THE EMOTIONAL capacity of an artist probably compares favorably with that of a lunatic, and doubtless strikes members of both their families as exhilarating one moment, and exasperating the next.

I try not to claim to be an artist. Fearing the self-characterization too presumptuous, I line up for public categorization with the practitioners of other crafts. Whenever somebody accuses me of artistry, however, I am charmed, satisfied and honored beyond expression. So, I must suspect or need that identity, if secretly. I certainly am no scientist, nor any kind of businessman. I rarely look for a bottom line; I look instead for depth and breadth and often cannot describe or explain what I encountered in the search.

But I am blessed and cursed with the temperamental extremes that accompany whatever energies drive a man to seek fulfillment in endeavors more subjective than objective. I am impetuous, and I frequently ascribe gigantic, personal importance to serving impulsive needs that must seem absolutely frivolous when I try to communicate or share them. Still, I try to share them, especially those from which I draw pure, simple joy.

Two of the more ostensibly frivolous of my private passions are being at Gilgo Beach and listening to the Jim Small Band. I have been indulging the one for more than 35 years, the other for about 10. Mostly, when I tap into these life delicacies, I am alone, but I have tried to share my enjoyment for one or the other with my children, among others, and in the case of Colleen, to share both.

Three years ago, when our relationship was not yet as strained, distant, confusing and painful as it ultimately would become before it began to develop an adult form, I visited Colleen at SUNY-Plattsburgh. Hesitantly - I suppose because the change in state law regarding the drinking age had not yet been seamlessly matched by the change in custom and practice in all college towns - she asked if I would join her and some friends at a bar later that evening. She said she had discovered a band she wanted me to hear, the Perry Nunn Band, if I remember right. I said I would, but for some stupid reason I tried to hide how wonderful I felt that she had asked. Worse, I succeeded.

The place was typically crowded, but with great faces and broad smiles, and I was very pleasantly surprised by the reception I got from each of her girlfriends, as they shook my hand exuberantly and said, "You must be Colleen's dad! It's great to finally meet you!" Evidently, my daughter had revealed much more affection for me than to me, and the discovery gave me back some hope.

I told her that Perry Nunn was fabulous, and I meant it, but I also begged her to save me a Thursday night the next time she returned home. Every now and then, I confessed to her, on a Thursday night, when I am still

awake and everyone else in the house is not - and especially when I feel real good or real bad - I walk a half mile to the Dakota Rose and listen to the Jim Small Band perform an hour's set. I said that the band's relaxed precision and easy excellence had never failed to amaze and then restore me. I had sought them out when my youngest son was born and when my father died. Knowing how deeply she appreciated a wide range of music, but particularly fun and funky jazz and rock, I promised that she would feel the same. I swore it, guaranteed it.

The plan backfired, for a while.

Toward the end of last summer, on a weekday afternoon, when the parking lot at Gilgo Beach was nearly empty, I spied a bearded face - vaguely familiar but out of context - and suddenly realized it belonged to Phil Reilly, a singer-guitarist with Jim Small. I told him the story: that I'd brought Colleen to see and hear the band, and that they were so good, and she so overwhelmed, she felt I had belittled her.

"Sure," she had said, "I bring you to see Perry Nunn, so you blow my brains out with this. Great. Thanks a lot."

Reilly laughed. On an impulse, I guess, he yanked an acoustic guitar out of his trunk and sat atop a picnic table. We fiddled with songs I hadn't played or sung since my girls were little. Reilly said he had not been to Gilgo before - wasn't even sure why he drove there that day - but he liked the place. I said I understood, probably better than anyone.

During the winter recess last month, on a Thursday evening, Colleen asked if I thought I would be up late enough to take a walk to the Dakota Rose. I beamed. I said I would nap if I thought I required it.

Later, on the way, we chatted and marveled at what an unseasonably warm and beautiful day it had been, though windy. Colleen said, "Yeah, the ocean was beautiful today, the way the wind blew back the tops of the waves." She had driven to Gilgo Beach at about 2:30. I laughed. I told her I had been there, too, from around noon until just after one o'clock.

When the Jim Small Band had finished their first set, Reilly walked over to say that he and his wife had driven to Gilgo Beach at around 1:30; where was I?

I still laugh aloud when I think of it.