This is my interpretation for Ink Notes #1 (based on La Serenissima). Be warned ahead of time: It is raw, unedited, and not in polished state at all.
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The ViolinistDad was driving me to the dentist. I had offered to drive myself, but he still didn't trust me after last year's accident, so I was stuck in the passenger seat of our red Metro hatchback, bouncing with each bump on the road. Dad had the radio turned to the afternoon's symphony performance, and I knew better than to say a word while he listened. I stared out the window as old trees flashed by, hiding prosperous houses from the crumbling sidewalk, creating a barrier between the roughness outside and the tranquility within.
Our car bumped along with the song's rhythm - one, two, one, two - and I smiled at the impromptu choreography. We slowed behind a long line of cars at the light, and stopped, again on the beat. I smiled and watched.
The wind blew as the music swelled, and ruffled the barrier of trees at my right. The cars on the cross street passed in measured jumps - one, two, one, two. A jogger turned onto the sidewalk and plodded toward us at the perfect tempo. As he passed our Metro, a plastic grocery bag raced across the street and lifted upwards on the breeze until it toppled with the music into one of those immaculate yards.
The light turned green and the cars ahead of us moved forward. Their taillights flickered off one by one in a slow ripple until we could go again. We inched ahead, but not fast enough to make the light.
"Damn!" Dad muttered, and he hit the steering wheel as we slammed on the brakes - off-rhythm - for the red light. The pattern broke. We were now first in line.
A small music store stood at the intersection. Its door opened while we waited and a young man walked out. He was dressed in a grey, hooded jacket zipped up against the early-spring cold, and he looked down at the parking lot as he approached the bus stop's bench. When he sat, a mere ten feet from me, he looked up and caught my eye. I quickly stifled any noise surprise tried to force out of me.
I knew him! Rory Hays. I'd seen him only last night, at my sister's recital. He performed two songs before her. When he'd walked onto the stage, wearing that same grey jacked over faded jeans, Dad had snorted and I'd had to suppress a giggle. His ratty clothes and spiked black hair contrasted so badly with the sea of suits and dresses, with the shine of gel and spray, that he looked alien next to us all.
"What does he think this is?" Dad whispered to no one in particular. "A rock concert?"
Others in the room were muttering softly as well, but Rory Hays took no notice. He lifted his violin to his chin and began to play. Within seconds, I was transported. Who cared what he looked like, when his music was so otherworldly? He closed his eyes as he played, caressed the instrument as he might a lover. By the time he finished, mine weren't the only tears in the room.
I'd looked for him in the reception hall after the recital, but no one had seen him. No one knew who he was. He almost could have been a dream, a figment of my imagination. Disappointed, I fell asleep that night with his notes in my head.
And now, here he was, staring at me from the bus stop's bench, while Dad drummed his fingers on the wheel in time with the symphony.
I leaned against the cold window and stared at him, and he stared back at me. It was a connection I never wanted to end. My hand reached up and touched the glass, an involuntary display of longing. He moved forward on his seat. My lips tingled, parted slightly, and I imagined his lips on mine, lightly, gently, sharing that beautiful, note-driven soul with me by his touch.
His mouth curled on one side into a melancholy smile, and he looked away. The light changed, and we drove on.
Tomorrow morning I leave for Chicago for the ALA Conference. I will have my computer with me, but will have little time for emailing and stuff. I will be slow to reply and might not get back to anyone's comments or emails until mid-to-late next week.
The Violinist
Today's mini-rant: Credit card companies should not be able to change your rates just because their business practices change. They sign a contract with you. They shouldn't be able to change that contract. The fact that they're allowed to put in a clause of "we can change this without warning whenever we want to" should be illegal.
On a more humorous note, I want to relate a fun accidental conversation Jason and I had tonight. The commercials came on during the news, and neither of us were watching them. A Church's Chicken commercial came on, one of those rap ones that say, "I know what good is." Warning, a little religious humor ahead. We didn't mean anything offensive by it, I promise.
Does that remind you of Good Idea, Bad Idea from Animaniacs? My favorite was "whistling while you work/eat."
