Speaking of autobiographies—another page-turner is Keith Richards’ Life. It’s a satirical title, considering all the blather about how he never should have survived it. Reading autobiographies have a way of flying celebrities back down to earth. They seem so larger than life and then I read about them and realize they’re just monkeys like the rest of us. I’m thinking back to another autobiography where John Lennon explained to a fanatic who camped for days in his yard, hoping to meet him:

“I’m just a guy who writes songs.”

The colorful blobs are my take on sound. Ever since The War of the Worlds, I think about the aliens in the story who could sense things we could not. What if we could smell colors and see sounds?