Symphony Rising

Among the many, out of the cacophony, a symphony rising. A symphony of one.

Strong and beautiful, moving and elegant, rising and falling like the beating of a heart, like the breathing of some giant living being. For a few sacred moments, we were lucky enough to lend an ear, to hold a bow, to strike a chord, to be enveloped in the rhythm, to sing with all of our hearts.

And then the final notes are struck--they are always written in, whether we want to see them or not. Sometimes as beautiful and dashing as the rest of the movement; sometimes as dissonant chords, off beat and off time, out of place, premature. Sudden and abrupt, they linger in the air and on the walls for several moments, frozen in time, suspended in space and disbelief.

And then they fall, crashing to the ground like heavy, unrelenting rain.

And then I'm left to my own devices. Kneeling in an empty chapel, singing to the sound of my own deafening silence--the futile beating of my bleeding heart, the frantic falling of my feet, my voice, empty, hollow, breaking. My chest is open and my body aches, choking and gasping for air. Exposed and naked, desolate and alone.

What am I supposed to do with all these leftover feelings of you?
I am full of hollow echoes and empty voices--voices of the dead ringing in my head--what can I say that hasn't already been said? Poems to be read, flowers by your head... what am I supposed to do?

Burn the chapel, break the strings; it's all I can do not to scream.

And now I'm supposed to rebuild. Survive. Continue.

And the cacophony drones on, oblivious, enveloping all distinguishable sounds: no melody, no symphony, no song. A few were lucky--I was lucky--to hear what used to be. But now we hear it no more. And we never will again. Not within these walls.

Stay with Me

No, thanks.
I got it.
It's okay.
I'm fine.
It's all good.
I'm just tired.
I don't need any help.
I can do this by myself.
I used to it.

The Choice

Last night I gave up my dream. I examined all options and all possibility, every chance and every opportunity. They said there was no way I could succeed and thus no reason for me to continue. So I threw in the towel and walked away.

I awoke in a cold sweat--heavy breathing, mind racing; the towel still in my hand.

March Madness

The following is a homework assignment that I wrote for a class.

"The term “billion” tends to be thrown around a lot these days: billions of years, billions of people, billions of dollars—especially dollars. The U.S. government has become quite chummy with the term and sum in recent times, spending billions of greenbacks with ease. However this March, the term became a household phrase once again for millions of sports fans around the nation.

"As if March Madness wasn’t already a huge deal in the sports realm, it became even bigger this month when investor Warren Buffett offered $1 billion dollars to anyone who could successfully fill out a perfect bracket.

"Until Buffett’s generous offer, for me, March Madness was just a phrase that was excessively thrown around on ESPN several weeks before baseball season came out of hibernation. Basketball is not my favorite sport, especially college hoops concerning large universities that I could care less about. But it’s not everyday you get a shot at a billion dollars for predicting the outcome of a few basketball games. So I signed up and joined the other ten million hopefuls around the nation seeking to win the big billion.

"The art of filling out a tournament bracket has become a science in of itself, with websites, TV, and radio programming dedicated to strategy and educated guessing. Casual sports fan that I am, I wrote up my bracket in five minutes by the seat of my pants. Who knows? Maybe I’ll get lucky. After all, in 2011 NFL quarterback Matt Hasselbeck’s five-year-old son nearly pulled it off, maintain perfection into the third round and placing in the top 100 brackets out of 6 million that year. Young Hasselbeck made his picks based on the look of the schools’ mascots.

"What are the actual odds of winning it big with a blind pick? Probably like trying to predict word for word the contents of a book before the author writes it. A professor from DePaul University did the math: it’s roughly 1 in 9.2 quintillion (that’s 18 zeros). The odds are slightly better if you know anything about college basketball, which I don’t. I would mathematically have a better chance of winning the lottery, being struck by lightning, or playing professional basketball myself than receiving the golden check from Mr. Buffett. Maybe Warren is smarter than we thought.

"Needless to say, it is no surprise that it’s never been done: the world has yet to see a perfect bracket. This year, with upsets by Harvard, Dayton, Stanford and North Dakota State, the overwhelming majority of potential perfect brackets were destroyed in the first round—including mine.

"At the end of the day, the same ten million fans (including myself) will mostly like be right back in the same spot next March: glued to laptops and TV sets, rooting for their teams and filling their brackets. Putting aside all the numbers and the predictions and the upsets, ultimately we all just want to believe that today could be somebody’s lucky day. It’s worth a shot."

Wanderlust

Pack your things, descend the mountain, fall back to earth. The hunt is over, the quest is finished, the adventure is done; it's time to go home. Wash your face, clean your clothes, mend your wounds. Back to the village, to familiar faces and worn footpaths, to routine and tradition. Return the hammer to the nail, the pen to the paper, the plow to the field. Family, friends, familiarity; sunrise, sunset, sunrise, sunset. Again and again. But it's not enough.

Boots to fresh earth, rains crashing against naked heads, burdens riding weary shoulders, winds through unkempt hair, suns against broad backs, strong and sure. The world ahead, nothing else matters.

Stress in the eyes, coffee in hand, cars, people, going, moving, clients, bosses, typing, working, slaving, surviving, dreaming--dreaming. Back to the woods, back to the mountains, to danger and uncertainty, unknown and impossible; back to legend and lore, myth and mystery. Anything can happen.

The window calls, the horizon beckons, the eagle screams overhead.

Be here.

The sun never stops, rising and falling like the tide.

Longing, yearning, wishing.
Dreaming.

But it's not enough.

headless

looking, admiring, searching. gliding over blossoms, almost touching, open and extended
colors and shapes, sprouting, standing, spinning in the breeze, delicate and fragile. scattered on the soil, hanging from leaves, shimmering in the sun, beauty for one, food for another
sealed shut, waiting for spring, thorns for distance, distaste for protection, only revealing within in anticipation of warmth. reaching, bending, waiting
headless, selected and chosen for radiance and beauty to sit behind glass, stand tall in ceramics, or fulfilling emotion and commitment with ink and paper. headless, decapitated, half buried, plucked on a whim, tossed and trampled

insignificant, isolated on the fringes, tempting weeds, separated and alone
Clarity.

pang of certainty
waves of doubt, winds blow, weeds grow, rain stops

hands to nourish, hearts to cherish, home to dwell

picked, not plucked, adopted, not abandoned, blooming, not headless

From Me to You

She begins slowly with a few soft lines sketched in the middle of empty space in a lifeless universe. Steady motion produces more lines, giving way to distinct shapes. Talent and effort becomes apparent as lines and shapes mature into images, characters living and breathing within a real space, within another life, another world. The hand moves as the mind sees, as she sees so the page reveals, transcoded from imagination to ink to the best of her ability. The final touches, an explosion of vibrant color completes the journey from mental image to physical snapshot.

He begins slowly as well, a few lines and strokes residing between lines on a page. He too aims to paint his imagination, he too looks to bring images to life and create anew within empty space. However, his approach is subtle and his method discreet. Many miss it upon first glance. The hand moves as the mind sees, as he sees so the page reveals, transcoded from imagination to ink to the best of his ability. But there are no images on his page, no pictures, no worlds, no life. Only words. Only words that spew color and imagination, only words that carry depth and meaning from his mind to any reader willing to see it and any reader willing to digest it. An explosion of vision and purpose, leaping off the page and coming to rest with anyone who is brave enough to light the fuse, one spark to another.

She draws. He writes. She sings, he paints, she dances, he plays, they live and we all create. From thought to expression, imagination to realization, artist to viewer, from me to you.