My grandfather was a great harmonica player. As a traditional, stoic man, he kept the best of himself...to himself. When I first heard him play his harmonica, it was both perplexing and heartbreaking. Perplexing because he could not express the best, the worst, the mundane...except vicariously through the vibrating sounds of his harmonica. That soulful sound. I'll never forget. He couldn't share the great joys of his life. Nor his great sorrows. Heartbreaking because I knew I'd never be privy to the richest part of his life.
And I wanted to know what broke his heart. More than what brings great joy and happiness, the things that bend or break a person's heart reveals the makings of their soul.
This venue is my harmonica. Candidly I express under the cloak of anonymity what stirs my heart and makes me human.
This is my search for love in squalor.
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