Black and White

I am not a very good at writing. I am not eloquent. I am not to the point. I am not very clear most of the time. Maybe thats why I write. Because I like imperfections. Imperfections can be beautiful. What may seem pedestrian to some may be a beautiful picture or phrase to someone else. A missed note, a slip of the tongue, a scar.

There are no perfect circles. That always seemed odd to me. I wanted there to be perfect circles when I was younger. I tried to draw them. I could get close but most of the time those circles were traced with a cup. I don't know why I wanted there to be perfect circles so bad. My math teacher in 11th grade, Mr. Mangers, once drew the most perfect circle I have ever seen right before class started. He said it was an accident. It was an awesome accident. We oohed and ahhed and some of us took pictures on our phones.

I used to listen to a saxophonist named Eric Alexander. He had a brilliantly warm and powerful tone. But as I grew up I began to notice something about his playing that always irked me. It was something I couldn't put my finger on until recently.

Eric doesn't miss a single change.

Everything is calculated. There was nothing that stood out to me because it all started to sound the same. There wasn't enough emotion in his playing. It felt static.

Things that are perfect seem fake to me most of the time. Because nothings really perfect, right? If something were perfect however, wouldn't that make it stand out? Mr. Mangers' circle definitely did. Mother Teresa's love did. The sacrifices of the men who gave their lives on the beaches of Normandy did. What if this was all pointing to something? What if I were to say they were pointing to, not something, but someone? Someone that wasn't static. Or a circle.

Blake