March 18, 2003

• The Ceiling

  
  

   

  
  

  Half-heartedly swept, yesterday’s paper cups and candy wrappers and condoms hidden well beneath the bleachers in a world of tumbledust and rats, a crowded gymnasium shakes with the tension of a crowd swaying, hypnotized and moved.   The emotions are all-at-once raw and surreal as khaki men raise their hands, cup their faces, close their eyes, just tired.  Modest women shed tears, their faces damp from the stir of quiet inward emotion, reflecting on deeper things.  His voice is that of a baritone, moving near high pitches in moments of excitement, still rumbling low and even sensuous during thoughtful scheduled pleas.  For the night, it is a strange beast of a room, alive and pitiful, modulating with the strains of music, coffee shop guitar, and Answers.

  
  

   

  
  

  Somewhere else, a classroom burgeons with the hormonal excitement of a new year as gangs of acne and heavy make-up slam notebooks and chew pens, identity in the making.  Through minutes, thoughts traverse from the banal to the insecure to the task-at-hand.  The profanity of five languages scratched into the glossy pressed wood born of boredom, surly teenagers scribble notes, copy from a whiteboard, draw pictures of naked women or comic books.  His voice is that of a baritone as he banters with youth in a captivating tone of disinterest – all very calculated like the loopy curves of chalk S’s.  The next forty minutes are of Revolution and change, a room full of laughter, questions, Potential.

  
  

   

  
  

  The clouds are dark, black with fury, bullets of rain, slamming into Midwestern dirt and concrete tire-skids.  Rolling violently through the wet gale draping the craft like an enemy blanket, the plane heaves forward, the buzzing engines offering solace, direction, sound.  Yet, everything is quiet, as grass green dots move haltingly over round screens, lines circling steady like the dreaded metronome that sat on his piano.  His voice is that of a baritone as he issues commands with a monotonous staccato clip.  In the distance, bright flashes of searing orange and red, chunks of mixed metal descending in and through the clouds, the thought of far-off lands, new faces, hope, Adventure.

  
  

   

  
  

  Still, amidst, there’s the sound of a baby giggling and a man and woman holding hands under the spilling light of a hallway.  Hair grey and bodies hunched with affection, resting in the warm glow of knowing they’ve survived with laughter, their love deep and full of Grace.

  
  

   

  
  

  In Greek tragedies, the choragus never sings wisdom or admonition to the man; rather, they simply stand to the side and mourn with him, lamenting that he was ever born. 

  
  

   

  
  

  Tonight, he simply stares at the ceiling, his room not yet dark from the faint glow of city streetlights, night shadows dancing.  Words mumble forth between long pauses that cover all his expectations, wants, and Fear.

  
  

   

  
  

  Soon, it’s quiet.

  
  

   

  
  

  ——–

  
  

   

  
  

  

  
  

  this photo won a Pulitzer back in ’99.  there’s a lot to look at!

  
  

   

  
  

  A good day, a good start to another week.

  
  

   

  
  

  Matt11:28

  
  

   

  • 2:35 am
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