It’s been over 9 month since my return from Africa.  I still remember parts of it like yesterday.  Given my short term memory performance, that’s not as impressive as it sounds.  It is great to be back home with my wife, my kids (although they live on opposite coasts), and all the familiar, comfortable surroundings.  I’ve held back from blogging for reasons I don’t completely understand.  I guess I just felt that folks might not be as interested in the thoughts and views from an old American as those from a stranger in a strange land.

I was musing about this a few days ago when my visiting future daughter-in-law (“pre-wife,” as my son calls her) set me straight.  “Stop worrying about whether those stories will interest the readers.  Write for yourself.”  She’s right, of course.  There’s a sort of creative bug that gets inside when you start something like this.  I’ve missed it for a while.  I’ve tried to fill it with music, with only mild success.  Just as there is prose trying to work its way out of me, there are songs as well.  I have a great time writing the lyrics and they are not awful.  Putting together the music to fit is another story.  Simple melodies, ok.  But what about the chorus, bridge, guitar solo, and on and on?  I’ve heard writers talk about the “deafening silence of blank paper.”  That hasn’t been such an issue for me.  But what about the “deafening silence of silence?”  Sometimes the notes won’t come.  Or they come and have nowhere to go except … away.

But let’s not plunge into the abyss of creative constipation here.  I was not raised in a particularly musical family, although my mom made sure that all of us had opportunities. I drifted away from clarinet, oboe and bassoon when I went to a high school without a music program.  But I’ve been blessed with 2 musically gifted children and a love for almost all genres of music.  There are a few exceptions that I won’t call out here, however.  Telling an aficionado that you don’t like their tunes is tantamount to starting a religious war.  I know this.  I am a longtime fan of Yes, which the rest of my family really can’t stand.  On long car trips, I am rationed.  I wait until Linda is asleep in the seat beside me before switching on “Perpetual Change.”  That lasts until I get carried away with the Steve Howe guitar solo, crank it up and then pay for it for about 15 miles.

Since I can’t sit still at all, music really gets me twitching.  Since it’s all about the bass, I’d thump along with that.  Eventually that turned into “air bass.”  You need to picture an air guitarist gyrating all over the air stage, ripping air riffs and generally looking dumb.  Off in the background is the air bassist standing in the shadows driving the non-existent beat, but not looking quite as dumb.  Well, my son got pretty sick of that and informed me that he was going to buy me a bass for Christmas about 10 years ago.  “Buy me a bass” meant accompanying me to Guitar Center, giving me great advice on which one to get, and then letting me pay for it.  Fair enough.  Since it was a “present” from Sean, there wasn’t much Linda could do about it (we’ll get into “parent points” in some future post).  She’s now great about putting up with my practicing at all hours.  However, she draws the line when I start to talk like a bass nerd, which is really boring. If you’ve read this far, you probably know what she means.

So, I’m back.  Yes, I’m using this blog as a kind of creative Metamucil.  Whatever works.  I’ve started dozens of posts that I shelved because I didn’t want to bore, vex, or otherwise offend folks.  If I do any of those to you in the coming posts, please blame Mandy.