I wake up, refreshed, ready, eager for a new day, for that first crisp breath of air to fill my lungs. I look beside myself to remind I'm not alone; there she is. A smile, a secret grin for a sleeping angel. I rise to my feet to walk down a short hall in my humble abode, albeit a cozy and small hall, but it's my home I'm walking through. I'm the king of this suburban castle. The walls of the hall are strewn with art, mine, hers, ours, as well as childhood pictures and old photographs that could never really capture the moment. These all blur in my peripheral vision as I head immediately for a kitchen table; it is my kitchen table. Yawning like a lion, I pour cheap sugar flakes and bargain milk into an inexpensive bowl. Clutching at an MP3 player, I start the program to send wonderful oscillations, vibrations and reverberations directly into my ear canals. And then I emerge from my home, ready to slay a new day.
But first, coffee! Walking down a crowded sidewalk at dawn, I kill time smiling at strangers until I arrive at my favorite coffee shop; the familiar smell fills my nostrils as the familiar bell rings because I've pushed the familiar old wood door so I can see my friendly and familiar friend behind the counter. Ever since I had watched a couple episodes of Cheers, I wanted to be able to say "The usual, mac!" I think about that while I order; I'm glad I've found just the place. A quick sip of a bittersweet chocolatey choco-lattè before I start typing into a sleek and nifty digital device, pouring in thought after thought while I pour the hot beverage down my gullet; I get so distracted I didn't even notice a lady, my lady to be specific, send me a cheerful good morning. Don't worry; I'll notice it later and get a smile a mile wide for quite a while. I say good-bye to my barista brother and leave quickly to work. Another round of high fiving random pedestrians before arriving not quite late, but definitely not on time, to a music store, my music store, bursting through the door with my signature dramatic entrance!
Friends I also call coworkers greet me with bright eyes and that oh-so-common subtle curve of the mouth. I return the greeting. A male fellow teases me about punctuality and my lack thereof. Thinking quick, I make up a poor excuse and then, realizing it won't work, write it off as a joke. We share a laugh, one of the best things to share I find. The next hours from the sunrise to noon are filled with more joyous rubbing of shoulders with fellow musicians, anyone from the young and rich Brooklyn-hipster type to the kind of person that doesn't have enough cashflow to afford a guitar, just a few picks and some browsing with dreamy dispositions; both are my kind of people, though there's something especially beautiful about a starving musician; underfed angels are they all. Whether they have or have not, I help them find their next prized possession they never would have guessed they would cherish for years to come for its fantastic tones and mystical music with simple flips of switches, taps of strings and smacks of skins. I help people with a hobby, the hobby of expression at its finest, my hobby. I eat a quick lunch and then I'm back to work, but it's not really work. It's play. It's something I want to do; it's not just a paycheck; it's not a choice of circumstance I was forced to make. It's not hard to find motivation because I do it for myself, my family, my friends, strangers I want to shake hands with and my God. It's my deepest joy; money is a reward for doing nothing besides standing around waiting to talk with nice folks about something I care about deeply: art as sound.
The dawn I once knew turns to dusk. The sun is waxing and waning, disappearing in and out behind dark clouds that are getting in line, single file like firemen, pouring water on the Earth, right onto a place I didn't realize needed rain until I'm dancing in it, wiggling and jiggling like a loonie to some songs no one has heard of by a band you couldn't even pronounce the name of. Old husks look on with disgust; adults look on with concern; psychologists look on with fascination; children look on with their big eyes with shock and awe. I laugh at myself and my own silliness, taking a bow after the album ends. A few folks even clapped! How nice!
I come home, not tired, but eager. Why? Because she's home.
We hug. We talk. We laugh. We love. We share our day for a short little while, before we retire to our personal slices of heaven: me to my lion's den where I pick up an ancient text I could read for hours without boredom and her to her lioness' den where she fiddles around on her fiddle and stares out a window, in wonder, at the city we live in; at the concrete that's covered with life; at the city that turns and churns with the masses; she smiles at the sky above it all, at the very, very, pretty, pretty sunset. I start to wonder about what she's doing; even a good book can't keep me away. I get up from my comfy chair and walk from my room to hers. Even as I enter I feel her smile and I see it light up the room. I playfully ask "Why are you smiling?" She turns, her face aglow with the warmth of humanity, ever-smiling as she answers "You know, I'm really not quite sure." I get closer, taking her under my arm in the dark room with the window framing the sunset with the fiddle on the floor of the room of our home in the city, our city, grinning like a fool. I say "I think..." just to pause. I exhale a happy sigh and inhale contentment, continuing saying "I think we've finally found it. We've found a place where we belong." I suddenly feel her silky hair crash on my shoulder and cascade down my back, making something in my chest feel warm and fuzzy. We don't need words. As the sun ends her journey, I chuckle aloud at the thought, because I have too. I'm home.
