Pete and I watched August Rush a couple of weeks ago. We both thought it was grand. Of course, whenever a movie has British or Irish actors, we're pretty happy. [I'm guessing I'd exclude the Mr. Bean movies from that statement, although I'll admit I've never seen one.]
This is not a movie review, however, but the genesis of this post stems from the movie. The lead character hears music in everything. And I mean everything.
A few days ago, I was sitting outside, taking a break from my battle with the pervasive and invasive poison oak, and I tried to hear the music. The wind was blowing, as it often does around this here parts. I could hear the traffic from Highway 101. Rather than hear cars though, I thought I could hear the waves from an ocean. The wind chimes up the hill were clinking just a tad. The mutton-head's tags on her collar were clanking loudly and than softly, depending on the distance I had thrown the ball. Crazy Ed was banging on his metal drum, as the turkeys gobbled in time to it. The sweeper's tail whooshed water up onto the concrete surrounding the pool.
A symphony of urban, suburban and natural making was there, just waiting for someone to listen to its performance. I gave it a standing ovation as I went back to the battle of taming a nature not inclined to be tamed.
If my life has a soundtrack, and it's not one of Bruce's making, then that masterpiece may very well be it.