O' the day - 12.18.07

An old man, grimly sitting near the front door of the nursing home, awaiting the visitor who may never come, may never show up to say it's all been a mistake, you don't belong here, you're too young to be here, come back home, catches my eye.

He sits at the door, head bowed with the weight of his years, knowing better but hoping still, that one day the door will open to show his long-lost wife, resplendent in summerweight white, as fresh as the day she stood beside him in the sun and whispered "I do too."

O' the day - 12.17.07

It still amazes me that there are so many people in the world that can make a living simply by creating, writing, or playing music. Music is the weft that intertwines in every aspect of our lives -- from the Muzak at the grocery store to the turning of the dryer to the humming of a child, and to think that one could capture that sound and use it to pay one's bills astounds and enlivens me. Perhaps one day I, too, will realize that dream of using music, that most basic necessity to a colorful life, to make others think and wish and expand.