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Thursday, February 13, 2003

And If the Music Starts Before I Get There...

Spring has arrived and I missed her quiet entrance. Her entourage chose to first visit the music building – stopping somewhere between the choral and the trumpeter. Perhaps she wanted to listen quietly before the crowds stormed about her with cameras and borrowed quotes proclaiming her magnificence. Perhaps she was searching for inspiration between the notes. However, she is now here and will not be able to maintain solace much longer.

Today brought the sunbeams so intense that it made me question why I was wearing my habitual black scarf. It lit up our sole downtown street with such intensity that I suddenly realized I had never really looked at the buildings before and I’ve lived here all my life. Some are European styled with weak green shutters reminding me of southern France. Others have oversized windows like a crowed mantle place recalling colonial America. Then there are ugly modernist facades thrown between the cracks of our forgotten history. The sun was so intense that it seemed to erase the grime of time past and my cheeks began to forget the meaning of winter’s chill.

Upon my return to the library, I heard an ancient motor above my head. I glanced up and the was a 1930’s era biplane as red as midsummer field of strawberries, but no one else seemed to see or hear anything unusual. An apparition of my grandparents’ generation was above my head as my generation kept their noses to the grind. Bumping shoulders with the crowd, I lowered my eyes while questioning their blinders until I glanced at my feet and found shriveled squirrel - most likely it was unable to find shelter during one of Winter's vicious storms and now it lay before me with skin pulled so taut that my eye could trace each and every bone. Once again here was death before me, but again the crowd saw nothing unusual.

My grandfather could feed squirrels. He would pour peanuts into his palm and they would come one by one and pull them from his hands. I tried once, but I must have been too young and the squirrels would only stare from afar. My grandfather had the knack, however, and they would always come. Years later I discovered that he had trained one single squirrel. I had mistakened that this one squirrel was actually a whole lot of squirrels, but somehow - even with this misunderstanding - the magic lives on.

The airplane then turned and circled over campus once again – death at my feet and generations circling overhead. The crowd still presses close, blinded to life’s harshness but also life’s solemn beauty, but these I must see. It was never a choice. Something in me is programmed to stare in the face of mystery and I can escape neither the soaring nor the heartache, so once again I escape silently into these brick halls with a last glance towards the Spring’s glistening on a blushing piece of tin.



This is it folks – the ending of one stage and a beginning of another.

I’ve been debating closing down shop and have decided it is for the best. I have begun writing in the old method again – with pen and inkwell – and I feel like this is the right method for now. It has been fun while it lasted and maybe I will begin again one day. I’ll still be around. Please feel free to email and I’ll try to continue haunting all of your various blogs and journals. If you are desperate to continue reading posts, I do have a journal on my
main site that I try to update about once a month.

Thanks for stopping in so frequently and for responding so kindly. Hopefully, we shall meet again.

Farewell.


posted by Jamie 4:01 PM

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