On Dry Seasons and Silent Strings

Today I watched Jack weep, stirred by the memory of someone who had once believed in him—someone who gave him a break when he needed it most. There was eye contact and those brief, bracing hugs that men give when words aren’t quite enough. I’ve never had that kind of break, so I won’t pretend to share in Jack's tears.

​A requiem hums softly in the background of my mind. Now and then, a melody breaks through, beautiful but fleeting. Midnight finds me staring at my desk, almost reaching for a pencil, half in the mood but lacking direction. Can you force it? Creativity, I mean.

I'm down to one Christmas card this year. Hang in there, Linda. One peg on the line will do.
Here it is, the musing if not the muse. “You’re creative,” she said, and something flickered to life inside me. Lately, life feels like a piano string with the damper pressed tight. Nothing rings out. I wandered into the forest of notation and hugged a few tree-shaped notes. They didn’t give much sap, but the instinct to try remains.
“Sugar, Sugar” isn’t trembling with fear just yet.

When the art dries up, write poetry. When the poetry withers, draw. When the sketches refuse to come alive, mess around with a DAW. Maybe there’s some harmonic, spectral, verbose formula waiting to reveal itself.
It's happening, whether I acknowledge it or not.

​And so I try. And try. And try.