Why? It’s the question they always ask. Why do you write, paint, compose music, knit, garden, do woodworking, sew? Why let some thing occupy a significant portion of your life, or take it over entirely? But that’s the wrong question. The right question is, “Why not?” If you can’t come up with a good answer for that question, then a good answer to “Why?” is “Because I want to.” The best answer, though, is “Because I can’t not.” That is the egg from which masterpieces hatch.
If I spoke with my hands and not my mouth, if my words were framed with graceful gestures and the eloquence of agile fingers, how would I whisper secrets in the shushing darkness? When it is eyes, not speechless ears, that hang on every word, would flirtation be a tango for two hands, and anger jazz and swash like Martha Graham? Would girl talk swirl and flutter through the fingers like a restless flock of sparrows? Could I soliloquize without a mirror?
Be ever vigilant. Happiness is a ninja that can strike at any moment.
I watch the DVD of a film made before TVs, DVDs, or me. The mediocre script is loosely based on a mediocre novel by a man who blew his brains out 50 years ago. The performance of two actors transfixes me: The leading man, born 2 centuries ago and 54 years dead, and his leading lady who is 86 years old now. I cannot help but wonder, ‘What would Bogey think to see me lying on the sofa in the flickering darkness of my living room watching him and Baby fall in love?’I put on my glasses and discover a fingerprint on the world.
Wol's River of Stones 