A Californian in Knoxville

Human whispers fill the theater, the sound of exotic crickets in a deserted meadow interrupted only by throat clearing and coughing. I f not for these sounds, eyes closed, one would never know the difference. The orchestra tunes up for the second movement the grand piano emerges from the floor, the maestro appears, shakes hands with the concert master and the pianist makes his way to the bench. The way he moves it is apparent he knows how to optimally position every inch of his body. He has the look of a high diver about to take the plunge. Bouncing the board to test the springs, taking a few steps backward; the pianist leans forward, touches the knob on the bench, leans back, addresses the keyboard with his hands, then adjusts again. With a nod to the maestro the movement is off and running. At first I do not notice the sound behind me as it is consistent with the rhythm of the music. The constant puffing of an elderly patron's portable oxygen tank, 3/4 time, even I could tell she is no longer on the beat. Hiss, two, three, hiss two three, hiss two three. "Adjust it", I think, the dichotomy of forced air against the music is driving me mad. Selfish! I chastise myself for prizing my experience over her ability to breathe, but others are beginning to notice too (not that shared selfishness makes it anymore acceptable). At last my mind relaxes, mezzo forte saves me, drowns it out. Pianissimo brings it right back. It is all I can hear. She of course does not, hard of hearing for sure, I imagine she has her hearing aids turned off for the concert. I fight to pull my compassionate self forth, happy she can get out, proud of her for it, empathetic to her plight. It's not working, with every hiss my shoulders tighten. The movement ends, I hardly notice, until the repressed coughs start to fly freely. She would go into respiratory distress the ambulance would be called, then it would really disrupt the experience. I reason with myself, this little annoyance is much better. I am here, a live performance, still the gentle tinkle of the piano is punctuated every third beat by the release of air. I am wedged between two smokers, I breathe through my mouth to avoid the smell of stale choking smell. The music swirls like a tornado then abruptly stops. Hiss two three, hiss two three. The featured pianist' body subtly groves as the syncopation increases, quickly giving way to a somber cello solo. Melodic chords flow simply now like water from a garden fountain: STOP make it STOP! ahhh forte covers the breathing. The 2nd movement concludes on tip toe. The third movement opens like a race, a marching band a circus fortissimo my body melts feeling the rapid fire marimba in my fingers.
Gershwin is after intermission. The pianist does not return nor does the couple sitting next to me. I notice even the exit signs of the restored theater are period style with curls on the ends of each letter. The orchestra tunes again the crickets subside, everyone waits for the next piece as for the appearance of an old friend at the airport. Gershwin's American in Paris, the Audrey Hepburn personified anthem for anyone who has ever wanted to reinvent herself. The notes prance across the stage, the anticipated bells and whistles rolling over the audience like a warm blanket one might curl up with while watching TV, not so much for warmth but for it's familiarity and comfort. The music begs you to engage, "tap your feet", "nod your head", "hum along under your breathe" "don't just sit there". I hear it calling. I feel like a little girl in a spinny skirt you know the kind that flows in a perfect circle when you twirl. Spinny skirt, open field, cloudless sky, warm breeze, round and round I twirl. Ding, Clang (hiss). "HEY world its me!" Fully alive in every positive characteristic molded to my individual personality and blissfully unaware of all the others. "Its me", I shout to the birds, trees, the breeze, God, the grass and to me; an introduction of my diluted adult self to me. "LETS PLAY" Cue slinky clarinets and plodding percussion. Round and round and round I twirl, the flutes run so fast I fall down my head swimming, laughing for the mere joy of being. Trumpets roll me down a hill, breathless I arrive, pianissimo at the bottom. I catch my breathe stand up and start to swing, no partner needed, inhibitions extinguished, no one here to see. I wore polka dots tonight to commemorate this frivolity, speckled pink on black. When the last applause had faded and I was sure there was to be no encore, I waded into the happy audience flowing towards the doors. An elderly man was half listening to his wife relive a Parisian vacation, responding in his stereotypic southern drawl, "only Paris I been to is Paris TN". Not justifying the comment with a response, she turned to me, "you come by yourself?" she asked, "yes I did" I respond. "Good for you"she smiles, looking back at her husband. At home in my living room I move the coffee table to see how it spins. \n",1]
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Gershwin follows the intermission. The pianist does not return nor does the couple sitting next to me. I notice even the exit signs of the restored theater are period style with curls on the ends of each letter. The orchestra tunes again the crickets subside, everyone waits for the next piece as for the appearance of an old friend at the airport after a substantial seperation. Gershwin's American in Paris, the Audrey Hepburn personified anthem for anyone who has ever wanted to reinvent herself. The notes prance across the stage, the anticipated bells and whistles rolling over the audience like a warm blanket one might curl up with while watching TV, not so much for warmth but for it's familiarity and comfort. The music begs you to engage, "tap your feet", "nod your head", "hum along under your breathe" "don't just sit there". I hear it calling. I feel like a little girl in a spinny skirt you know the kind that flows in a perfect circle when you twirl. Spinny skirt, open field, cloudless sky, warm breeze, round and round I twirl. Ding, Clang (hiss). "HEY world its me!" Fully alive in every positive characteristic molded to my individual personality and blissfully unaware of all the others. "Its me", I shout to the birds, trees, the breeze, God, the grass and to me; an introduction of my diluted adult self to me. "LETS PLAY" Cue slinky clarinets and plodding percussion. Round and round and round I twirl, the flutes run so fast I fall down, my head swimming, laughing for the mere joy of being. Trumpets roll me down a hill, breathless I arrive, pianissimo at the bottom. I catch my breath stand up and start to swing, no partner needed, inhibitions extinguished, no one here to see. I wore polka dots tonight to commemorate this frivolity, speckled pink on black. When the last applause had faded and I was sure there an encore was not forthcoming, I waded into the happy audience flowing towards the doors. An elderly man was half listening to his wife relive a Parisian vacation, responding in his stereotypic southern drawl, "only Paris I been to is Paris TN". Not justifying the comment with a response, she turned to me, "you come by yourself?" she asked, "yes I did" I respond. "Good for you", she smiles, looking back at her husband. At home in my living room I move the coffee table to see how the polka dots spin.

Comfort

Rock me softly with your words
The patterns of your sounds fresh in my ears lulling me to sleep
The sound of your familiar voice, security, safety and love.
All I need is to hear you and I know my world is right.
All I need is to listen and soon my tears will subside.
The words will be my own in just a few months more
or a new voice emerge
As a gift so you will know what a beautiful thing you have done.

Don't Just Sit There!

A poem swells like the ocean tide, rushing in,
the emotion fills you like the power of a first kiss,
soft, gentle, strong,
tenitive excitement giving voice
to the mundane brilliance we pass by on the street
the moments, the miracles trodden under our feet.
Sure you can turn on the TV prop up your feet,
rest your head on a throw pillow,
forget what you've seen.
The lessons the longing let it all go
who needs to make sense of the tide as it flows.
NO
Pick up your pen, be it blue be it pink.
Categorize, catalog sort it all out you.
You will need it again. The record keeps spinning until you give in.
Let the rhythm grab you shake you alive
God forbid you let life pass you by.