Lately, I’m uncharacteristically messy. I have the organization gene in every cell. Grocery store surveillance cameras everywhere capture me straightening up produce bins.
Next to the TV and Bose rests a random pile of CDs: Chicago II, Lake Street Dive, Gregory Porter, Blood, Sweat & Tears, Pink Floyd, a Ken Burns “Jazz” DVD.
On my desk I see a scribbled chord block from last night: how is this a C11? Where’s the F? Oh, there it is. At my elbow, Berklee Music Theory Book 1 and my flash cards for keys. Behind me, two different scores and version, oh, 15.6 of a chart for “You’ve Made Me So Very Happy” for the neighborhood band.
In my practice room, the music stand holds tomorrow’s fingerstyle homework for my tutor. On the floor is spilled the aftermath of today’s acoustic jam: charts, paper clips, folded up foot rest and guitar stand. The black cord for recharging my portable lamp traces a crazy path across the beige carpet to the receptacle. The washcloth for wiping the humidifier tank sits crumpled at my heel. I reach in my pocket for a tissue and two picks fall out. And the horn parts to “God Bless' the Child” keep ringing in my head.
God bless this mess.