Periwinkle cloudless skies served as the backdrop to the lunch hour crowd moving about Tucson’s downtown. While folks in other areas of the country plowed through several inches of snow, in The Core, people rushed attached to their MP3s and cell phones.
Unlike ordinary days, the business horde wore rodeo gear. They hurried as they always did, wearing their cowboy boots and hats and pleated shirts with turquoise bolo ties. Wrangler jeans displayed wide cowhide belts. Soaring silver buckles shone with a glittering hint. Some, even carried tacks, headstalls, reins, and nosebands hanging from the shoulder as if ready to go on a horseback ride in the desert. People moved about like rats trapped in a hologram.
It was Rodeo Week Thursday, and everyone changed into appropriate clothes, yet the glittering rush of hyperbolic thoughts remained unaltered. While the surface ebbed and flowed in seamless anonymity, the depths pull forcefully like the undertow. Everyone churned and turned an automaton at the mercy of the robotic world.
Black leather Frye boots with harness and ring stepped weightily on the blue broken line painted on the sidewalk guiding visitors along the Tucson Historic Downtown tour route. Suddenly, she stopped and observed the perfectly predictable scene. The masses in custom moved like bumper cars in a county fair, bumping into each other fully disconnected from the inner sea.
Ding dong. “Downtown/Centro westbound,” the automated voice of the Sun Link announced as the sparkling new, petroleum blue streetcar approached the stop at Congress and Stone.
As if streaming from a far away fairytale land, the wind delivered the notes of a languid saxophone. The melancholic melody traveled the length of her spine, percolated her bone marrow, reached her nerve system and exploded in a category five brainstorm. She entered On A Roll and ordered a cucumber roll with extra wasabi to go.
A force stronger than her made her retrace her steps. She followed the musical fractals repeating themselves with extraordinary strength. Frye boots with harness and ring shared the same longing than the saxophone player, playing somewhere in the street. Hands inside her pockets, she approached the “walk, no walk” sign and crossed the street carried on the wings of a flying Minotaur. In the maze, she had found a thriving connection.
She stopped in front of the Muse with coffee brown undone dreadlocks, Rastafarian look, and eyes so blue and clear one could see the coral reef. Serbian lips savored the instrument’s mouth and delivered a sacred Hebrew tune. The saxophone rose with each wave pumping from the abyss of his soul. Like her, he was vibrantly alive and radiantly aware.
Frye boots with harness and ring pulled out the wallet from her rear pocket and threw a five dollar bill on the saxophone case. He nodded and gave lungs to a symphony that carried unbearable longings and unfathomable tales. There was raw beauty in this deeper shade of blue.
“Your music is magic. May I take a video?” She stood knees shaking.
“Just a short one.”
Heart throbbing, she squatted few feet away from this Muse and held the cell phone in her hands.
He played suffused in the inner shore. His eyes closed. The stranger gloriously offered a change of tides that flooded her soul.
A cumulus of tears rose from her nadir. He delivered the highest notes and stopped to take a deep breath.
“Where do you come from?” She asked, not referring to a place on earth, but a place among the stars.
“Detroit,” he said matter-of-fact.
“What brought you to the sun?” She asked not thinking of Tucson, Arizona, but of the solar system.
“The cold snow. Can I see?”
They watched the video leaning against each other like old confidants.
“It’s a nice video.”
“Do you have an email or a FB page?
“Detroit k-a-z, as in Zen, u-k-o,” he spelled.
“I will post it on YouTube and send you a link,” she paused and watched the crowd move around in automatic pilot.
“Your music comes from the source. It is a mixture of longing, melancholy, and nostalgia. It tells a story of struggle with subtle calm. It speaks to my soul.”
“Music is my language,” he said and chuckled.
“Every octave plays the language of the universe. Sacred geometry, mathematics, and music are intricately connected. Everything moves according to divine plan,” she sat on the sidewalk next to him.
“The Vedas talked about the collective consciousness,” he said, “you are connecting with my music, my emotions. We are connecting with the Oneness. How do you know?”
“I am a poet. Poetry is about verse, metric, measure, rhyme, connection, observation, vulnerability. We operate in the same world. You use notes. I use words. You are a Muse, inspiring me to write about our connection. I have to go. It was a pleasure. Thank you for bringing your music to the sun.”
“Please do send me the video.”
“I will.”
They shook hands.
“Mariel from Cuba.”
“Brandon from Detroit.”
Mariel walked back to her office moving lightly like a bubble of soap floating under the sun.
Dedicated to Brandon from Detroit.
Mariel Masque – Copyright 2015
All Rights Reserved
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