from No Rush For Gold:

The musician is under the rain walking a familiar path. Streets and turns seen so many times he does not see anymore pass below and today he sees even less. His walk is brisk to remain as dry as he can and his chin tucks under his collar turned up to retain warmth. Only the steps before him he sees.

In the low slung sky a cloud shifts and the sun breaks into the hole to sneak a little lighting below. Strange and eerie it is to have a sunny and rainy day at once. The smell, feel, and visual is otherworldly—like a dream of the dawn or death of time. But the time-out is short, the clouds reorganize their defense, and the eerie returns to the dreary.

Finally the musician reaches the place he is looking for. Always when he arrives outside it is dark though from the night, not the rain but today it is earlier than usual and the sun has not yet set. But it will. And he shakes off his umbrella and enters.

*

Inside, everything is familiar but with a difference. Usually the place is full of employees buzzing with an urgency to do their jobs while today they are only just arriving and the few that have taken off their jackets are easing into their chores. But it is still early. And usually the place is full with people wanting a good dinner. But it is not yet time to eat.

The musician wanders through the restaurant greeting everyone he crosses. He is looking for someone and finds him, the owner, at the end of the hallway.

When the owner sees him he steps forward and shakes his hand and with the other hand he squeezes his shoulder. Then they greet and the musician asks a favor.

—Of course, sure, it’s no problem. Go right ahead. The new fellow won’t be here for a while yet. It’s fine…You know, he’s heard you. He says he used to come hear you play. Yeah…Well, can I get you something? No? All right. Okay…Well, you know what to do.—

*

This is Club Apple and there is a man drinking alone at the bar. He has troubles—work, women, himself—and the moment he is passing through is not a good one. He would rather not go into it or think about it right now. He prefers to drown in another. Another, please.

A piano fades in…Music and musicians start with a chord or a melody, something definitive to initiate and announce the arrival of a song. But this one has gradually come from nothing, silence has seamlessly been replaced by sound. It sounds as if the piano is being played as it is being constructed. And the touch is assertive yet hesitant. Strings and muscles loosen ensemble.

The man hears the music but does not yet know it. It is the sound of the hurt he feels and it suits his drink so well he thinks it is in his glass. And he looks and he looks at his glass—there are only a couple gulps left. He finishes it in one. Another, please. And the glass is empty—there is nothing to see, there is nothing to drink. Then he hears it…Slow emotion squeezing from an instrument by its musician…

The musician is stretching the piano. Each idea he states, caresses, and holds. And the arrival of a new idea is delayed behind a pause longer than expected. The music sounds like a man afraid to cry who cannot stop the tears. And the man at the bar lets go…

The sadness he drowns to ignore, the musician confronts. Released into the music, for him the piano weeps. The man feels it, his chest warms, he cannot forget…

i wish i was who i am…i dismiss my dreams because i am frightened…(but still i dream…) i am a coward, the greatest coward—and the weakest…(but still i dream…)

He is moved and stands. A pillar supporting the ceiling stands between him and the piano and he leans around it to see…A man makes this music. This music is his. He is the musician. Those are his legs. That is his posture as he plays. These clothes he chooses to wear. And his face—behind his nose, his eyes are his thoughts. Kept warm by his hair, here it begins. And it pours down his neck, through his arms, and out his hands. This man is the music…And like this he examines the musician as though he were watching a film.

To this man the musician is a beautiful man. He feels his courage. The challenge of a dream is accepting it. The road may be rocky but it is a road and it is your road. Take it and drive.

The musician fades out. He closes the piano and pushes the stool in. The man has abruptly returned to his seat. The musician did not see him and he will say nothing to the musician. But he watches him leave…A beautiful man…Then he pays his tab and does not drink that last one.

*

The musician is wandering around town. He has done what needed to be done and he is not certain of what to do next. So he wanders, walking slowly under an umbrella.

Things look different. The buildings usually seem to pierce and become a part of the sky but today the sky has come down to them. Framed from above, they are held to the ground. And the sunshine and moon glow are faded back. Shadows are dim, it is dark.

He comes down Main Street. On each side he sees places—familiar places he knows are familiar that seem unfamiliar today. This concrete bench…He knows he must have sat here at some time, but when? and with whom? if anybody. And this restaurant…Certainly he ate here at some point, but what did he eat? He did eat here, did he not? He does not know. And even this bookshop…He knows he has been in every bookshop in this town but he does not remember entering this one. It is blank. And this café…this café…no, this café is different. Café Leonardo—this place he knows and he knows he knows.

How many poems, thoughts, and melodies came to him while sitting inside. How many drinks he shared with a conversation and a friend. And how many times he came to sit alone surrounded by strangers to not feel alone. The memories are vivid and rise into one. Warm, nostalgic.

A familiar feeling drives him to step and he approaches the door and at the front window his walk becomes stiff and he stops. He looks, and sees…Stella. She is inside, alone at her table, leaning back into her chair and holding and reading a book. On the table is a journal and beside it her coffee. In an instant, he is lost.

Oh woman, have I found you—the one in my mind? Are you a dream? Are you my dream? Are you my sun, my shade, the moon that lights my night? Woman of my heart, woman for my heart—there is an imperfect woman perfect for me—is it you? Are you my sympathetic angel?

His chest warms to see her, to approach her. A lovely woman—she could be the meaning, the reason he continues. His work, his music, every note from him could be inspired by her and for her. Together they walk, she becomes his dream and the memories erase. New ones form. His chest trembles nervously…

What is my fate? Where am I going? What is the reason, the meaning of music and musicians?

He wishes to know. His future and present are foggy and difficult to see. But he has dreams and memories and he knows that this woman, this lovely woman, is not his lovely woman. She is not the meaning nor the reason to continue. Maybe it is inside him. Maybe it is in another. But it is not she.

And so at peace she sits. Her only worries are drinking her coffee while it is still hot and understanding every word she reads. His chest relaxes and cools. He would not rob her of her peace. Back from the window, down the hill the musician goes.

*

The rain pours on. Days of quiet anticipation have built. Now the clouds are having their say and they are not yet finished. Behind lightning their point is thundered. And the rain falls harder.

Walking, the musician has left a stream of downtown shops behind and people as well. The people he probably did not know but though he is looking forward, he notices little. But he does hear something…A call…

A tune, mournful in longing, blows from a musician and through his saxophone. Dry under the overhang of a bookstore, deep into the instrument he leans. The melody, rising into the falling rain, moans the sadness and harshness of life. From a man’s soul to be heard by a man’s soul. The musician is shaken.

This is music, from the night, returned to the night. Done not for money, though it is received. And always when a bill is dropped into the case the saxophonist’s closed eyes know. For he opens them, and as music comes from his lips, a smile comes from his eyes. But before they close, across the way he sees a man, a musician he does not know is a musician, but he know he listens. So his eyes close to play. The night is his music.

So much music, so much musician, so much drive to play, so much…The musician takes it all in—listening, pacing, thinking. Deep in question, reflection…He plays, some listen, some do not. But what do we hear? From music comes feeling and feeling allows music. He plays one tune only—do we hear it or do we hear the tune we want to hear, the tune we can hear? Like a different shade of blue for each different pair of eyes. But most of all, why? Some listen, some do not. Is he here to hear himself? Day after night after day after night he comes and plays. Why? Why does the musician play?… Sometimes, he wishes he knew.

His hands drop into his pockets and one lands on a book, a book left there the other night maybe. He takes it out and looks at it. It is a book written by a poet, read, felt, and remembered. Poems of travel, adventure, hearts risked, and love felt and broken. It seems ten lives were lived. And on the cover is a photo of the poet. Ragged hat, shaggy hair, rugged beard—the poet looks so tired. His work drove him over continents and mysteries. So much writing, so much living, so much experience. The musician wishes to be so tired.

But the exhaustion of the poet is more than just physical. The poet knows love. The poet writes of love. But the poet does not have love. And the poet is drained, emotions are spent.

The musician puts the book away and steps up to the saxophonist and from his pocket gives him something he does not need anymore. With their eyes they smile. And he turns to go home. He is getting there.

Next Chapter: A Leaf In the Sun