The 45 Blog

The job of sobriety is to conduct the orchestra, but something else always writes the music. It’s not something as simple as inebriation , or some approximate opposite of sobriety, because we’re not simple.

The parts of us that write the music are sometimes messy and complicated . Like divorces that bring people into dark mental places that they didn’t think existed.

Other times, the part of us that music comes from simple scenes that just happen in everyday life. Like walking around the neighborhood with your family after dinner, and smelling the streets perfumed by magnolias , lantana and roses.

The beauty is that all of these parts that write the music yearn for each other and yearn for something else at once. And it’s this pushing and pulling that creates the tension that creates the music in the first place.

The conductor makes a model of it and shows it to the world at a hundred bucks a pop.

Too many glued parts and pieces challenge its integrity.

A fine place with empty front porches, security alarms, and people on cell phones, posing into eternity or a glass of wine.

Old enough to decline invitations, young enough to know better.

5-10 minutes is the length of time it takes to fill a car up with gas. But there’s always a person who goes inside to use the restroom, complete their weekly shopping, and to pay for the gasoline. Sometimes it takes 10-20 minutes. Other times it takes longer.

Regardless, I somehow park behind this person because there are no other options. There’s a contagion of parked cars. It’s enraging, to say the least . Not only is it inconsiderate of other people’s time, it could lead to a loss of money for the owner.

There’s bound to be some hothead angrier than I who squeals out of the parking lot to find a less busy gas station and convenient store. That’s a loss of one customer, or $50 for that tank of gas. Pretend that happens 20 times a day . That’s 1000 bucks a day. That’s a loss over time of 352K a year.

Yet there’s a part of me that wishes I could park my car in front of the gas pump, then take a shower, use the rest room, go shopping and pay for my gas. And to do so without caring about the feelings and frustrations of others, nor feel any embarrassment.

Rather , I’d be so confident I’d act invisible, as if no one can see the candy I stole, nor the line of cars that lays behind mine , at attention, like a river.

Marie’s home is decorated with birds. Some of the feeders in her front yard are bouquets of yellow warblers and goldfinches. She fills these feeders with Nyjer seed, white millet, and safflower, attracting and bundling the yellow birds into a defined area for their one color and one song. One of the wood feeders was built by her father, some 30 years ago. He repurposed scrap wood from construction sites that he worked on before launching his own general contracting business, in the 90s.  This one was built with wood scraps from the DeLoria’s barn over on Pennemite Road.

In the backyard is a half-dead cherry tree that only blossoms on its south side. The north facing portion of the tree is nothing more than soft, pulpy branches with no leaves. A small pink bird house dangles from one of its dead branches. A string of cardinals perch and glow on the branch like Christmas lights; each bird plugged into its own hunger. Marie delights in the pale red glow they produce and smiles at them. The part she plays in decorating her home is an important one.  Because of her actions, she’s a mother, curator, and government for these godly creatures.

They depend on her, or they starve. It’s as simple as that.

In the mornings, she goes into the sunroom in the back of the house, drinks her coffee, and writes in her journals. On days she is feeling slow or uninspired, she listens to some Rachmaninoff until the black ink speaks loudly onto the journal page. After three pages of long hand, she puts on her boots, her work hat and rubber gloves, then marches out to the yard.  Marie replenishes the feeders, then waits for them to arrive.

Filling her cup one more time, she sits on the patio between the half-dead tree and sunroom.

Five sips into her coffee, a male cardinal perches on the branch, followed by his mate.  Then another appears and another.

Soon the tree is burning with red cardinals.

She takes one last sip of coffee, then opens a basket next to her wicker chair. There’s a slingshot sitting atop some old Audubon Society Manuals. One of them features a photo of her gardens, taken a few years ago.

She loads the slingshot, pulls it back, and aims.

Almost as soon as she let’s go, one of the cardinals drops from the branch.  A puff of dirt rises from the impact.

She gathers the bird in her hands, elevates it to eye-level, examining it before taking it into the house.

In the kitchen, she plucks it bald, seasons it with salt and pepper, and tosses it into a pot of boiling water.

She adds carrots, celery, and sliced onions, then covers the pot with a glass lid that she holds down with all her might, ensuring it doesn’t try to fly away ever again, even as a ghost.

When books are selected thoughtfully as a gift, there’s nothing better. My youngest buys me books for my birthday and Christmas. I spend hours reading them, and even more time thinking about them– taking notes. There are no other gifts that I spend more time with, except for my wedding ring. When she goes to college, I hope she buys me a book once in a while– even if I’m the one paying for it.

A man in a car on a phone. Small talk, then the speech elevates. Soon he’s yelling, then crying. It’s only a few minutes , but feels like hours.

Another time , a woman in a grocery story receives a walkie call from her manager. A few moments later, she is scared and talking to herself– telling herself how dumb she is, how she messes everything up and can’t do anything right.

And a few months later, a woman parked in her car in Bicentennial Park, on the phone. She’s arguing. I continue driving my daughter to school, but when I retrace my path to return home, the woman is still parked – arguing and crying.

I asked my wife to pick my daughter up in the afternoon.

One more time of seeing the woman parked in her car crying, and I may have come undone and parked next to her. Then I may have cried, and somebody may have seen me, then they may have parked, and also cried.

And the crying contagion may have continued with more people parking and crying and I would have been the one to blame for noticing in the first place.

I think if you’re a fiction writer and you’re too intelligent, you cannot write. But if you’re stupid, you cannot write. You have to find a position in between. That is very difficult.

— Haruki Murakami

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The above quote resonates– as do most words by Haruki Murakami. The fact is, my intelligence pales in comparison to most. Conversing with friends perplexes me due to how much knowledge and vocabulary they’ve acquired and apply to everyday dialogue. It’s hard to keep up.

However, what I do seem to possess is a healthy amount of curiosity.

To me, curiosity is a form of longing. It exists because I’m lacking something intellectually, relationally or spiritually.

Asking questions, if even to myself , is what drives the writing and ideas.

Curiosity also drives my decisions in most areas in my life.

On a given day, I might say, “Hey, I really hate running, but why?”

To understand this, I go deep in running and compete in races.

Or else I might say, “Hey, I’ve been doing this job and belonged to this community a while. What might happen if I leave it?”

And I’ll leave and I’ll learn.

And the same rule applies to writing. I wonder what would happen if character A did X?

And that’s what makes the act of writing like dreaming for me, so I continue it.

To develop personal taste and style, read books that others aren’t reading.

Develop empathy for content other artists won’t touch.

Identify forgotten heroes whose work is either ignored or censored, but resonates with you nonetheless.

Mine for better mediums and materials. If that fails, make your own.

Above all, have confidence in your choices .