For some it is "the butcher, the baker, the candle stick maker", but for moi, the artsy loft dweller, it is "the decorator, the photographer, the musician and the film maker"
Every night I come home to the same driveway, the same parking spot, the same pine trees, the same iron fire stairs. But last week, I drove in to a different view. An antlered deer head was mounted to the pine tree and underneath stood four sullen rock stars straight out of the sixties (running black eye liner, pale faces, long oily hair, heroin-thin and wearing paisley).
Our building photo artist was doing a shoot. "You're looking at rock stars", he told me. I took a hard look. I couldn't tell if they were famous rockers that I ought to be star struck by, or if he meant soon-to-be stars (after his photos shot them to the top). So I shrugged and said "hi rock stars" and trudged up the stairs.
There should be a special word for the happiness that incongruity can bring. That deer head just struck my silly bone. I couldn't wipe the smile off my face. It was all gone when I came back out, the rock stars, the deer head, the photo shoot. It was just me, my parking space and the tree, back to earth.