walk.

   Walk with me. Do not fret about which direction we are heading. I am an expert in wandering and finding the way home. I'm not sure of the time. In fact, I left my clocks at home. Use one foot at a time now. There is no rush.

   What do you hear? Tell me. What is it that jumps into your ears? There are sounds which burrow deeper than that of the buzz of electricity on a hot summer day. There are more powerful thrusts than a car that flashes by. Even those instruments that are made to proclaim a coming approach can be set aside, placed on the shelf and left to befriend the dust. It's simple really. You just have to keep walking.

   Think for a moment. When is the last time you thought about the sound of a clenched fist? How it slowly drops to one's side as if holding back an oncoming avalanche; how it rubs callous upon callous, bone upon bone, knuckle to knuckle as a clasp evolves into a vice grip. Or what of the sound that the penny makes when this grip is released and it meets its old friend, the nickel? It is the same sound one friend might make as he meets an old friend from his childhood. There is contact. Sometimes there are flurries of jumbled words, but always: there is contact. And much as the penny will sit beside the nickel until tossed into the hand of a foreigner, these two jolly good fellows are together until their companionship is swept away as quickly as the sun on a cloudy day. The only difference is that the sun knows how to leave properly. The way some people can run abroad and come back again as if they had never left. But this story is not about the sun. It is about our walk.

   Look down. Look up. Look sideways. You can decide whether or not you like East or West better. I find that the East has a more gentle embrace. Have you noticed anything about your feet? They make sounds. They make two sounds. They might even make a symphony of sounds if you have had any experience in the art of tapping. Hey, the fence on your left is begging to be massaged. Sometimes in my wanderings I walk on the wrong side of the sidewalk. Sometimes, I'll even walk in the street. Mostly, I go where my head tells my feet to follow. They are a bit reluctant to walk. They are used to running. But this story is not about running. Well, maybe a little bit, but not like the sun.

   Take the slip and slide through the sea of passing conversation. It can be good fun, but mother will not approve of the mud. I suppose neither do I. I'd prefer not to have to do the laundry. Sometimes I still act as if my mother is watching me, and I think that most of the time, she is. Hold on a minute. That is a foreign sound. Wait, it is that of your breathing.You had just forgotten how. Humans are so forgetful. One time I forgot... well, never mind.

   Come. Let's wait in line. They say that the conductor of our symphony is quite a gentlemen. They say that the sound of his signature will slowly climb into your heart, take its perch and hoot a good cheer. I would usually oppose. I have a busy schedule. However, I have grown to love the slowness of his music, the way it sways back and forth like a weeping willow. Without worry. Just waiting. Just reaching for the water. I have faith in that tree. I have a feeling that it would fall into the river just to be together.

    I forgot to mention about needing a swimsuit. I suppose that I'm a good paragraph late in mentioning anyhow. Maybe more. It depends if you are one of those whom sweats profusely. Like one might sweat on a blazing hot summer day. The kind of day when the sun comes to beat upon his chest and prove he is the king before retiring back to his home on the other side of the world. But this story is not about the sun. Or about leaving. In fact, it's not even about sounds or music or conducting.

   Walk with me. I'll tell you what it's about on the way home.