Tomorrow night I'll be faking jazz at a poetry reading and art show opening. The organizer wanted art, poetry and music represented. Sometimes I listen to Terri Gross interview famous jazz artists and often, on the way home from orchestra practice Tuesday nights, I listen to a jazz radio show. How little I know! One semester in college I did an independent study, taking some lessons with a jazz pianist in Lima, Ohio, but I didn't get anywhere fast. So yes, I feel like an imposter....
which is quite normal. Maybe if I got into this deep enough, millions would throng to my blog. But no, this is not one of those. I'm still a stuffed shirt, holding secrets close to the vest.
A dabbler. That might be a good description. Someone who knows about a lot of things, but not a lot about any of them, enough to pull the wool over some people's eyes and watch some experts raise eyebrows or tolerate imitation. In a way, I can identify with people like Bernie Madoff, without the suffering, and, on the whole, it's great fun.
Meanwhile, photographers probably wonder at the junk I post, like this picture of a cedar tree and its guest.
Leaves of three, let them be.
"Black, Doyles Thornless," I say. "Three years ago I planted a few canes and now the patch is a forest."
The Bowman Women; A Work In Progress
1 week ago