I read One Hundred Years Of Solitude many years ago, all I can recall of it is a retired soldier in an attic room painstakingly constructing tiny, intricate goldfish. I can't remember if the goldfish were made of silver or gold, why the man made goldfish, just that he was content making goldfish, it seemed as good a thing to do as any other thing. I know a lot of other things happened in that book, generations passed, magic intervened, war, love, I know these things because others have talked about them, I only really recall the man who made the goldfish.
I think of the man in the attic making goldfish quite often. I really do. At the moment I am, as we say in the music business, between engagements. Frankly I have no idea what I want to do, how to find the energy to start anew in a new city when I do decide. I find myself wondering what is worth doing? Most jobs need doing, what does it matter which one I do? Clean the toilets or play the tunes, does it matter? Or sit in an attic making goldfish?
I remember the goldfish were beautiful.
I feel like I should apologize to Gabriel Garcia Marquez. He wrote a masterpiece and all I recall is the man in the attic making goldfish. I guess if I ever write a book and someone recalls one detail, contemplates that detail, for twenty years, I guess I'll be content. Right now I feel like a retired soldier, perhaps this blog is my attic, each post a tiny goldfish?