Seth sits in the dark on our bed with a guitar, and his fingers individually know how to string a sound never once made before. In the dark, he hums. And I don’t know what he’s saying,
but I do. Something about him always sings of Home and of not fitting here. His tune is joy – and simultaneously sad.
Cocooned in a blanket, my Jude tells me the trees will walk, asks me if they are good trees, will they hurt him. He says they talk. A story line crescendos, and I mother-reason with him, and he doesn’t believe me. He believes the story. Find out what is good and what is bad. There is both.
My backdoor neighbor, close girlfriend, is an engineer. She wants even numbers and clean, straight lines. It just makes calming sense to her. She works until it gets there – in the right order.
My daddy rides an hour to work every day. He likes complete silence unless he’s singing God songs that he makes up on the spot. They are haunting songs with memories older than he is.
Aren’t human-beings otherworldly and beautiful? What do you consider your art, whether common or uncommon?
Watch what this one does:
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