Saturday, May 7, 2016

Coming Soon

My son is obsessed with the idea of imminence.  "My daddy coming," he says.  "Rain coming!"  "Monster coming."

He's 2.5, and he already knows the piquancy of anticipation.

I'm visiting my hometown this weekend, an endeavor guaranteed to make me maudlin (to know what you want and never be able to have it, to feel the pain of coming close, blah blah blah).

In three days: My move.  My second inside of a year.  Maybe my last in decades.

I can feel it approaching- all the boxes I haven't packed.  All the permanence I haven't yet, in my life, been able to enjoy.  The idea that I might stay put -not forever, but for a good long while- is both sobering and intoxicating, like sipping wine while the cement dries around your feet.

My last move.  It's coming.  Soon.

Sunday, January 10, 2016

Coldest day of the year so far.  It hurts to go outside, then hurts to come inside again, all the blood storming into your limbs.  Every journey becomes something to be scaled, Everest from the door of the car to the door of the house and back.  Nevertheless, we go on our way.  If not this trundling forward under a clear and merciless sky, then what?

Saturday, January 9, 2016


First Missouri snow.

William stares out the window.  I tell him, "Look snow!"

"My snow," he says. "All mine."

Saturday, January 2, 2016

Six Words

Sore throat; ennui; road and light.

Friday, January 1, 2016

Jan 1

I'm writing this from the midst of music.  It's the newest, most tender part of 2016, those first few days in which you struggle to remember what the heck date it is.  I struggle to remember a lot more than the date these days, which could be an early sign of impending Alzheimer's, or a manifestation of insomnia, or no more or less than the general, inexorable overfilling of my brain with the murky stuff of memory.

This is the root of the impulse to record: knowing that, if I do not, these pine boughs and silver pipes, this fatigue and the vague feeling that I have overeaten, will slip away, tucked into the great black bag of the past and stollen away. 

So here I am.  It's 2015.  I'm sitting in a pew, still uncomfortable despite its velvet cusion.  The air smells of pine and sweat and that indefnitable funk of church.  Ten feet front of me, my colleagues are rehearsing music composed four hundred years ago, give or take.  Some of them forgot their pencils.  Some of them are playing their hearts out.  Some of them of already thinking about lunch.  Some of the shapes they make are exactly right and some are twisted shadows of what could have been; and this is the way with music; and this is the way with most of what precedes it and most of what follows after.

We listen to what's here.  Maybe scribble it down if we can.  Play sometimes.  Sit back down.

Friday, December 25, 2015

Six Words

Christmas on the road, again, now.

Thursday, December 24, 2015

December 24, 2015

It's quiet here.

Across the street, the one-bedroom apartment dwellers have fled to more populous climes.  The parking lot of Target, this morning spasming with cars, has begun to unclench.  And yesterday's  thunderstorms blew overnight to the east, although the air left behind still feels, for December, like breath against our skin.  

Perched, for the moment, in our new home, we've opened our gifts to one another- some thoughtful, some pointed, some exhilaratingly pointless. We've labored over bread, guzzled good coffee, and accidentally butt-dialed the landlord.  We've done all the things you ought to do when you seek to mark a day but one of you isn't sure why, or how.

Happy Christmas Eve.   May your day be quiet -and light.