There is (of course) the music, that is a given. Also, there are the "things", the trinkets, they play some role.
His personality is a mash of introvert and extrovert, conservative and liberal, traditionalist and avant garde. That is not to say that he is complicated, at least not in any conventional way. He is rather like a watercolor painting that has gotten a bit damp. The images are all there, easy to discern, they are just leaking into each other. Sad really...
He struggles, always has. Struggles against the feeling of dread, of impending doom. He struggles to create, creates and then is faced by the audacious, monumental lack of any inspiration in most of what he creates (there are fleeting bits of genius you should know.)
The talent, you will find, is not really in what he makes or does, but rather in what he finds (this is the trinket part.) It is in the odd sterling spoon, the chipped plate, the broken table, the out-modded lamp, the tatty chair, and most especially the "bad" art.
These are the things, they come to him, he ministers to them as Christ would to the blind man. He soothes their souls, he connects to them. They are the embodiment of what he can't find in others. The chipped plate is the caring of an unpleasant relative. The spoon, a long-dead aunt. Furniture, the father long absent. The art, well that is obvious, the sister betrayed.
A missionary, but not to the damned of the earth, but rather the damned of its occupants! He is good at it, silly fool.
So, what of the people you ask? They are there... He loves them, but in doing so holds the greater (or perhaps the lesser?)of himself back. It is not that he is uncaring, he is able to show the rudimentary symbols of human emotion with feeling. The real issue is deeper.
In daily life it is a game of cause and effect, common, unnoticed even, emotional slights to others. A sheltering of self from real connection. A distancing from family, friends, and self.
Faith you ask? That is funny! It is there, in spades. He believes!
"Christ is risen! Alleluia!" echoes form his numb lips not with fervor, no, rather with the sick sort of desperation of one who cannot forget that God is real. Watching, loving (from afar), judging, waiting, omnipotent but unwilling to share (for whatever reason.)
Faith, he links it to the trinkets as well. Surrounded by Icons, lighting candles, praying, working, singing. Things, not imbued with human traits as so common with iconography, but rather as a reminder of what it would be like to feel real emotion, to be a part.
The glowing Virgin, the Pascal Lamb, golden salver, tangible links to emotions long since squelched. The womb like darkness of tenabre, of the confessional. The shear drama of faith in and of itself, a weekly reminder of reality.
Family, well, there are several... The people of his childhood, mostly gone (or at least abandoned.) The people left who have moved through life with him, and those who he choose (and choose him) and those that he helped create.
The experiences he had with the missing ones shape what has continued after them. The echo of their demise is not summed in the common sentiments. No, they "are not just sleeping." They very well may "be with the Lord", but he fails to see the goodness in that for him. Most importantly, it "has not gotten easier" just different really.
They are gone, it caused a wound in him, but, unlike wounds of the flesh, these don't heal, they change, expand even.
The elegant shear of a knife's blade and it is 22 years since father spoke, the rough cut of stupid fate and 3 without sister, they tear at the flesh. Tear in quiet ways that limit emotion. The ones that come after sit upon the tight, deadened scar tissue left behind.
The observation? None yet... Like his uninspired creations, his experiences are not unusual. All life is imbued with loss, coping, struggles of faith, even self-loathing. Why should he be so less able to cope?
In hindsight, perhaps it is not a question of coping...
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