Some of my first memories of being alive are of me dancing. Of course our home was always filled with music. Music being created, music be rehearsed, or music being played.  It wasn't hard to find something to wiggle too, even at a small age. My father always got such a kick out of me twirling around and doing my toddler shimmy.  Later, it was a ten-year-old shimmy to bands like Michael Jackson, the Grease Soundtrack, and KISS albums and around 18-years-old it floated over to pop and rap bands like  Run-D-MC, Queen Latifah, and Lisa, Lisa and the Cult Jam - music Paul wouldn't have touched with a ten foot pole on his own, but instead found himself laughing and blurting out an odd section of an absurd lyric, a time or two in laughter, as he watched me swing and bob my head around.  He always found it thoroughly amusing, and I was pleased that I could put him it that space so quickly.  We definitely could keep each other entertained.

    Paul was surprisingly tolerant of our differences in musical taste.  He would however stop me from time to time to make me sit in front of the record or tape player and listen to music with him, or rather sections of music.  I can hear him right now, "Moo-Moo can you hear that?"  Sometimes, I honestly didn't know what he was talking about at first.  I'm sure he could read it on my face, so he'd keep on going until I could dissect out each rhythm, each instruments beat that was enchanting him.  "Did you HEAR the trumpet...now that beat goes up... the bass and one, down beat, UP..."  His hands would be waving and following a path in the song, or he'd have his hand on mine and clapping it.  His eyes often closed and sometimes elevating his voices at certain points.  Sometimes, he would just have to stop and run over to some blank sheet music and start writing...He was always nothing short of Inspired.

                            ~Michelle Lagos

"Art is an act of the Soul not the Intellect." Julia Cameron