The Outgrabe

     Once I was talking to some co-workers, music teachers, about Jazz. I don't remember how we got on the topic, but it became apparent pretty quickly that only one of the three people I was talking to also knew and loved the jazz musicians I grew up on -- Dave Brubeck, Chet Baker, Stan Getz, Miles Davis, Vince Guaraldi, Jiao and Astrid Gilberto. And in that moment I realized, maybe I'm not just faking it when I say 'I love jazz music.'      Because up until that point, I felt a little like a fraud when I said that I did. I mean, I've never been a jazz musician. I love and can sing along with Billie Holiday or Natalie Cole or  Madeleine Peyroux or Dianna Krall, but to me, that somehow didn't quite qualify me as a true lover of jazz. I didn't know what I thought that criteria was, I was just sure that I hadn't met them.      And then, that day, falling down a conversational rabbit hole with the other person who loved the genre in some of...

 7.1.2020 And then a thing is over. And I still don't know what's next. And I don't really want a next. I just want to stay, and sit, and relish freedom of an imagined eternal summer. In which the consequence of staying up all night is nothing more than a more tired next day with kids. And slowly, room by room, my space improves. And little by little, we heal, start to drink and eat more right things and less wrong things. And we find a way to live that is more than mere continued existence. In it we find joy, purpose, satisfaction, and answers to the stresses, the concerns, the unknowns. Because it's summer, and none of those things matter, and even if they do, there is time for mending them in this place between school and work and obligations. Oh, let summer stay. The endless mornings of sleepy dawns, cool breezes on books through open windows, children splashing water on glass sliding doors, misty mornings rolling into too hot, lazy afternoons of cool drinks, guiltl...

5.25.2020  I was going to post to social media today, Memorial Day, because I feel inclined to add my own to the throng of posts about the day. Then I didn't. I made my own breakfast this morning after the boys had cleared up theirs, took some more time than usual to set up something nice for myself, enjoyed arranging it, took a picture, and imagined captioning it with something like this: Grateful today for the freedom to enjoy avocado toast and tea safe at home on this Memorial Day.  Maybe add some hashtags about remembrance, or thanks for those who served, or something, and soon the whole thing turned ugly to me, like it was this trite attempt to add something somber in a few words and a picture, a hashtag, and it felt incongruous and gross. So, I did not post this thought. There are a few things to unpack here. I also felt that the imagined weight of some people's negative feelings (ranging from minor to extreme/hateful) for the tendency some of my generational c...

 Do you have to be nuero-a-typical to access the greatest beauty in the self and create it? Does art necessarily create itself out of pain and an aching desire to create beauty or truth to soothe it? Can we be our best selves and also our worst? It is a paradox.

5.30.2021 Goodbye, May Hello, Today Full of words I didn't say ... What are you thinking And what do you wish? Asks none Of fishermen three ... And so tears slide Like silver fish For words that Will never be ... So write it and say it And let it all pour Over cuptops In tea-saucers Full ... We all just survive But sometimes we thrive In the teaming, intermin'ble sea ... So where are you going My silver-streaked dears And what will your Shimmering show? ... How to be How to thrive How to more-than-survive How to love How to laugh How to know.

1.26.21 Writing on Beautiful Things: A Cautionary Tale  I once wrote a river, a torrent, and song. I wrote it in leather, red bound.  In it was a story, a hope, a fear,  and joys never so truly found. And tossed in the basket, and put on the shelf, and carried about to and fro, the leaves were so battered, and tattered, and frayed,  and once washed, proceeded to go. So when putting into things  things you hope to keep, keep the place of their keeping with care. If you don't, you will find, after some careless times that precious things written  can soon disappear.  A Knife and a Wooden Spoon When considering holding a wooden spoon and a knife in one hand, and scrubbing them with a brush under running water with the other--don't. You are liable to stab yourself in the finger.