desert bloom

In the middle of the desert, life struggles on. It pushes and fights to survive against all the odds. It fights the heat, the scorching touch of the sun, the lack of water and protection from the elements. In a place where nothing should be able to make it, some things thrive in spite of it all. In the middle of a wasteland, surrounded by nothing but dry cracked earth and rocks, under the ceaseless rays of light, a plant grows. It may not be as visually pleasing as a lush rainforest. It may not be as impressive as the great redwood forests. But it is stronger than they are, more determined. It shouldn't grow, shouldn't bloom, shouldn't exist. But it doesn't care, and struggles on. Like a flower growing through a crack in the pavement, it says "i know i shouldn't be here, but here i am, and here i shall stay." It may be out of place, and it may have the world against it, but it sets aside fear and simply is. It wants to live, so it does. What greater inspiration can there be?

The Old Crooner

He sits in a little old wrought iron chair, black with intricate, French-inspired design work. He's sipping out of a paper bag, a drink by the same name of the street he's on. He's sitting, and watching. Watching life whizz by him, wondering why his is standing still. His hands are dirty, his clothes worn and his face drawn. He looks in need of sleep. He asks a passing young couple for some change, they give him a dollar but he sees the judgement in their eyes. He straightens his old cabbie hat and sits up a bit.

On the corner, a band starts to set up for an evening show as the street lights flicker on. The neons spring to life all around him. The band starts to play…jazz, lively, just like the city. The piano beckons, the trumpet tempts, the sax calls his name. He gets up and starts to leave…stops, turns back. He starts walking toward the trio of sharply dressed men. He stands and watches among the crowd that's forming. His toes tap quietly on the sidewalk, his hand beating lightly against his thigh, keeping the rhythm. Five or six songs pass. 

The final tune starts, and his breath catches in his throat. He swallows quickly as a tear springs to his eye. It's a song he knows well, one that speaks to his heart. This song is meant to be sung, not just played, he thinks. He pauses a moment, considering his options. He sets down the bottle in his hand, and steps forward. He stands in-between the band and the semi-circled audience. Everyone stares. He begins to sing, right on cue. The men in the band smile and continue on, a little more lively now. The man sings with such emotion, such an obvious understanding of the lyrics. The music ends, everyone applauds. He tips his hat, first to the crowd, then to the band, and starts to walk away. 

"Hey, Pops! Wait a minute man!" calls the trumpet player. The man stops, and walks back to them. 

"That's some voice you got there, old man. How come I ain't seen you out here crooning' before?" asks the pianist. 

"Well, thank you boys. But I don't perform…not anymore. I used to, but that was a different life. Hell, that was a different world." the man responds, allowing a slight sadness into his voice.

"Say, how did you even know that song, anyways? Don't nobody play that no more! We only know it 'cause my daddy used to put the record on. But even then, no one else knew it," the trumpet player says.

"Well…I…I wrote that song, son. A long time ago, back when I was like you. I was in a band then…we used to kill 'em! We'd have Bourbon street goin' so loud!" he laughs at the memory, and continues, "But that was years ago, back when I knew what mattered. We were gonna big, man! The whole damn world was gonna know who we were! But then this shit came into my life…" He looks angrily at the bottle shaped paper bag at his feet, "I messed it all up. Everyone would be playing our songs, but I didn't care. All I cared about was where my next drink was coming from. I could have been the King of New Orleans, and I gave it up for that." A tear or two slip from the old man's eyes.

The band members look at each other, surprise in their eyes. They can't believe that the beaten down man they're looking at is THAT man…that legend! How can it be?! The pianist starts to speak as he looks back toward a man they all worship…

"Say, man, why don't you come back down here again and…." he trails off as his eyes finally reach the spot where his hero had been standing…it's empty. The man is gone. All that they can see of him is a dark shadow under a far streetlight. The wind picks up for a moment, and an empty glass bottles rattles as it rolls into the street. 

Of Mice and Metamorphosis

You changed. I've watched it happen, sitting silently on the sidelines, growing concerned and fearful. I watched you change into something I never thought you would be. You were once the most optimistic person I knew. You kept my afloat in the roughest of waters, always sure things would be good again. You never lost your hope, your smile. You were always the one laughing, always the one cheering those around you, healing even the deepest of hurts. So full of life and joy, so open, so warm. I look at you know and can barely see the shadow of that sweet, confident, buoyant boy. I can't stand the man you've become. All you do is hate. You've become so negative and hurtful. You've lost your compassion and now only look down upon those around you. A suffering friend now gets only the response of "at least it isn't me" out of you. You have no hope, and see only ugliness. You hurt the people you once would have given anything for, but more so you hurt yourself. Then you use your self-inflicted wounds to fuel your anger, your distrust, your indifference toward everything. What happened to you? How did that boy grow into this man?

I've changed. I'm not sure how or when, but I think it's called growing up. I've shed the timid, lost child and become the woman I always longed to someday be. I've found contentment in the parts of myself I once viewed as bad. I no longer try to fit in, but have learned to embrace what i've aways been. I see the world around me so much differently now...there's more beauty than I ever knew. Even in darkness and solitude, there is peace, quiet, comfort. Where once I saw a useless weed damaging the sidewalk, I now see the hopeful flower, growing in spite of everything. I used to keep everything so deeply inside and shun those around me, and now I crave the comfort of others....I feel the joy brought by connections, even the most fleeting ones. I was a girl that hadn't found her voice, never spoke a word, that has changed into a woman singing at every chance.

We've traded places, you and I. Both grown from children to adults. In a few short years we came together, got lost in the big bad world. Along the way, we lost each other as well. Somewhere one of us turned off. Did you take this new path of discontent and jaded pessimism? Or was it I that wandered off, frolicking into the sunny open fields of "life is beautiful"? Where did our hands come apart? Why didn't we notice the other was gone?