My last post was born out of anger at the world and the awful things, large and small, that populate its days. The last happy post was over a year ago, and I realize I haven't written for the fun of it in a long time. When was the last time I wrote with even the faintest expectation that I might achieve that sort of breathless, heart pounding feeling that I get when I feel I've really written? That expectation is, of course, only realistic when writing becomes more than an occasional thing in my life. Perhaps I'll achieve that soon enough. It occurs to me at this moment that being able to write has much to do with soft light and quietness and aloneness. Right now, my brother and his wife, who live with me, have gone to bed, and all the lights are out save my desk lamp and a lamp in the living room.

Perhaps I'll only be writing about inane things, but since I'm here I'd best take advantage of the fact that my fingers are moving over the keys fairly freely. There's a print of a painting in the living room, the first piece of art I've ever bought. It's called "The Fish House Waiter" by Christine Kidd. Her work amazes me, and this particular piece is significant to me for some reason. If you looked at that link, it's the fourth painting down, and it's much darker on the canvas. When I was in school, the art students would sometimes have displays of their work in the computer lab. From the first time I saw this picture, I loved it. I'd stop every time I walked by and study it. There's just something in his posture, in the light coming down on him from above, in the deep shadows over his eyes. I don't know, perhaps I've finally put my finger on what I love so much about the picture, and it's that it makes me want to write. It says something to me.

I watched the movie August Rush today, and marveled again at musicians. I understand visual arts: the artist interprets what he or she sees, works with color and line and shape. I can understand the dramatic arts: acting, whether on stage or film, is an attempt to grasp the very essence of the human experience. Obviously, I understand the art of language, the way writers use its sounds and its many hues of meaning to express the human condition, to glory in the beauty of the world, to explore emotion in all its forms, to delight in itself. But music is an absolute mystery to me. I don't understand how music comes to some people. I've never really written music. A few times, while playing around on the piano, I hit on a little snatch of melody that pleased me, but I couldn't do anything other than repeat it. Once I made up a simple tune to go with the words of Rudyard Kipling's "White Seal." But music, real music, always seems so otherworldly.

I don't have it in me to make any of this pretty. My life doesn't feel very pretty right now. But here's hoping that I'm at least on the road. If you keep walking long enough, you're bound to end up somewhere better than if you sit on your butt and bemoan your misery.