I stepped into a dimly lit time machine that smelled of soot and men. When my eyes adjusted, I was riveted by what I saw. This must be what it felt like to enter the wardrobe into Narnia.
Sometimes the most stunning light spills through into the darkest, sootiest of places, bending time and reality into a perfect work of art.
Google unheard songs and pages come up promising a glimpse from the vaults of the greats: Hendrix, Prince, Led Zeppelin. How many unheard songs are written for every song that flies? What happens to the ones left behind? We all want to hear those songs.
We spend an entire life accumulating things. We get attached to those things. Then, at the end of life, we stress about getting rid of those things so we don’t leave our stuff for someone else to deal with. Meanwhile, the planet is buckling under the weight of all our stuff.
The Muse. She’s here. Just let herself in the front door and plopped down in the chair across from me. She hands a word to me, like it’s a cigarette or a martini or a star. I place it on a note, imbed it in a chord and play it back to her tentatively, eyebrows raised in a silent ask, “Like this? Is this okay?” She scoffs. Throws a hand to the ceiling and rolls her eyes.
Failure. We fear it. We hide it. We run from it. We don’t create so we don’t have to deal with it. Failure sucks.