Sunday, June 25, 2006
Fireworks for the Weary
Did I say something about life lacking color? God must have heard me, because She piled on the luster last evening to bang me over the head with the brilliance of life, if I just care to see it. While I was uploading a rant about my aversion to real life, I hear these explosions going off, so I look out the window. A storm blows across the west, the setting sun coloring the thunderheads every shade from midnight blue to red. Down on the plaza an old jazz woman sings on stage, the audience huddled beneath umbrellas, a field of mushrooms glistening red, blue, black. Over in Loring Park an art fair kicks off its first night with a fireworks display. From my high-rise the fireworks explode at eye level. So with the thunderstorm sunset, jazz music bouncing off the buildings, and bursts of fireworks lighting up the sky, I had to say “you’re right. I get it. Just open your eyes.” As long as there will always be a fireworks display ready for every time I feel disillusioned about life, I’ll be fine.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
3 comments:
Or said another way (but I think Kelsye will prefer the former):
I was just writing/wining about my lackluster life when somebody upstairs, the proverbial conductor of this orchestra, or if you don’t like symphonies: the ringmaster of this circus, and if you’re afraid of clowns, then we’ll just say the almighty deity lactating Her milk down the mountainside of Olympus, Somebody had decided I needed to be hit over the head with the brilliance of life. She set off fireworks over Loring Park, ushered in a mountain range of thunderheads along the western horizon, splashed with the watercolors of sunset. Then She added a sound score of an old jazz woman singing on a spotlit stage down on the plaza, pressed in by a bloom of umbrellas glistening red and blue and black. I lean out the window and breathe deep, smell the rain, hear the music, see the burst of fireworks and feel the explosions in my chest. I don’t know what I’m doing here, but I’m here. The audience below begins to applaud. I join in.
That was no art fair. I went down there this morning and my first clue was the sign that said "Got Lube?" Then a tent had a book sale and the titles were things like "It's a man-eat-man world." By the time I noticed all of the rainbow colored flags, I was headed out of the park. Not because gay folks make me nervous. I'm actually a little ashamed of myself. I was worried about seeing people from work there and giving them the wrong idea. I'm not homophobic, but is there a term for fear of being mistaken for gay? I already have "Moulin Rouge" and the "Sound of Music" in my movie collection, don't watch football or baseball and don't have any interest in playing poker, so I don't need to further any suspicians that I might be batting for both teams.
I did like the first better, but the last bit of the second flowed so smooth, and had all the sensual (not to be confused with sexual) details that make good writing vivid and easily imaginable.
And my beloved Brett, the term for being afraid of being mistaken for being gay is, in fact, homophobia. Not to worry, we all have things we struggle with. It's annoying when I read pieces of writing that are full of lust for my gorgeous female friends and then the cute guy I was trying to hit on thinks I'm a lesbian and shrinks away. Irritating, but not scary. Whatever. His loss.
Then again, if you really do have The Sound of Music and Moulin Rouge in your DVD collection, maybe you aren't homophobic. Maybe you're just repressed.
(Ha, ha. That was me joking.)
AND, by chance, I borrowed Sound of Music from my school and watched it with Kiomye tonight. I'm even going to blog about it.
Don't hate me for teasing you. Oh, and check your yahoo account.
Post a Comment