Seeds
written by Kenyon Duncan
Bahlest Eeble Readings Cycle 13 Fellow
As I sit down to write, I must admit I’m only partially focused on the words I’m typing. Another part of me is listening to the first rains of the season as they graze the rooftops here in Boonville, CA. The air is crisp and sky, dark today, almost as if apologizing for the sweltering, stagnant heatwave that crawled through the Anderson Valley only 2 weeks ago.
There’s been a lot of heat this summer: record breaking temperatures across the globe; infrared waves turned into images of our deep past by the James Webb telescope; friction between a decidedly conservative Supreme Court and the rest of us who support bodily autonomy for all; and body heat generated by Beyoncé’s return with the dance album of the decade. A chaotic and generative energy has been in the air. Our worlds seem to be spinning a bit faster than previously allowed.
In many ways, I’m a big fan of the heat. I’ve never been one for the overcast of rainy days, preferring the eternal sunshine of a California summer. The unrelenting heat of a summer’s day seems to stretch my mind out, asking me to go slowly and luxuriate in the season of illumination. I feel my world relax and open when the summer rolls around, and it’s been nourishing to let more of the world in as pandemic life takes new forms. I’ve been able to reconnect with friends, welcome new collaborators, and cautiously travel. A major highlight was the week I spent on my first trip here to Boonville as a part of Cycle 13. I’m back in Boonville now as an Artist-Citizen-in-Residence, but the current downpour outside has me feeling worlds away from my first summery week here. Autumn approaches. The earth is changing.
It has become extremely important to me to listen for these changes, deviations ‘outside’ and ‘within’ myself. Before lockdown, I was used to listening out, casting my ears and heart outward for new sounds to record and new people to meet. But the confines of the early pandemic transformed my own listening practice. As my world contracted, it was tempting to feel like I’d stagnated. I wasn’t performing, my writing felt like it was going nowhere, and I wasn’t sure I could call my spontaneous piano playing any kind of practice. Listening inwards became my lifeline. It was the only way I could notice the changes that were continuing to take place within me, even if I couldn’t see evidence of those changes in the world around me.
Three months ago on my first visit to Boonville, I learned some new ways to listen. Seare, Jeremy, and Hannah each had their own ways of listening, tuning in, and hearing themselves in the world. The days we spent together sharing our music (and food and lives) gave me a window into the worlds that they hear and allowed me to be in community in a way I hadn’t experienced in so long. Towards the end of our week in Boonville, we took a beautiful walk around Gabriela’s home to do some deep listening –– a term and practice coined by pioneering composer and performer Pauline Oliveros. There was so much to hear around us, but I found myself, again, listening inwards. I became aware of the landscape of my own thoughts and feelings in the afterglow of such an affirming week. I noticed something that was not there before. Something magical and elemental. Something that had been almost lost to me in the darkness of the pandemic was there again, rekindled.
The more I listen, the more I can feel. And as Audre Lorde reminds me, because I feel, I can be free. These days I am listening to my body for how to extend the right amount of energy. I am listening to my skin. I’m listening to my exhalations. I listen to tree chatter. I listen to Renaissance. I listen to rain.
After three months away I find myself back in Boonville, on a stormy day. I’ve gotten used to so much summer heat, and this cool is a bit of a shock to the system. But I guess it’s nice to know that even here in California, water still falls from the sky. And though I remain a die-hard summer fan, I’m receiving the rain a bit differently today. A good friend of mine says that water is “life juice,” and I’m unusually excited to hear such a life-giving element hit the ground — the sound of the earth as it begins to turn towards autumn.
I feel seeds planted in me beginning to push through the surface.
The earth is changing.
I am changing.
Kenyon Duncan
Kenyon Duncan is a composer-performer from Northern California. Grounded in the sonic traditions of the Black diaspora, Kenyon’s creative practice engages questions around embodiment and homemaking. His original work has been heard in concert halls, gallery spaces, and theatrical productions. Recently, his sound installation Music for Strangers was featured at the Yale Center for Collaborative Arts and Media. Kenyon is also a conductor and arranger and spent a year directing The Whiffenpoofs, programming over 200 concerts across 25 states and 26 countries. Kenyon’s experience as an ensemble leader has led to the production of 3 award-winning albums, and has brought him around the world to lead workshops on vocal performance and ensemble technique. Kenyon holds a B.A. in Computing & The Arts from Yale University, where he studied composition, computer music, and conducting. He is currently working on his debut solo recording project.