Sunday, October 26, 2008

I wrote my own ending

Once upon a time there was a homeless man who played the violin. Everyday he would stand outside beside the pretty restaurants of the ugly city and play. Sometimes people threw him a coin or two. Most times they did not. The homeless man played all day until the bottom of his cap was filled, then he would return to the city shelter for sleep. He did this everyday for many years until one early-evening in November he passed away. The city people did not notice for months. November turned to December. December to January. January to February.

Finally, on the fourteenth of February, Valentine's Day, a small girl who remembered the violin playing homeless man went to his playing place to give him a valentine. She had thought he must have been lonely with no one in the world to care for or be cared about. When she reached the pretty restaurants at the heart of the ugly city she saw that the violin man was not there. She cried on the way home for worry of him.

More months passed. The little girl begged and complained to her mother about the disappearance of the violin man until she gave in to go see his empty playing space. The mother then understood. Both mother and daughter started to feel a surge inside of them that bubbled up from below their belly-buttons to the crests of their tongues. Golden music was trickling over and between their taste buds tasting like Polyhymnia, and forced them to sing. People on the street stopped, one by one, and listened. The golden virus sluiced out of their mouths and quickly onto the sidewalk, spreading at an alarming rate and, seemingly, endless volume. People were diving down to touch it as fast as possible, they wanted to experience this soul clutching music! Soon the whole city was shimmering a golden haze and everyone knew the life of the violin man.

At least, that's what I hope to happen when I die.

Friday, October 24, 2008

Chanel º0

Maybe one day I'll fly out the window like a stream of perfume. I'll waft over the roofs tops and mingle with smoke stacks, absorbing particles of all different kinds. My scent will change; it will leave bits and pieces scattered across the sky and in between unseen surfaces. After years of travelling through a world of smells, I will have dispersed and weakened. But, I will be in every breath you take.