A Steve Perry Morning

It’s been a Steve Perry morning. Shortly after I awakened, “Missing You” began playing in my head. I didn’t hear the words at first, just the music, including the sound of Perry’s voice as an instrument.

Even if you somehow slid by popular music in the ‘80s  and ‘90s and then overlooked the seemingly permanent place many of his songs and his work with Journey have on playlists, I’ll bet you’ve heard his voice. Pause here to go to iTunes and listen to a sample, in case you’ve forgotten the sound. Try “Oh Sherrie” or “Who’s Cryin’ Now.” Or just go straight to “Don’t Stop Believin’.” The texture of that voice, the astonishing range (from high tenor to low bass), and the clarity of it, make it memorable. The drum and guitar work from Journey is worth a listen, too.

Anyway, I put on my earphones and plugged into my iPod to listen while I worked on a rather mindlessly repetitive task. No one was nearby except the cats, so I harmonized to “Missing You” and then belted out “Oh, Sherrie” multiple times. I felt happy. The sometimes-sad lyrics aside, singing with Steve Perry is energizing. I danced, too. With Steve Perry.

Recommended, in no particular order, to revive your musical memory and, perhaps, bring on a Steve Perry morning:

“Oh Sherrie”

“Open Arms”

“Foolish Heart”

“Who’s Cryin’ Now?”

“Anyway”

“Go Away”

“Missing You”

(The photo is from the Wikipedia article about Steve Perry.)

Alfred

Have you ever noticed that the bracket { looks like Alfred Hitchcock’s profile?

What I do

I write. That, in short form, is what I do. I also edit, which, being about words, ideas, and images, is part of writing. I observe. I imagine. I organize. And while I’m doing that, I attempt to distill into words what I'm observing, imagining, or organizing. It’s what I’ve been doing since I could hold a crayon. I tell stories. Some factual, some fictional, some strictly my opinion. All true.

When I was not yet 10, Gene Bennett taught me to type.  My first typewriter was an antique Underwood with clackety keys and a satisfying krrrrrring when I returned the platen. “The quick brown fox jumped over the log” soon became pages and pages of observations and conversations and thoughts poured out near the close of most of my childhood days. My diary grew as did my skill with a keyboard. Eventually, placing my hands on a keyboard—any keyboard—would start the flow of words and ideas, causing me to sort and reassemble what I knew and what I understood.

Years later, when my then-five-year-old son told his class what his mother did for a living, he said that I was “a typer.” He didn’t understand the concept of a professional writer, but his description, while limited, is accurate. Apply hands to keyboard. Writing happens.

First post

Needing to come up with something profound to say for a first post applies an uncomfortable pressure to one’s creativity. Perform! And do it now.

This does not improve my ability to do so.

I could write that I took a walk on the Monon Trail at 8 this morning, just as the Easter egg blue and white-marbled sky was separating itself from grey dawn.

Or that the daffodils outside my office window shiver rather than dance in the crisp breeze of morning, which in no way diminishes their ability to charm me. I am relieved to see them and to know with certainty that color is returning to the world.

That will have to do.