking identity. You exist—briefly—in a space of pure possibility.

For a few breaths between worlds, you get to experience the quiet wonder of being newly-named, and newly-born into the day. Ordinary life appears momentarily miraculous.

This is the feeling I wanted to explore in my poem.

Library ceiling at The Duke Center for Integrative Medicine

From Memory Part 5:

⌘

you breathe and words

fall, heavy heavy

on the tongue, heavy heavy

on the open plain with

far horizon all around

—Brian Funke

I was immediately inspired by Brian’s middle of the night downpour of words. The repeating words heavy heavy formed a rhythm I wanted to use in my poem, but I also wanted it to have a peaceful waking-up feeling.

In this one, I included my fascination with the anatomy of the inner ear, and the way it tunes in to the sounds of a new day. And I wonder: while we are asleep, with our ears still “open”—what are we listening to?

Back when I was a nurse working in the Intensive Care Unit, I always tried to speak reassuringly to my patients and explain what was happening to them—even to those who were heavily sedated or comatose. This was because I never knew, for certain, if they were listening, and I wanted to give them some hope for recovery. A human voice in their darkness and confusion.

Words can be powerful medicine.

I think of these two poems like two songs on the same record. Brian sings a gorgeous all-night, heavy rain of words on Side A, and my quieter morning poem hums along on Side B, asking you to remember yourself as a new creation every morning.

Whatever challenges or storms you might be going through right now, remember that every morning is new. We are always living in an unimaginably small window of time.

Be gentle with this life,

and use the light of life

to live fully in your time.

—John McQuiston

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SIDE B

This moment,
paper-thin and tender,
awakens as consciousness 
first unfolds, sensing the rising 
warmth--like a flower testing the air.
You return from a faraway shore, 
bearing a listening shell, 
always coiled deep inside.
Its sacred spiral traces the outline
of dreams before thought-machinery 
begins its daily churn.

Listen—

inside the labyrinth of your ear,
i touch three tiny bones 
with words that fell last night 
as heavy, heavy rain 
on the tongue of your mind. 
Arrive now, as dew trembles 
on a spiderweb—each droplet, 
a lens reflecting morning,
your thoughts fine-tuned,
receiving, listening. 

Awaken--

you are this stillness;
you remember
your new name.

“Cochlea I” from Science Photo Library. The cochlea to me is like a Listening Shell.

SIDE BY SIDE POEMS

As our collaboration has progressed over these many months, layers of trust built-up and allowed for more freedom in the writing. This last pair of poems arrived more quickly than the early ones did. My poem began as a big block of text. Then, while editing the line breaks, I placed it next to Brian’s and with a little trimming, I noticed how they began to align.

Here is the side-by-side version with Brian’s on the left, and mine on the right. With some lines, you can read them all the way across—as one poem.

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The inner ear is very strange and beautiful. The three tiny bones are named: Hammer, Anvil & Stapes.

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This marks the final chapter in our six-part exchange on Memory.

I hope you have enjoyed reading and listening to these poems as much as Brian and I enjoyed writing them. It’s our dream that others will continue to reach out and form collaborations all around Substack, as a way to strengthen the bonds of community and to enjoy artistic expression together. And also, there is absolutely nothing wrong with preferring solo work. Trust your gut on this one—enjoy the making!

Please know that your comments here have enhanced this circle of conversation in the most life-giving and loving way imaginable. Thank you so much!

It has been truly Memorable.

xo Ann

Might another artist help you see things with fresh eyes?

Or do you prefer to work individually?

In either case: how might your creativity and skills be stretched in new ways?

Feel free to comment on anything that sparks your curiosity today.

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