Middle of the night, sound asleep, Frank Sinatra suddenly echoes out of the living room. Unless the cats have suddenly gained the ability to tell Siri to turn on the music and play Frankie, there wasn’t really any explanation. It was the night before my dad’s celebration of life and here was some sort of mystery. I decided it was a dad trickster moment. He never wanted a big deal made about anything, and certainly not around his passing, yet maybe he just wanted to wake us up and remind us. Or perhaps something happened that Siri interpreted as Play Frank Sinatra. Whatever-which-way I wanted to think about it, there was the start to the day (although I definitely went back to sleep for a few hours after the “Summer Wind” faded out).

It did get me thinking about how narratives thread our lives together. The stories we tell ourselves and each other about why things happen or even who people are. As I talked to his friends throughout the day out on the patio where the celebration was held and the Santa Ana’s kicked up some wind so the artwork we’d put up for folx to look at and take home spun and fluttered, I understood how important it was to share stories with each other. The ones of him at his Silver Sneakers class where they’d watch out for each other, would tell my dad when he got wobbly that they’d catch him if he fell. In the telling, as we all stood surrounded by photos of him throughout his life and the artwork he created, he came to life again. His beloved Silver Sneakers teacher telling tales, the rest of us nodding; his golf buddy, very quiet but yet present; friends from his days in Pasadena marveling at his talent and talking about how he used to send them his latest collage with a note to just throw it away after they’d looked at it. (As if. He sent me those same notes.)

The stories. I realize as a taleTeller myself that the line between real and imagined is blurred, which is often a blessing. When I dive deeper into any personality I’ve become besotted with, whether now-musical or always-authors, I absolutely root around for details on their “lives.” I mean, I put that in quotes because they are the pictures presented out into the world that only have a glancing connection to their breathing, functioning, day-to-day selves. Yet the stories are intoxicating. Back-in-the-day I read every word about my crushes and felt righteously annoyed if they were slighted or heady with happiness when they did something sentimental. Stories all, but they were my formative years and the magic was in the weaving. Now, having been a part of the machinery that makes a public persona appear a certain way, I know the tricks. Yet still, on a human level, I can feel myself susceptible to slipping through the looking glass into a narrative that may be based on reality yet is also spun with some shiny gloss. I don’t mind visiting, telling cynicism to stop at the door, and stepping through with eyes a bit wider knowing I can be amazed but don’t need to be bound up thinking it’s all truth.

I guess now I’m really OK with the stories being just that. The magic made is through the creation. Is this music moving me? Why? (who cares really, it just is.) Is this book disappearing me into its story? How? (who cares really, it just is.) For so long I worked in the analytical, felt the responsibility to explain the whys and hows because that was intellectually what was asked of me (along with a dose of manipulation to bring the thing to life so it was worth paying attention to). Last Sunday, watching people bring my dad to life through stories, through their curiosity about his art, I appreciated the him they carried with them. Who he was and continues to be for us all.

There was a book out for his friends to write their thoughts. People wrote to him in the present tense: “You are wonderful.” “You make me smile.” “You are my favorite guy.” “You are fun.” My heart warmed and grew twelve sizes reading it all because there he was. He lives. Still vibrant. Full stop.

To see a gallery of his work, click here on my website. All the prints are available with proceeds going to The Art of Elysium. Information on all that included on the page.