Y is for Yet

......and yet....

fierce tourist in Guatemala

He is so tall now that when I hug him his thin hip pokes just under my raised arm, and yet, he’s thinner than a full bag of groceries, hugged close to my chest, his long lean arms drape on my shoulders. The rare times I see him these days, standing at his full 6’4”, is in the kitchen, foraging bagels and frozen pizza.  

Fairfax Bicycle Works

When he is home he’s tightly coiled behind his drum kit, pounding with a machinist’s precision, tapping out intricate thrumming rhythms. Or he’s curled over a guitar or banjo, his graceful elegant skilled fingers sliding, pressing fluttering picking the strings. Then he’s leaning into the computer keyboard, composing, mixing, fingers tapping head banging along with his creation*.  

drumming with Vuotan

The hours in his basement lair, the creative sleep cave that mirrors the inside of his 18 year old brain: musky, blues, purples and browns with dark grimy shadows, mold skinned cold coffee in multiple cups, guitar pics and strings, gnawed splintered drum sticks, balled socks, ticket stubs, burrito foil and rumpled sheets under a sleeping dog...and yet, pure creative necessity. 

Mystic kids

He emerges, purged and hungry, late for class, needing the air of the redwoods, loading his bike with necessities and peddling off to sleep in the woods and read of trolls, dwarves, Vikings and sandworms... so close to manhood, and yet.....


*stick with it 

** nothing created in your basement is ever boring

***teenaged boys have teensy little opinions about music

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