Clarity

Superglue it together and maybe we'll finally see.

Brendan Keenan

I squatted next to an older man sitting on a cobble stone sidewalk collecting change in a stalking cap. 

Do you know of a place where I can get a really authentic Irish meal?

He said nothing, just stared into my eyes. In that moment I realized why the eyes are the window to the soul. They are the only part of our exterior that reflects how young we feel inside. His bright blues eyes reminded me of mine. They could have been the eyes of a young child; free of the wrinkles that gathered on his face and free of the gray that scattered through his hair. In less than a second I felt like we were sharing a common moment. I was looking into the mirror of my future and he was looking into the mirror of his past. Where is the time going? 


I became a bit uncomfortable with the silence and he noticed it. 

"Are you nervous?"

"No."

"You look a bit nervous."

I swallowed hard as I realized what I had just done. I had asked a man who eats off the streets if he could point me in the direction of a really good restaurant. He must be taking this as an insult, I thought. I really hoped he saw my innocence. The tension was strong and I was relieved he finally broke it. 

"Where ya in from?"

"The US."

"I know you're a Yank but that's not what I asked."


I scanned his eyes that were still locked on mine. 

"Most recently Paris."

"How did you like Paris?"


I felt like he already knew my answer. 

"The people were cold."

He looked across the people pushing through Temple Bar, then picked up his wood flute and played a familiar song that I finally recognized as, Battle Hymn of the Republic. He licked his lips, lowered his flute and looked back into my eyes. 


"I've been there."
"What did you think of it?"

"I like the way the leaves feel when I kick through the fall."

I smiled, letting his words settle in.


Above us was a gigantic spinning ice cream cone; it's electric motor rattling it's plastic exo-skellton at tourists in the square. For a moment I felt like I was in America. I broke from it's trance and looked back at his blue eyes. 

"You're quite the master on that flute."

"Thank you."

He played something more Irish. As he played I closed my eyes and tried to imagine Temple Bar before electricity. 

"Where did you learn to play?"

He laughed to himself as if to recall a hundred moments at once. 

"My daddy taught me to play flute and me brother to play pipes."

"Bag pipes?"

"Yeah, he taught me and Paddy ten songs and took us on the road with him."

"Was that when you went to Paris?"

"No, after Daddy died Paddy and I kept on."

"You toured?"

"We took off fast, started playing to huge crowds: London, Paris, Dublin, Belfast, Chicago, San Francisco..."

Suddenly my mirror to the future felt very heavy. How had he gone from there to here -- asleep on the street. 

He reached his hand out to me.

"Brendan Keenan."

I shook it.

"Ben La Marca."

That's when I noticed the ring on his finger. 

"Are you married?"

I gave him a inquisitive look.


"Til death do we part."


I stayed silent.

He picked up his flute and let out a long-slow breath. 

"She left ten years ago after we put me mother in the ground. Haven't seen her since. It was warm. Like today. But the sky was... "

He licked his lips and played a song.  

Brendan Keenan's brother, Paddy, is one of the most respected Pipers to come out of Ireland, maybe the world. 

It's a 3am morning and I'm running on yesterday's sleep.

There is a man in the house next to me who stares at the wall. I opened the window, crossed the grass,   walked through his garage and climbed into his head and all I found was a leather glove.

I saw a man in strong gallup through red canyons. He kept that pace until I woke. I opened my eyes to a poster of Michael Jordan.

The leaves surrendered today, finally changing into the colors of the sun as if to say thank you for giving us life.




In the ever expanding spaces of our mind may we always drift to the places where we stood between both sides of our self. 

Fall

In their deep greens the leaves refused to acknowlege it was the first day of fall.  Strong was their unwillingness to give summer the recognition it deserves. How it kept them warm for so long. 

Routine is the survival tactic we have deployed to maintain all of this.  When a new experience threatens us we flag it, file it away and tend to avoid it. But the the better question is, why mow the lawn in the first place?

Label it, categorize it, and make sure it gets on that shelf for safe keeping. 

When I rise in the morning I grab the device for a summarization of the world as it was written yesterday.

To blame dull human interactions on machines is to undermine the brilliance of the human spirit but life before electricity must have made me tremedoulsy curios.

This place is an ear for me. I've never been good to words so I put them here.