I let my open AOL mail, with its taunting bold message two or three down uncharacteristically just sitting there, be overtaken by a quick google search of pipe dream. Yep- 2 words.
I don’t remember too much of The Iceman Cometh (iceman one word, does have a ‘the’ unless talking about a bike race in Michigan) except that I read it and ever since that word that is actually two words has become an integral part of my internal vocabulary.
As I read and reread, my left thumb absent-mindedly rubs the tips of fingers once hard and dry (as of 3.75 hours ago to be somewhat exact) and now barely distinguishable in the low light as being even the slightest bit cracked, the hard earned missing layer of skin now gently blending in to the softness around it. My older brother’s guitar leans against the couch that I found at a garage sale down the street and convinced his band to move into my room and a flimsy black binder rests gracefully against the pillow that keeps one from coming in direct contact with the frightfully uncomfortable fabric stretched over a wooden frame.
One of the first things I did in one those long afternoons following my return to the states (and unlimited internet access and a printer), was to find and print un montón of bilingual praise music with which to practice my growing command of chords.
That’s me in a nutshell for ya. Always thinking ahead. Always plotting courses, mapping out schedules, signing contracts with myself that this summer will be different, and yet at the same time, staring at a blinking …thing, at an almost blank page, with little to no sense of what might be coming next.
A messy line drawn in a quick spasm of the hand creates intricate circles and ovals and shapes that define the confines of arbitrary names and demand personal attention and so, lured by their universal plea, I willingly oblige, filling in and shading and truly enjoying what may be the closest I get to detail work (not including the microscopic writing I found all over Mark 10 the other day – I’m going to hate myself for that when I’m 50). I lose track of time, intimately insistent that each line, each crosshatch, each blackened blob is balanced, is at peace with all the others.
And then that gets old and my hand reaches for a new color, or perhaps just jerks with another spasm of pure restless energy, only to make more circles and oval and shapes that beg for me to let myself become obsessed with them next.