(no subject)

On the way home today from work, there was a young man playing the clarinet on the subway. A soft English Ballad that made me think of green hills and medieval castles. He looked no older than 22, soft cheeks, boyish feature, soft brown hair that fell into his eyes. At first I thought he was playing for money, most of them do. We get so many beggers on the subways nowadays. But, when the train stopped, he was about to put away his clarinet and get out - when someone stopped him and asked if he took donations. A subway first, I thought. The young man's face turned slightly red, his eyes got bright with wonder and he went forward and collect the equivalent of ten dollars from assorted passengers in his clarinet case. I found myself smiling, while reading the George RR Martin novel in front of me. (Yes, I'm still reading it -it's the size of brick, give me a break.)

The experience reminded me a little of myself - how I felt when people tell me that they enjoyed my writing or when I realized that I had a bigger audience than I imagined. Like the boy, I'm just doing my thing. Dancing my dance. Sharing my words. Not expecting anyone to read, but hoping they will. Or as the Joni Mitchell song goes "Playing Real Good for Free". Bewildered. Flattered. Embarrassed. Surprised. And touched. When people you don't know, who are relative strangers, respond favorably to your art- it is an indescrible high. But it is one that cannot be bought or sought, it happens, when it does, almost by accident...which is the magic of it, I think.