Yellow There! Ow are you this fine day?

To begin, I would like to apologize for any misunderstanding from my previous entry. Allow me to explain. For a birthday in the past I was bestowed with a treasure by my loving parents. The album Kind of Blue by Miles Davis has been widely recognized as the bible of modern jazz. His sound was pure, his improvisation  was bare and open and his style was revolutionary to the world of music. As I listened I came to a track on the album entitled Flamenco Sketches and saw an image in my mind. I witnessed a girl twirling and darting to and fro around a world that was exciting and dangerous. i saw her living her life, feeling  happy and sad and excited and stressed as she waited tables at a small Spanish cafe and did homework on her breaks. i saw her in classes and at home with struggles there as well. And I saw her dancing in a slow rhythmic flamenco style. I have since come to the conclusion that there's a story in that song and I want to tell it if I can. After much thought I have started writing and I'd like to know if i should finish. The gist of the story is this: Rafaela Baillette Alonso lives in Andalusia, Spain, the capital of flamenco music. The music that defines her country is all around her in both commercial and more intimate forms but like anyone who is constantly surrounded by something it really doesn't mean much to her. She lived in the U.S. For a year as an exchange student and she attends a small community college. She meets a young spelunker and they teach each other something about life and the music that fills it.

As you know, some tragic events have recently transpired. I have a few thoughts on the matter. First, my thoughts and prayers are with those directly effected. Second i would like to address the mainstream commentary on the matter. I first heard it from Countdown with Keith Olberman. He took a moment from his realist approach to current events to discuss the implications of public discourse. I was quite intrigued at this because arguments kritikal of our discourse has been a specialty of mine through the debate years. Keith is right. While he may have been addressing a specific group of people and I'm pretty convinced that the man who committed this horrendous act wasn't a Sarah Palin worshiping -shall I say it? - normal conservative, language that is hurled around us an an ever increasing and rapid rate has had a tremendous impact on public actions. We're convinced through the "blessing" of movies, video games, political attack ads and news that direct violence is both the sole problem and the sole solution. We let millions die of water born illnesses, hunger and natural chaos while we spend trillions killing innocents in order to protect from terrorists threats that kill statistically fewer people worldwide than there are American bathtub drownings. We care more about killing in faraway lands then we do saving lives here in our own and what do we get for it? Children who grow up wanting to play real life grand theft auto, break the law when no one's watching and kill their congressmen and women for voting with a disliked president. The violence won't end or even diminish without a concentrated effort to diminish indirect as well as direct causes of violence.

In other recent news, I bowled a 114 yesterday. If you normally bowl higher pretend you don't so I can still feel like a fantastic bowler.

I love you guys.

Flamenco Sketches

One

droplet’s gentle caress glides across the sunbeamed horizon.

One

wisp’s desire floats above the scattered clouds.

One

day’s beginning engaged to time itself

clenches the coming of here and now.

Noise fades into blackness as light dispels

its unruly calm.

Engines’ roars

are silenced at the sacred start of times daily soliloquizing

dew upon the peaceful quiver.

Early chilled in soft expression

Spanish sunrisn’ coming lesson.

June 8^th 2011

            It’s Monday. Just hours ago we were leaving Chicago, popping a Dramamine, and closing our eyelids. I’m ready to get off this plane. The wind out my window is much more inviting than the clean plastic smell I’ve been stuck with for the last six hours. Don’t get me wrong, planes excite me. From lift off to let down I’m amazed. I made Jake switch me seats so I could witness the speed-blurred landscape through the window. Smog singed cities glow in the darkness like fireflies in a beer bottle and American forests are a new world of green. It’s funny that when I’m in the city it’s like all the buildings are the same gray, but from above it’s a sea of exquisite shades. Forests seam only ever green at ground level but up here, even in the dark, there’s a rainbow’s difference in the same ever-color. Then there’s the ocean. It sparkles. I though maybe I’d see some dolphins or sharks or a whale or two, but I don’t think that’s what the ocean’s about. It’s mostly water. But that’s what makes it so awe inspiring. Water is so simple, but the endless water, I thought, was my favorite. Maybe it was because the sun was creeping up one end or that our lights were dancing across the waves but I think God must have went overboard on the glitter glue when he made the ocean. The stars must be jealous.

 I thought the water was my favorite, that is, until I met the Spanish morning. The sun’s sparkle effect isn’t stuck to the oceans. The fields were crying pixie dust tears and I found one or two tears of my own. I’m not that sensitive; I must have dosed off halfway across the Atlantic and the light just got to me, but seriously. A breeze through a field of flowers sends shivers down the whole countryside. I could see commuters get on the roads for work and night partiers slink home. Wispy clouds cast crumpled shadows over houses all built with a quaint Spanish charm. The whole city seams to be dancing slowly to an unheard melody. The roads bend this way and that and the softest breeze tends to follow. As we descend, the sharp breaks in our smooth motion jab holes in the sweet music turning it in all directions. The chords are rhythmically twisted to fit the whims of the morning’s mood until we make contact with the runway and Jake startles awake.

Jake is the man. Yes, I wrote that in case he’s reading over my shoulder but he is a pretty awesome guy. He was our football team’s best receiver. Sophomore year, when I was the JV quarterback I usually got it to him for any good yardage.  That wasn’t just because he’s my buddy. I guess he was just too quick. He’s an overachiever in a good sort of way. In school, he always got straight A’s in all his honor’s courses and would have been valedictorian if he hadn’t done that dual credit program through the community college. He’s 6’2’’ with an affable Beiber cut, faded blue eyes and a lanky build. He works out a lot and usually wears basketball shorts and a t-shirt. He’s the only guy I know who got asked to prom by four different girls. It didn’t matter. We ditched prom for Carlsbad, but it was a nice gesture from the ladies.

Jake did most of the setup for this excursion. He’s the most responsible of the three of us by far and he got us a great flight deal. It doesn’t really matter that we were in the air all night and when we finally get out of here it will be the unreasonable five A.M. Central European time. We only had one short stop in Chicago mid flight. He also got all of our permits in line, which was not the easiest of responsibilities. The Spanish government is, I’m told, a little more uptight about these kinds of things than Uncle Sam. I know it’s kind of shocking. Anyway, it’s a good thing we’re just the three of us and we qualify as a “Small Group” rather than a “Small Tour Group”. Jake, in his ever meticulous fashion made sure little things like that were all in line. He insisted on not going through as third party so we could work out and flex our itinerary. It also helped with the pricing of everything in the long run although if I didn’t trust Jake I would have been a little put off by his preliminary cost analysis. He pulled it through nicely in the end and everything was ready to go just after graduation.

If we weren’t such agreeable people, we might really mess with Manny. He’s partially reclined with his mouth open and his left arm bent awkwardly like a chicken wing. His right arm is hanging in the aisle like he’s asking a little kid to share her candy and his breathing is steady with little outbursts here and there like a suffocating rabbit. When we landed he jerked a little in his seat but he’s pretty much dead. At least he’s relaxed. His face, normally tight against his stout bone structure, is drooped and ready for someone’s aunt to squeeze and notice how grown up he’s getting. Airplane seats aren’t quite built for his lineman stature. It’s a shock that he could even get comfortable enough to pass out like that. His shoulders out span the chair back and his waist fits inelegantly between the arm rests.

People are moving around upon the pilot’s welcoming to Andalucia. Jake had the pleasant job of waking the sleeping giant. He rubbed his dark chocolate eyes and asked where we were in the flight. Upon realization that we had made our arrival he stretched his arms and did one of those waking up yawns that last too long.

            Time to breathe some wind.