Music Man

Even though each is different, in among listening and playing and composing there are threads of the same stuff, music stuff, a kind of mental perfume.  I don't know if it has to do with training, or exposure, because I've had a little of the former and a lot of the latter, and whether or not they matter this essential stuff is there, swirling around.  It's no more organized or logical than the smell of leather or nutmeg or a woman's hair.  Some other conception is at work.

I hang on to this even though I don't listen enough, or to the right things, and I spend way too many hours listening to talk on radio and podcasts, when I could be searching out and listening to, say, Alan Hovhaness, or Bobby Blue Bland.

I don't play enough, and I sure don't compose enough - mostly my solo sessions devolve into working on the perfect blues run or trying to conquer ragtime.  When it's with others, there's more progress, but nothing like it should be.

But the music stuff still floats around, and on a good day it knocks me off of my stupid stride.  I open my eyes, breathe in, there's a clear but non-logical reason to take the next step, with a slightly better course.