In my college days I read Henry Miller. Miller’s works influenced my life, songwriting, photography and compositional practice. Surprisingly to me I did not understand most of what Miller had written down on the page. I read most or not all of the pages that he had written. Still, understanding the narrative of his work eluded me. The pages became a score of music from his words, images, sounds and senses. Even though most of his thoughts were lost to me. The way he formed a sentence and bridged words into life became a nexus of ideas.
A couple of years ago I expatriated my collection of Miller books. It seems just; due to the fact that his works got booted across the pound a couple years before being published in the U.S. I haven’t even touched the books in 15 plus years but to move them from one home to the next. I miss them. I miss knowing that they are mine and that they are in my home. I miss the feeling and history I got from those pages.
Miller’s works were combination of a whore, monk and artist. The metamorphoses of his life seemed to garner a bridge to a madman or saint. Either way Miller’s works were inspirational with a key to life. Even if that key got you into the door at the fight club.
