CARLTON FLETCHER: On Paul Simon, birds, Ulf Kirchdorfer … and being happy

“The magic’s in the music and the music’s in me.”

— The Lovin’ Spoonful

The BeeGees probably put it best, this thing about life and its capacity to shake us up with its abrupt changes: “When life gets like a jigsaw with the pieces out of place …”

And so it was one morning this week when I went through the machinations of making my morning cup of coffee at my “coffee bar.” It’s right by the kitchen window, and so I found myself staring out the window as the water heated up. I was drawn to a couple of birds that were flitting about, searching for those worms that they’re allegedly entitled to with their early appearances.

I’m amazed by birds. (And that’s one of the reasons I’m drawn to English professor/photographer extraordinaire Ulf Kirchdorfer’s work. He manages to catch birds in their habitat, offering the voyeur in us an up-close view of the timid creatures doing what they do. The other reason? He’s just a good dude.) Yes, they can fly without the need of any apparatus we must invent, and the colors of their feathers are some of the most beautiful of nature’s creations.

But birds are fascinating in their own right, even when they’re hopping about on the ground, looking for a juicy worm breakfast. I found myself mesmerized by this couple of very plain looking species (which I’m sure Ulf would have recognized at once), and by the time my coffee announced itself ready and the pair had flown the coop, so to speak, I found myself uplifted. It was if I’d had a surreptitious front-row seat for a performance no man’s theater could match.

Still, I found myself unable to shake the unease — we used to call it the mullygrubs — the little nicks and cuts that life inflicts and keeps tearing away the scabs so that they don’t quite ever go away. But just as the birds awakened in me a renewed appreciation for natural wonder, a chance road trip reminded me of the source of magic that has always had a healing impact on the damages to my soul.

While in Cordele, a strange series of happenstances led me into a venue that, like the maestro — Bob Cobb, not Claire Fox Hillard — provided a balm for Kramer’s burnt side, took me to the source of healing that has flowed through my life since I, like The Who’s Tommy, became aware.

I went into a music store in a small strip mall, and it turned out to be a wonderland. (I’ll write more about this venue later.) Thousands upon thousands of CDs — the vinyl and cassette tapes had all but sold out — were scattered around the crowded store, which would have provided an interesting episode of “Hoarders” — the show about fruitcakes who never throw anything away and allow their collections to pile up and take their lives over, while providing ample living space for roaches, rats and other assorted disgusting creatures.

But there was a method to the madness in this menagerie of musical mishmash. Here were obscure soundtracks … over there disco smashes from the ’70s … and in another section rock CDs by groups that had risen to “superstar” status mixed with obscurities that never elevated to the pantheon of One-Hit-Wonderdom. Talk about a kid in a proverbial candy store. … I could have spent the day in there and never grown tired.

The balm that I found in that little emporium? “The Essential Paul Simon.” Yes, I have albums, discs and whatever that contain most of the songs on this wonderful, two-CD, 36-song collection. But to hear them one after another … “American Tune,” “Me and Julio Down by the School Yard,” “Mother and Child Reunion,” “The Obvious Child,” “Duncan,” “Slip Slidin’ Away,” “50 Ways to Leave Your Lover,” “Born in Puerto Rico,” “Late in the Evening,” “Hearts and Bones,” “You Can Call Me Al,” the awe- (and tear- … for me) inspiring “Father and Daughter” and on and on and on.

Yes, some of Simon’s greatest work was with his angel-voiced partner Art Garfunkel, but Simon’s solo stuff secures his place as one of the top three or four American singer/songwriters ever.

As for me … well, I found myself reinvigorated, renewed, aware once again of the beauty that’s in this world. And whether it’s supplied by the winged creatures outdoors or the miraculous individual whose songwriting and singing skills never fail to touch me, I’m reminded of how fortunate I am — we all are — to live in a world where such beauty exists.