To Blog or Not

I just re-read some of the old posts from my original blog. Now there’s a guy with time and mental energy to think, write, spin little connections in the ether… Meaning there’s a guy without a three-year-old child and a teaching job!

For me, reading some of the lengthier posts now, just a few years later, feels like an old person watching an acrobat in rueful amazement. These days I would probably just post a link and roll over to sleep. I guess having kids will do that to you, but it was a good reminder to try to hold on to those little inspirations and musings. I actually have printed out the old blog for Sofia. Hopefully someday she’ll know her daddy a little better if she ever reads it.

Magic Trick

So the magician asks everyone in the crowd to choose a three-digit number. I think of 437. He calls on someone else to announce their number, and they say 437. And that wasn’t even the actual trick yet! Real magic in the form of bizarre coincidence…

Day After Tomorrow

I close my eyes
Every night
And I dream that I can hold you
They fill us full of lies
Everyone buys
About what it means to be a soldier
I still don’t know how I’m supposed to feel
About all the blood that’s been spilled
Look out on the street
Get me back home
On the day after tomorrow

from Day After Tomorrow, by Tom Waits

Artists have struggled to make meaningful statements about the Iraq War. Certainly compared to the Vietnam era, artists have been surprisingly quiet, even after early problems with speaking out (ask the Dixie Chicks) subsided. Movies about Iraq have pretty much bombed, no pun intended. Tom Waits got it right by stripping things down to a soldier’s poignant and ambivalent letter home. Great song.

East

Tomorrow is the opening of my East exhibition in Warsaw. In Romania at the moment, flying to Poland later today.

Hugh Fraser

Was just telling a friend the story of my original mom’s-side ancestor, Hugh Fraser. In 1707 Paisley Scotland, at age 7, sent home from school for acting up, sent back to school by his angry mom, kidnapped on the way and shipped off to America as an indentured servant on a tobacco plantation. Ended up marrying the owner’s daughter and running the place.

Jimmy Page

What ever happened to guitar solos? Not that I’m really a big rock fan anymore, but strange when you think such a staple of 60s-80s music could basically become passé and disappear.

Listening to the guitar solo in Stairway to Heaven at the moment (Led Zep getting me through a day of organizing my office). I’ve always thought it’s one of the greatest of all time, not because it’s perfect but because it’s got such a raw, yearning humanism to it. Like you’re not even sure Page is going to make it through, but he does. Almost brings a tear to your eye. Even the standard speed-riff flourish at the end is charmingly scrappy and uplifting compared to, say, the effortless acrobatics of Free Bird (if we’re sticking to the period).