Sound. As I type to the hum of traffic, the cross-hatch of MTM's pen, the pulse of keys, I sob and wish sound weren't a thing.
I know people who are virtually deaf. I don't wish for that fate or mean to diminish their disability.
But I am waterboarded by the sound of my own voice. People want to hear me read my memoir.
Or they *think* they do.
They don't know a theater critic once eviscerated my speaking voice in a review. "Etched in acid," he crowed.
It happens. When a boy is three.
A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away, I starred in a play. A musical called "South Pacific." Perhaps you've tried to Wash That Man Right Out Of Your Hair while having Some Enchanted Evening falling In Love With a Wonderful Guy on Bali H'ai?
You've probably never heard of him. Unless you're a serious photographer.
from the Wynn Bullock website
I went to the Wynn Bullock retrospective at the High Museum of Art in Atlanta, expecting 100 photographs that mimicked Ansel Adams, his more famous contemporary.
Instead, I found myself alone. Wandering three galleries of otherworldly photographs. Unlike anything. Unique.
Would it be weird to admit some of the images called to me?
MTM used to race cars. With people who went on to become actual NASCAR drivers. He worked as a mechanic through high school and college, when his prized possession was a 1969 Oldsmobile Cutlass W-31.
(I had to google it too, Dear Reader.)
Why did I find myself in a museum exhibit called "Dream Cars" last week?