Somehow, and I’m not exactly sure how, the impromptu pictures that J snaps when I think he’s half asleep on the couch or drumming or listening to hours and hours of music.. make me feel.. beautiful. It’s not that they are any different than if I’d set a timer, or if I took them myself.. but they are, in such a nice way.
J is so often so much in his own head. He thinks of music, always and forever, I see him writing and drumming and planning and listening all of the time, until sometimes I think jazz may trickle out his ears and stain his shirt collars. When I ask him, as I ask everyone, “What are you thinking?”.. the answer is almost always “music”. Not about it, not singing, not hearing.. but just thinking music. It is so far out of the realm of my sphere, my horizon, of knowing, that I can only smile, and nod, and kiss him on the forehead in an attempt to catch an errant beat on my lips or a cymbal stroke on my nose.
So, when I watch him play, it is akin to being inside his head. I get to hear what he hears, I get let into what is such an unknowable place for me. Sometimes, on the offhand chance when I ask him what he is thinking, he says “You.” And when he takes these pictures, with his eyes, with his fingers, when he adjusts the shutter and holds down the button, I get to see what he sees – me. And I get let in, cheesy smile and all, and love him even more.