Snowfall and Diminished Sevenths

There are few things better in life than talking with friends late into the night only to pierce the new day and color those early morning hours with laughter. Those early hours are like freshly fallen snow, softly blanketing the muddled tracks of yesterday.

Early this morning as my good friend Corrie (see here here) and I were discussing sword fights and Swedish culture (an interesting juxtaposition when put to paper) she mentioned that my blog yesterday was too melancholy and thus short of enjoyable. Although her comment was far from malicious, it echoed in my mind, metastasizing, ultimately tainting the pristine snowfall of the new day. How dare she come into collision with my sensitive ego!?

Now a digression; stay with me…
Recently I read an interesting assertion: In this life there is but one choice and that is between loneliness and vulgarity. While this adage offers food for thought, its fault lies in the notion that we can choose. The idea that those of us (un)fortunate enough to lead a complex, at times troubled, inner life have a choice is a laughable one. We can alter our mental states no more than a leopard can rearrange his spots (Small note: I’m talking about inherent dispositions; not view points. I’m a full believer in the maxim which states change the way you see the world and the world will change all around you.)

Back on course; deep breath…
Analogies aside, my point is this: this online journal is part comical, part political, part satirical, part autobiography, part condemnation of modern life, and part fairy tale. The only adhesive factor I can offer is that all these parts form a bigger picture, seen through the keyhole of these eyes.

Another digression; exhale…
To put this musically: a jazz solo is not limited to a particular key per se, but rather the improvised notes shadow the particular chord being played at that point of the succession. To me, life reflects a jazz. The rudimentary chord progression is ascribed at birth (class, gender, ethnicity) the weight of which is nearly inescapable (note I said nearly).

The solo, however, which we are free to improvise, is composed of notes which are light as feathers. It’s when the notes, in all their capricious nimbleness, gather, build, crescendo, and splash down on the chords of life that beauty emerges.

Pull it together; sigh…
Following the metaphor, it becomes clear that some of these entries are anchored down to a somber diminished seventh (loss, regret). But other parts of life hover joyfully above a C major, free as birds to soar on wings of happiness.