Of the former, I was listening to a random collection of musical pieces last night and found myself welling up with tears. I had saved the music because, for one reason or another, I found it beautiful ... and by "beautiful" I mean dissolving in one way or another.
Putting that together with the fact that I probably didn't cry enough when I was little -- whether from joy or sorrow -- and the music uncorked my tear-filled casks. I wondered if musicians were aware of the magic they were capable of weaving. I wondered if their own music made them cry. No matter ... I had tears, inescapable tears, on my agenda.
Real men don't cry. Or is it real men do cry? Does it matter much if a man cries in the forest and there is no one else around? And no, I am not a politician who has been caught out in some routine dalliance.
Dissolved: Isn't it enough to weep for? But with a lifetime of not enough weeping, it's a newish occurrence in my life. Something has changed. I do so love being consumed and am less afraid of the consequences.
Of napkins. Fewer people are using and/or buying them:
The use of paper napkins has been declining for 20 years. According to Georgia-Pacific statistics, six out of 10 households purchased paper napkins on a regular basis 15 years ago; today it’s slightly more than four out of 10.This feels somehow important -- a social sea change of some sort or perhaps another knuckling under to that grubby harlot called Facebook. The last time I used a napkin was in a cafe over coffee and a sweet roll. There is a largely untouched stack of paper napkins in the paper-goods shelf in the kitchen. But generally, I use paper towels as napkins ... and Kleenex as well. It's convenient and -- as distinct from Facebook -- has a functional outcome that does not pretend to be something other than what it is.
Someone gave me free tickets to Revels some thirty years back. It was an annual event held at christmas time at the Oakland masonic hall, a capella, folk music, and beautiful beyond tears. I sobbed through most of it which scared the woman i was living with at the time. She grew up in an alcoholic household and i was supposed to beat her, not cry at music. I hung in there for five years, mostly for her kids. Hindsight tells me what i wish i had in foresight. But the terror in her eyes wasn't going to dry mine.ReplyDelete