This morning I went to the meeting with the funeral director.
He was professional and made the process easy. Just three days ago, I was scheduled to spend today in a business meeting in Austin helping someone else with a problem on a topic I'll leave out of this journal. Things change.
I like the ambient guitarist Jeff Pearce, who puts together sonic sweeps of melodic sound and drone, as well as the (in some ways more) critical spaces between the sounds. He can make a guitar sound like ringing bells, or the sound of a aural loom, or a thousand synthesizers.
Yesterday morning, on a day when the outside was rainy but the interior life had barely a cloud in the sky, I listened to Jeff Pearce's miraculous CD, "Daylight Slowly..." on my way to work. I enjoyed it, but I focused on production values, and noticed how it sounded on my speakers. I was enjoying it, but I was one step removed.
This afternoon I drove home from a couple of hours at my office, rescheduling what I could, and steadily doing what I could not rearrange.
I listened again to the Jeff Pearce CD. I like ambient music because it offers a space for my mind to wander into and away from the music. With the rain falling outside, and the storm within sometimes generating a cloudburst, the sound of Jeff's guitar resonated against some exposed edge I don't consciously exhibit, but know is showing somehow. The joy in the music was more intense. The sadness more palpable. The subtleties deeper, and more unfathomable.
Jeff Pearce is an unassuming man from Indiana, whose interviews are largely comprised of saying "I'm just grateful that I have a life in which I get to play music" and "I just try to do the best I can do". He sent me the kindnest note when I once reviewed something of his on amazon. For all that, he's a genius. This afternoon, as I drove silently, but not altogether free of tears, my mind hung on ambient strings, shimmering across an imaginary horizon. This edge that's exposed is the part that hears the music.