One of the outlets I inevitably turn to in times of ineffable pain is the world of visual art -- drawings, paintings, photography. I have never had even the slightest conceit that I have any talent in these fields; rather, it is for me a channel for feelings that otherwise seem to have no way to be expressed at all.
Whenever I encounter this emotional state, I recall my lifelong buddy, the late Ken Kelley, whose life a group of us intend to remember, and hopefully celebrate, this coming Saturday in San Francisco. In his last years, Ken created paintings, which he claimed the head of SF-Moma said were worthy of a showing.
(You had to know Ken to be able to evaluate the truthfulness of this claim.)
I'm not sure that this will make sense to anyone else, but when I reached that point in a particular day when I didn't know who to talk to, Ken always came to mind. He was the kind of friend I could call who was always happy to hear from me.
We all grow and change and migrate away from the center of our personal universes. As we do so, old friends are often the only anchors that can reassure us that no matter how far we venture out in this world, there's a place we need to be pulled back to.
As I've anticipated what I might be able to say or do in Ken's honor this Saturday, I've revisited these feelings. My only conclusion is that many things may have to remain left unsaid, in this life, because we really don't know how to express them.
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