The Blind Man Society

This morning I’m thinking about art. One of the reasons I love it so much is because it can’t really be defined. People think they know it but it’s so interpretive that nobody will ever truly figure out every aspect. And, I think that’s why it endures so much.

I think, that every person is an art form. Whether they have a medium to express it like painting, drawing, music, etc. or if it’s entirely the way that they live or who they are. To the naysayers about not figuring out art, I would say this – good luck figuring out 4.7 trillion art forms on this planet…

I close the journal, and think to myself, that its time to get back to the place.  I have a guitar showing up today, and it should be in the office by now.  So, I stand, stretch, and shove the journal back into my backpack, and start walking for one of the exit points off of the loop. 

It’s a hot morning, and the sun is rising fast.  I reach the turn of the loop, and cut down across the grass to the sidewalk, taking a right along the main street up the sidewalk.  The football stadium is passing slowly as I walk to my left, and its not long before I reach the turn to the apartment complex.  Turning right, I walk up the drive, and into the office.

It’s a slow morning for the admin staff sitting in the three chairs there.  Two are surfing online, and one is on the phone.  The manager is not yet in, and they all look up at me, as the door swings closed behind me.  I say hello, and ask for my guitar.  One of them smiles, and stands, and asks for my apartment number, and then goes in back to the delivery section to get the box. 

I’m just standing, surveying, and seeing the different things thumbtacked onto the community board.  For a moment, I feel like Kaiser Soze as I look at the patchwork of names, business cards, businesses and advertisements on this board, and I think to myself, what kind of a story I could spin on the fly using it.  This thought is interrupted by the girl coming out with my guitar box.

She hands it to me, I thank her and head through the office to the doors that lead out to the pool.  Stopping at the gate door, I punch in the number combination to open it, and enter the pool area and chairs.  Walking to one of the parasoled tables, I lean the box against it, pull out my punch blade, and cut the packing tape to open it. 

It’s a purple guitar.  An Epiphone Es-335 and I have been waiting for this, for weeks.  I pull it out, tune it up, and set it on my lap to play.  Some people are out today, on their fenced in porches, overlooking the pool and there is quiet approval I think to myself, as I play the acoustically loud semi-hollow body.  I am loving the sound, the weight, the feel and the sustain.  So much so, that I set it down, run the box to the garbage, and return to take the guitar over to a chaise lounge alongside the pool. 

Sitting down, I put it on my lap and began to play…

I wasn’t singing per se.  I wasn’t playing an instrumental either. I come up with stories while I’m playing guitar for writing and journal entries.  And, while I was playing Day Tripper by the Beatles, I came up with this:

The next story…

So, today I’m thinking about color theory and my favorite high speed paperboy.

To start, have you ever noticed, how some restaurants have depressing hues of light blue interiors, and some have very bright and exciting colors?  Some places want you to stay a very long time and consume a lot of food, and some want you excited and out of there faster….and, they seem to use certain color interiors to do this.

Next, the subject of alcohol. Does drinking red vs. white wine say something about you, other that the fact that it goes with certain foods or tastes great? Labels with brilliant colors seem popular. How about drinking wine from a cardboard box, vs. the HIGHLY expensive collector wines that are out there? I’m not saying this very well, but everyone knows what I mean.

Taking this one step further, people who wear dark colors, vs. light colors.  Dark and moody types that are labeled as the quiet ones, very sensitive, highly creative.  Why do they live in black and gray?  I was thinking about this today, and realized that maybe it’s the flip opposite of how they are inside.  Maybe they are not quite as depressed as their clothes suggest at all…ridiculously intelligent people who are just not quite what they seem? 

The ones that wear bright colors all the time, are they really balancing for something going on inside that might be different from what they project?  Earth tone lovers? I’m not even going to touch the ones that love paisley.  Making the excuse that I’m out of time and have to go.

This leads me to think about the psychology of colors and driving. And, the following tangent: People who speed, people who cut others off, people who drive in packs following the safety in numbers approach in case they get picked off for flying by the cops.  The point to this tangent, is, what are the colors of the cars or the clothing of the people driving?

The people who drive slow.  They are usually older, or doing something they aren’t supposed to be doing.  Evading notice, but really, who doesn’t notice the REALLY irritating person, who drives too slow?  I’m always curious about the color of the car, and the color of the clothes they are wearing.

School busses are the last thing. We all see that yellow and black bus coming from a mile away. What is the meaning of the color yellow? Its happiness and hope. And, black? Power, strength and mystery. A side anecdote:  My old school bus driver used to joke that he slowed down to 35 miles an hour, and pushed kids out the door like a high speed paperboy delivering the morning news.  His parting words were: tuck and roll. Now that, is power.

BUT, maybe not as much as this: Can you change yourself, with certain color usage? Its been shown that you can change yourself by changing your handwriting. I wonder if the same applies here with colors?

I put the guitar down, after a couple parting power chords for emphasis on my rhythm playing and grabbed my backpack again.  Pulling my journal out, I flipped through the pages once more and started writing at a feverish pace so I didn’t lose any of the story.  My handwriting, looked like chicken scratch I was flying through words so fast, but I managed to get it all down after about ten minutes.  Happy, I stashed the journal, grabbed the guitar, and existed the pool to walk to Building 6 where I lived.

Guitar in my right hand, backpack straps over both shoulders, shirt in my left hand, and a cigarette dangling out of my mouth, I walked slowly back on the right side of the property.  Buildings passed slowly on my left – so slowly that it looked about the same speed as driving a boat past an island…the scenery was crawling by, and the clarity was muted by the heat in the air.  Heat waves were rising and falling and distorting the clarity of everything and everyone I passed by.  Like, paint thinner destroying an image the further I got away from things.

Mainly though, my eyes were scanning the ground for partially smoked cigarettes.  And, I walked with my head down, moving right and left like a mine sweeper all the way back to my building.  Turning left, I entered the first floor tunnel, and came in the hall and shadows and cooler air feeling fine.