A Riff on Passion

Passion.

That word.

That feeling.

Seeing someone playing music with passion. Eyes closed, lips moving, body in rhythm. To watch someone play the sax or the harmonica - ecstasy! Singing with passion; is there any greater joy than to watch someone singing for the sheer release of it? Actually seeing them let it all hang out in their voice. Even when singing to themselves, the soul is bare in their passionate voices.

Any art made with passion feeds my soul. From Pollack to Van Gogh, Nan Golden to Ansel Adams, Degas to Annie Liebovitz... from my 5 year old niece to the guy on the train who draws profiles of his fellow passengers.

Poetry. Literature. Even an irreverent bit of erotica. The written word that has a voice of it's own. That writing which takes on a life separate from the page, lodged in the imagination of the reader.

Listening to someone speaking with passion... I don't usually care what they talk about. Oh, you say you are really excited about the two new varieties of seaweed you've found that grow off the southern tip of Iceland? Well, tell me why that is... I'll listen for a while just to hear that thing that happens to the voice when it's infused with passion.

I'll listen and I will jones for more.

I'll listen and get excited.