"Art is the concrete artifact of faith and expectation, the realization of a world that would otherwise be little more than a veil of pointless consciousness stretched over a gulf of mystery." ~Stephen King, Duma Key These days I am looking for the beauty, no, the art, in the simplistic. Last night I looked down and saw my keys sitting on my desk, and thought, wow... if those keys could talk. I have a new car, and a new key for it. There is a key to my front door, and one to the back. A key that belonged to my dad, which hasn't been used in over 20 years, and a key to the middle console of a car I sold in 2006. That's a lot of keys, to a lot of things, in the past. Why do I do that? Why do I hold on so tight to little things like keys? In my desk is another key chain, which holds the keys, to everything I ever unlocked, in my entire lifetime... I kid you not, and yet when just about everything I owned was stolen from a temporary storage unit I owned a few years back, I grieved for about a day or so, then picked myself up and moved on because, after all, it was just stuff! Just stuff. And yet I still have all these keys. Hmmm. Maybe its all the art that the keys represent. You know... the art of living. The day to day, whether we are locking stuff in, or locking it out. Using the key to drive us away or to something. Did I ever blame the key, when there was a bad piece of mail in the mailbox? No. Why would I? And yet, If I had been unlucky enough to have owned one of those GM cars that couldn't handle heavy key chains, it could have been the death of me! You have no idea how it felt to find out about that fatal design flaw on the news. My being a sentimental fool could have caused my death. Sometimes you never realize who much impact the small things can have on your life.
Keys... beauty in the simplistic. "Every human being who is born into this universe is like a child who has been given a key to an infinite library, written in cyphers that are more or less obscure, arranged by a scheme... of which we can at first know nothing, other than that there does appear to be some scheme." ~Neal Stephenson, The Confusion