Photographs

Monday afternoon. I knelt on meaty haunches and stirred through the contents of my wife’s purse. An ancient dirty sun hung grinning through the living room window. Dust motes, illumined, spiralled chaotically in the light. It was warm. A drop of sweat traced a fold of my brow. Impatient, I called back to the bedroom for help. Her voice answered to look in the inside right-hand pocket. I fumbled through another handful of items. Disgusted, I disemboweled the purse as a predator might his prey. The object of my obsession was not to be found, so I scooped everything back into her purse and threw it on the couch, rose off middle-aged knees and slumped into my favorite chair.

I’ve watched Rhonda birth our children. Listened to her most intimate thoughts. Our lives are wide open to each other. Her purse was another matter. In my mind, I was invading her privacy. It’s always felt uncomfortable digging through whatever handbag held Rhonda’s stuff. These were the collected relics not meant for my eyes.

Rhonda wasn’t surprised I couldn’t find her keys. She knows how I feel about the sanctity of her purse. She walked into the room, picked up the purse, unzipped an inner pocket and held her keys in the waning sun. Sunlight flashed on the keychain, made me squint. Made me aware. She looked dazzling, backlit by the late summer sun. Her form mingled with the light. Angelic. Ageless. For a moment she was eighteen, faded jeans, flowered top, floppy hippie hat.

She crossed into the shadows of the room. The vision faded. The lines of living emerged. I caught a reflection in the TV. A stranger, balding head, care-carved face, thoughtful and bemused. When did he grow so old?

Spit in the Face of Beauty

A few months ago a friend and I were having an intense discussion about the arts. He admitted that for some reason he was extremely limited in his appreciation of painting and music. But he really wanted to understand.

We had a great conversation about the subject and as I was driving along Elm Street today I was remembering some of that exchange. My thoughts were tumbling haphazardly as I drove one of my favorite pieces of the road. It does a slow incline through a canyon of non-descript homes. But at the crest of the hill the view opens up below and there's a momentary blast of sky and land spread out to offer a peaceful vista.

Usually along the sidewalks hemming in the highway there are owners walking dogs or clusters of kids walking home from school. Today as I made the crest of the hill my thoughts were interrupted. The light was slanted low painting deep shadows. The scene devoid of people but for one lone jogger traversing the steep incline toward me. She was in her early twenties, tall, athletic. She was outfitted in body-hugging running gear. Her appearance impeccable.

What painted the scene as near perfection was the power and glide of her gait. She took the hill effortlessly. She seemed to be skimming the surface, propelled forward in a silky motion. As I drew closer, I thought she was a vision of kinetic poetry, that she exemplified the same elements that comprised a beautiful song or work of art.

I was coasting past her when she made an odd face then spit a huge lou-gee that caught in the sunlight and reflected a nasty yellow. The vision of elegant motion jettisoned like her hocker.

It reminded me why I sometimes have a tough time appreciating certain songs or a piece of art. One songwriter in particular came to mind as I was pulling into our neighborhood. I love his songwriting. But the production of his songs are so out there that they get in the way of the beauty of his writing. Some of his albums bother me so much I can't even listen to them even though I love the songs.

I guess that's why I've always tried to explain to my children that when you create something, it's important to be sensitive to what is fitting to the work. What enhances its power? What detracts? That can be hit and miss for almost any creative. It requires time. Time to develop that inner sonar that identifies what makes a work sing.

Something More

Tube boy is slowly returning to normal. Today they removed one stomach tube and if all goes well, they unhook him from the salvo of tubes running a bizarre cocktail of antibiotics to his system.

The disappointing part is it looks like my partner in production on these songs I've written will be out of commission for some time yet.

As the week has unrolled I stumbled upon a music video made by several of my friends from the past. It is inspirational and worth the watch. Check it out below.


Something More- The Music Video with Nick Vujicic from The Something More Campaign on Vimeo.