Everything I’m Cracked Up To Be

On paper, my weekend might look like a bust. But in person, it was everything I’m cracked up to be.

Somewhere along the way, we’re taught to look for plumes, fireworks, earthquakes and thunder. But the angels in the atmosphere are distant. Their chorus is far off and faint. We hear it only when we listen closely. Sometimes we might not hear it at all. But it’s there in the little things.

St. Patrick’s Day is, of course, for the amateurs. Where some might line up early at McSorely’s, or on Fifth Avenue for the fife and drums, mine was spent at home, in front of an old movie, with a plate full of dim sum and a glass full of beer.

Saturdays are, for many, the penultimate. Where some might head downtown to the glow of the glitterati, or the fashionistas, mine was spent in the company of a little boy stretching for butterflies and big blue whales.

And while Sundays are, for most, brunches and banquets, mine was spent coloring, singing, and banging on a battered drum.

I finished “The Desert Star EP” today, here amidst the white noise of the Upper West Side: the sirens, the car alarms, and the traffic. I harnessed the sound of all the moments that came before: the laughter, the bird calls, and the wind.

Ten years ago, I might have called this weekend lame. There were no rock shows, no spotlights, no applause. There was nothing for the pages of Rolling Stone, of even The Sunday Times. But there were angels in the atmosphere, singing a distant chorus for the patient heart, and the careful listener.