Ponderings

How many dreams have we given up as we grew up?  Simple dreams like what you wanted to be when you grew up.  Once I became taller then 4' 7" and could no longer be a jockey (no matter that I barely rode before) or when I realized that the majority of professional dancers have been learning how to do so since they were in elementary school and I just realized I would like to be one of the solid gold dancers on TV in middle school.  And, really, I knew the money isn't there for dance lessons.  Or when I realized that I pass out at the sight of blood so the veterinarian dream isn't going to pan out either.

So then I dreamed of the ivory tower, stacks of books and being surrounded by knowledge.  Researching, writing & publishing brilliance, right? Then reality intrudes of day to day living expenses and frankly, unused knowledge really isn't my bag.  Why talk about things when I could go and see how they actually work in real life.

I guess that is how I ended up on this path to be a social worker.  I just hope nobody bleeds on me.

Why not so tall?

Some nights when I am not feeling well I want to be six again.  I want to be wrapped up in blankets and snuggled with pillows.  I want the weight of someone beside me on the bed or couch and hear their voice as they tell me a story.

I always seem to want this the most when I am alone.  My cat only talks so much.

I would like to hear a story of someone small who grew very very tall.  Thin as can be they, bow and sway with each breeze.  I like the rhyme and rhythm.  Their cadence would be melodic and softly dramatic when needed so I can drift off into sleep.

Small pointed feet dug sharply into the ground so the swaying limbs would not give way.  Long strong hands held on to the gables of the house the child had grown too tall for.

"Can you fold up small?"  Called the child's aunt as the mother lay weeping in the door way.

"Why would I be small, when I can be so tall?" Asked the child in confusion.

Word Disco

I fell asleep reading last night.  Which is highly unusual. The best way normally to keep me from sleeping is reading.  I am currently reading one of those books that seems to have a larger introduction then it does actual book.  I didn't make it through the intro, but I did dream.

Words danced in my head last night. Shimmying around and gyrating their vowels. There was an old fashioned disco in my head with a square patterned floor that lit up when the spindly word feet hit them.  There was a disco ball spinning above, but I was informed that it was actually a period.  There were also disco exclamation points, commas, semi-colons and a question mark.  The question mark kept moving mysteriously about the ceiling.  Randomly appearing brightly lit and flashing neon.  Everybody grooved with anybody. I bebopped alone while you stared longingly at we. 

In my head, I danced with words.  Shimmying and gyrating we moved around the lit up floor as the music gave us a iambic pentameter beat.  I watched myself dissolve from human flesh to written type.  I tumbled apart into all the words that make me up.  My name, desires, wants, needs, fears, memories and anything that I have touched.  I flooded that dance floor with me.  It was packed tight and we danced on.  Falling apart never felt so good.

I woke up this morning sore and cotton mouthed.  I can hear pieces of myself still rattling around in my head.  The bits that haven't woken up yet.  Still lost in the post-dance sleep of exhaustion.  I brushed my teeth extra carefully, so I didn't accidentally wash bits of me out.  They will wake up, find their spaces and fit themselves back in.  The puzzle that is me will be complete again. 

Cloud Singer

What happens to the people we don't see?  The ones society pretends doesn't exist. 

Today I saw another homeless man on the street. He had such a jaunty way of walking and seemed to be talking into a cell phone.  It wasn't till he passed that I noticed his jaunt was due to a wheeled bag stuffed full of fabric, treasures and wrapped up in torn plastic.  It wasn't till he passed that I noticed his head was cocked to help support his arm that held another bag over his shoulder.  Not to speak into a phone.  He was singing though.  That didn't change.  He had on a good coat and a good pair of shoes.  I wonder how lucky he saw himself to have such.  I wonder how unlucky anyone around me on their morning commute saw him, if they saw him.  Did they see him as I did at first and then dismiss him?  Just another guy crusing down the street jawin' away to someone else. I wondered as I always do, what his story was.

How did he get here?  Where did he come from?  Is he a jazz inspired, Kerouac lovin' throwback to the hitchhiking 50's?  Is he a man, who can create sculptures out of air and has followed his muse to a state with copious amounts of wide open air space to work in.  Maybe he is the creater of the gorgeous clouds that keep me sane in this state. He sings them into being.  The air condensing and forming at his notes.  His voice caresses them into shapes.  Cloud Singer has no fear of the Arizona heat, he calls the moisture to him and revels in the bit of shade he can afford.  He shares with those around him, and leans under trees whenever he can find one.  This is the only man I've seen who walks under a cloud of his own making and he is at peace.

Maybe that jaunty walk is not due to the wheeled bag, maybe that is due to him finding a place so perfectly suited to his talents.  A place where he can sing of his joy and the clouds slowly trundle after him in the sky.

The Saxophone Player

The man on the corner has been there for days, possibly months.  It’s hard for me to keep track.  He is always in the same bright yellow zoot suit.  Pressed to perfection and his matching hat pulled low over his brow.  I have never seen his face.  He stands in the shadow reflected by the streetlamp, a jar at his feet.  The saxophone he holds in his hands gleams brighter then his suit ever could.  And the low mournful sounds that are drawn out of it cause the passersby to drop coins, then shiver as they walk away pulling their coats tighter around them.  As the night passes, his songs recede to a more breathy cry then music.  I watch as he packs his instrument and picks up his jar to head for where ever he pretends is home.

He is waiting for someone, I know it.  I wonder who she is.  Is she the perfect girlmatch to his zoot suit slickness?  With bow topped heels and a polka dotted dress?  Hair done up in curls and bright red lipstick to mark his cheek with?  Will she waltz up one day and take him by the hand?  Will I get to watch them dance off into the night, see him toss his head back in delight at a whispered comment.  Finally see his face without shadow.

Maybe it isn’t a woman.  Maybe it is a man.  Or a family member or a long lost friend, who he has spend the last few years searching for and now simply hopes the call of his saxophone will bring them home.

For days I ponder this, creating scenario after scenario.  Then one evening, I notice the silence.  His spot in the lamplight is empty.  

Morning Drive

I watched a man walking toward me on the street today.  He had a soft easy step with his hands in his pockets and arms akimbo.  He seemed so loose and free moving.  I noticed there was something wrapped around his neck.  Scarf? Handkerchief? Hands!  He had a child on his back.  Legs slipped through his arms and arms wrapped around his neck.  The child's face was pressed into his neck.  I could almost hear the child breathing against him.  As the man passed me by, he changed.  The step which was so carefree and happy, slowed and became more of a shuffle.  Jeans torn, layers of sweaters and the child was a backpack. The ends of the arm straps tucked into his front pockets with his hands.  He looked at me solemnly.  I felt so guilty, as if I broke his dream. By simply by seeing him, I brought him back to the reality where his child is gone.  Gone somewhere he is unable to follow.  I broke his gaze, and he continued moving on.  In my rearview mirror, I saw him straighten.  Saw the step grow easy and loose again.  The bag shifted and the child murmured something in his ear. 

We were both happier then.