It is the rare occasion that a weekend completes its course and I feel fantastic. Why is that?
And why does a sadness fill me when I experience unparalleled beauty? It was a chilly spring evening three years ago when my wife and I witnessed the molten sun cool itself in the salty bay of Morro Rock, California. The tide had departed leaving in its wake thin cornrows of water then sand, water then sand. Rays spun off the glassine surfaces in 1,000 directions and the tangerine glow dripped off each facet of cloud.
The spectacle of creation unfolded before the artist in me as Schindler's List would present itself to even the harshest film critic. Perfection.
Why then am I left with pangs of emptiness? Why can I raise my arms at the peak of a mountain and still feel that the clouds are miles away? Why do we wish for colors that the rods and cones of our eyes can not perceive?
This is the struggle of the artist, and it is as common as the petty bickering on Judge Judy (yes I do occasionally enjoy watching the TV justices wield their gavels). But 'common' does not translate into 'easy,' and the struggle beats a disconcerting fibrillation in the emotions of the hour.
What does the artist do when a longing such as this attempts to wield its paralysis? We do what there is to do: love our spouses, do the dishes, and press on with our art, as sour as the outcome may be.
Nothing is clicking tonight, and I am not even remotely proud of the track that flopped out of my software's tail pipe. A tangle of meaningless, meandering notes, this scratch recording has no direction or structure, and it is barely recognizable as coherent music. It is all I can manage on the occasion of this melancholy eve.
On a cheery note, the guitar in the recording is the one mentioned in an earlier post: a closeted Guild hollow-body on loan from a good buddy. This axe is a cherry and it plays smooth as silk. I promise to do it a little more honor in future attempts.
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