a pleasant life
A pleasant life. Is all he wanted. It was not to be. Station and birth had plotted against. A status quo. The mores of the day. Even the laws. Forbade such a thing. As a pleasant life. A free life. Where a man’s toils were his own. It was not to be. A pleasant life.
A pleasant life. Is what she’d had. Over 85 years. A husband. Two Sons. A grandchild. A lifetime. All buried. All gone. The last of a generation. None left. No peers to repair her faulty memory. Her bible held each obituary. Photos of them all. The sum total. Of what she remembered. A pleasant life.
A pleasant life. Is what she fled. The suburban slow death. None could understand. Even the boys. Especially the boys. Her incremental demise. Like a cancer. Patient. Insidious. Would have destroyed them. All. She fled. Traveling. Hiding. From the past. Crewing yachts in the Pacific. Now. Remembering the family. So long ago. A pleasant life.
A pleasant life. Despite the painful death. The traditional family filled “last days”. Eased much of the pain. Offered enjoyment and entertainment. So many small children. Progeny of his loins. All. Joyful and sorrowful. The selfish urge. The emotional wanting. The loss. Made it easier. The final days. With his family. Enjoying. A pleasant life.
A pleasant life. Of sorts. Her ancient eyes. Twinkle and smile. In her child’s face. War ravaged life. The family. Still alive. Intact. UNICEF food. Adequate. Some days. There’s been worse. Much worse. Refugees. Fleeing death. Struggling to survive. The camp. A neutral boarder. Armed guards. Much safer. Offers security. Offers more. A pleasant life.
A pleasant life. Through a windowpane. Steaming plates of food. Bottles of bubbling beverages. Smiling diners. Never notice. His intense face. Following the food. To the table. To the fork. To the mouth. Such quantities. Each night he watches. Ears burning with cold. Stomach grumbling with emptiness. Each night he watches. Longingly. A pleasant life.
A pleasant life. Just the two brothers. Hermits of a sort. Farming 800 acres. Each summer. 16-hour days. Winters were different. Little to do. They built wooden clocks. No two alike. 47 clocks. Over 42 years. Some big. Some small. The house filled. Several in the barn. A lifetime. Of clocks. A pleasant life.
A pleasant life. Well most of it. So much over rated. The big-time job. The big-time family. The car. Used to get a buzz. From the job. In the end. Only ulcers. She used to turn him on. The kids. Made him smile. It all got too hard. The bottle. Offered solace. A pleasant life.
cleaning house
There comes a time. From time to time. A new broom. A clean sweep. All the corners. The high-up cobwebs. Every stick of furniture moved. Turned upside down. Top to bottom. On your knees. Climbing the ladder. Nothin’ is spared. Everything moved. Everything. Wiped with a damp cloth. My granny called it spring cleaning.
I thought it drudgery. Slave labour, at best. Those long, long weekends. When the time had come. Ma running the “above ground”. Dad doing the basement and garage. Drama at it’s highest. The dogs would hide. It’d be for a reason. Father Bernard coming for a visit. A family reunion. I thought it drudgery, at best.
I found it adventure. Coins under cushions. Lost pens under chairs. Forgotten presents in the basement. Boxes of Junk in the attic. Junk! Treasures. Discarded valuables: Two old reel-to-reel tape recorders. A pair of wooden ice-skates. A beaver felt hat. A pair of high-button shoes. An old oilskin. A rusty kerosene lamp. Adventure, at best.
There comes a time. From time to time. When my life needs a new broom. A clean sweep. A day or two off. To reorganize. To inventory. To give it all a thorough dusting. All the corners. The high-up cobwebs. The overdue issues. The forgotten “to-dos”. Clean up. Catch up. Back up. All good fun.
A fun day off. Reorganize the office. Play loud music. Change all the light bulbs. Install a new computer. Rewire the mess of cables and leads. Hang a hammock in the spare bedroom. Looks cool. Funky. More treasures. Left behind. But not forgotten. Clear that room. Ready for use. Pile in the office. Sort later.
The family gone. School holidays. Enjoying Gizo. I create confusion first. Everything in an organized heap. A meat pie in the oven. Dust the big shelf. Hang cables in one place. Dusted books back in place. More “junk” in the closets. A cordless drill. A pack of screws. Hang that mirror. Move the white board.
An unused Harman-Kardon sound system. What a gift! Play louder music: Pink Floyd’s “wish U were here”. Ricky Lee Jones’ “flying cowboys”. Neil Young’s “Rust”: Cortez. Powder Finger. Rocking in the free world. Crank it louder. Up the ladder. Broomin’ an’ scrubbin’. Organize an sort. A whale of a chore. A whale of a joy.
The walls shake. The louvres rattle. Somebody calling my name. I jump. Startled. Guiltily I answer the door. Nothing major. A simple question. A simple answer. Everybody happy. I turn the decibles down. Save a charred meat pie. Repair with cheese and sauce. Open a beer. Take a break. Jumanji on the tube. Great grafixs.
The day short. A lot to do. Before it’s done. A bizzy week coming. More travels. Finish off tomorrow? Or: A job left incomplete? An on going project? Another? So it’s gotta be tomorrow. Or tonight. Or when I return. It’s still OK. Sometimes prevarication is required. Good for you. Prolong the job. The enjoyment.
The music. Music. Prolong the music. “You are like a hurricane”. I think of Kenny TWD. The Dick and Gert show. Another little treasure. Found not on a shelf. An emotional treasure. A memory. An auditory prompt. As good as a familiar scent. To take you back. To prompt a thought. A recollection. A smile.
And the day ends. With a smile. The new computer almost setup. Can finish that tomorrow. Tomorrow. A lovely word. I think of Young Phillip. All his “tomorrows”. So long ago. So many adventures. So many spring cleanings. The drudgery. The music. The memories. I do look forward to “Tomorrow”. With a big, big smile.
The map of my heart
THE MAP OF MY HEART
http://www.dailywriting.net/MichaelianWeb.htm
I woke up this morning thinking of the Pythian Games and of William Michaelian’s writing titled ‘The Map of my Heart’. I tracked down the link and read the sentence
‘The map of my heart is lined with roads, like myriad wrinkles on the face of time.’
Thoughts and images came into my mind representing my own map of the heart.
I see roads wandering back in time through cities of dreams that lie behind wind swept dunes. I hear the cry of gulls as they wheel across the shore line.
I remember sitting in an ancient auntie’s house eating scones as the open fire blazed in the grate and a soft rain beat on the window panes. Outside the hills rose and fell in soft, mist shrouded mounds.
I catch of a glimpse of temples glowing in a Himalayan sunset of swirling pinks and gold.
I feel myself falling into eyes the colour of forest water – deep pools of golden brown flecked with green. The eyes of my new born daughter. Eyes just like her father’s.
All these things and more merge together as faint tracings upon the tissue of my being. I have a sense of having travelled, of having lived, of loving and being loved. The details are vague. Only impressions remain. The map of my heart is like the imprint of dreams upon my mind as dawn breaks and sleep ends.
MY LIFE IN TOMATOES
By Kerry Vincent © 2009
CHILDHOOD
At Uncle John and Aunt Lillian’s farm, in the breezeway,
An army of tomatoes marches across the big picnic table,
Shored up on the south end by great logs of zucchinis and cucumbers,
Bordered on the north end by a mountain of sweet corn still in the husk.
All is hot, steamy, and still, except for the buzzing of the flies and gnats,
And sometimes the loud banging of the red screen door.
Just down the hill, sprawling in the garden,
A forest of Big Boy tomatoes grow.
In the evening we pick another batch of ripe red orbs.
I dust off a ruby beauty, still warm from the sun,
as big as my face, and bite hard into the firm flesh,
its life juice running down my cheeks and neck
nourishing my blood and bones.
YOUNG ADULTHOOD
I just wanna serve the Lord,
Help the poor, feed the hungry,
So I join this inner city ministry
Run by a power-hungry madman,
Where we freeze in the winter
And rarely have enough food to eat.
We pray to the Lord for our daily bread:
As a charity, on good days,
We get the food no one else wants:
Dented and unmarked canned goods,
week-old bread, just starting to mold,
Dairy products just beyond the expiration date,
Half-rotted produce left from the farmer’s market,
Soybeans and millet from an animal feed store,
Not meant for human consumption.
When I am pregnant, and visit my mom,
She asks what I crave, and I say,
“Fresh fruit and vegetables.”
She makes me a veggie sandwich,
With lettuce, glorious farm tomatoes,
Cucumber slices, cheese, and fresh bread,
Still spongy and springy to the touch:
Heaven on earth.
MOTHERHOOD
Now I am the mother, escaped from the cult,
Now raising my own kids.
My mom has moved to Uncle John’s farm,
Caring for him since Aunt Lillian died.
The kids and I visit in the summer,
timing our vacation around tomato season,
so the children can help bring in the crops
and can the goodness.
When mom visits a few weeks later,
She lugs a heavy suitcase from the train,
Unzips it to reveal precious produce:
Prized farm tomatoes, peppers, carrots:
We feast!
ON MY OWN
I’m in my cabin in the woods,
Re-writing my novel,
The expose of the cult,
The guest of a lovely retired couple.
They respect my privacy, let me write,
Only knock on the door to bring me
A ripe tomato to go with my supper,
Fresh from their own garden:
A gift of kindness and goodness,
Deeply appreciated.
TODAY
I’m divorced, re-partnered;
The kids left the nest long ago;
Mom has since had a stroke.
I work as a technical writer
And dream of writing novels again someday.
I bought membership in a community share agriculture farm,
But I don’t get home from work in time to pick up my produce.
Maybe, when the tomatoes come in, I will make the time to go,
So that once more I can taste the richness of the soil
In the ripeness of a juicy red tomato, the earth’s own life blood.
…Summer is not over – there’s still time…
Pablo Neruda – Ode to Tomatoes
Maybe this summertime poem will inspire someone else to write about a summer time food – if not, just enjoy Pablo’s mastery! Kerry
The street
filled with tomatoes,
midday,
summer,
light is
halved
like
a
tomato,
its juice
runs
through the streets.
In December,
unabated,
the tomato
invades
the kitchen,
it enters at lunchtime,
takes
its ease
on countertops,
among glasses,
butter dishes,
blue saltcellars.
It sheds
its own light,
benign majesty.
Unfortunately, we must
murder it:
the knife
sinks
into living flesh,
red
viscera
a cool
sun,
profound,
inexhaustible,
populates the salads
of Chile,
happily, it is wed
to the clear onion,
and to celebrate the union
we
pour
oil,
essential
child of the olive,
onto its halved hemispheres,
pepper
adds
its fragrance,
salt, its magnetism;
it is the wedding
of the day,
parsley
hoists
its flag,
potatoes
bubble vigorously,
the aroma
of the roast
knocks
at the door,
it’s time!
come on!
and, on
the table, at the midpoint
of summer,
the tomato,
star of earth, recurrent
and fertile
star,
displays
its convolutions,
its canals,
its remarkable amplitude
and abundance,
no pit,
no husk,
no leaves or thorns,
the tomato offers
its gift
of fiery color
and cool completeness.
Ode To Tomatoes
Road Closed
where do I get the ideas for my stories
where do I dig up the weird things that inspire me to write
and today I thought I would show you…
that I am inspired by the things
I see every single day
Photo A.M. Moscoso
Photo: A.M. Moscoso
Photo A.M. Moscoso
Photo A.M. Moscoso
Photo A.M. Moscoso
photos taken June 29, 2009
King Street Station
Seattle, WA
a curious business
It’s the end of the week. Where did it go?
Hell, it’s almost the end of June. Where did half of the year go?
The doldrums sit heavy on the islands. The sky and the sea share the same pigmentations… pale blue with lots of glare. The shimmering, pale blue water blends seamlessly with the horizon. The pale blue sky is generously dotted with a combination of cumulous and nimbus clouds. None of the clouds look heavy. There will be no rain today.
The sun shines bright but not too bright. The wind touches the leaves in the trees across the road from me. It will be a moderate if not uneventful day as far as the weather goes.
The Friday traffic is yet to commence, in earnest. By the end of the day it will be gridlock from town-ground to the bridge over the Metaniko River.
The incongruities of these islands forever amaze me… We have a man in a hand made dugout canoe…
All alone in the ocean in such a small carft…
My question would be what’s he catching right there… right in the middle of the track the big ships take to their berth?
I wish I had his job.
Life is a curious business. Like the old story about the aid worker who met the young man fishing on the beach… The aid worker told the young man he should come join a course about starting a business. the young guy asked “What good that would do for me?”. The Aid guy said that if he started a business he’d be able to be his own master, work for no man and make heaps of money. “What then?” the young guy asked. The aid worker replied “You can hire lots of people, increase your business and make more money”. “And after that?” queried the young guy. “Well” said the aid worker “once you’ve worked for years and made a load of money you get to retire, then you can do what ever you wanted, why you could do nothing but fish all day.”
I sit in my office, run my business and watch longingly as a bloke in a hand made canoe fishes in a busy harbor.
Life is a curious business.
Twin Black Ribbons
The road is narrow and curvy. The clouds are scattered; chased by the wind across the sky. My daughter sits beside me navigating her own dreams. My mind searches frantically for a memory of driving down this road. I can’t remember, though my body does as if it were yesterday. It relaxes into the twists and turns of the black ribbon that stretches out before and behind me. And though my eyes find comfort with familiar landmarks, I am struck by the kinship between my body, and the motion of the car upon this highway which I have not traveled for over twenty-five years.
If I close my eyes, I am19 year old bride behind the wheel of the 1971 Corvette with Cathi, my co-pilot, best friend, roadie, confidente. It’s the perfect day, the tops are off (the car’s, not ours) and we are out driving…no destination…just a need to drive somewhere else. For a time I feel like I am living in two dimensions, driving side-by-side, parallel with the 19 year old me. Same body (though so very different), same road, same inertia, different dimensions…side by side…twin black ribbons stretching before and after…at the same time.
wanna go fer a helicopter ride
Business trips are not always a pain. Got to go for a day-long ‘copter ride over the Western Province last week. Flew from Honiara to the Morovo Lagoon. Got to fly over and take snaps of our fishing camp on Rovana Island. Then we flew over Noro for a look-see. Then onto Liapari to check in on Noel and Rosie. Had lunch at Gizo, refueled at Munda then ran down hill, home, to Honiara.
It was a poor day for photography but it was great to spend a day flying. It is not all pure fun though. The hour-twenty from Honiara to the Morovo is mostly boring over-water travel. It’s pretty noisy and the earphones hurt so you zone out, read your book, try to ignore your aching backside. (the seats are not very comfortable.) But it’s worth it to fly into the Morovo and see islands and reefs as far as your vision allows.
Looking towards New Georgia, as we entered the Morovo Lagoon.
The day was hot and sunny. The haze of humidity was palatable. It was warm and sunny inside the ‘copter. The breaks we took on ground were all welcome but getting in and taking off again was and is always easy. The “bird’s eye” view is always great.
The fishing camp on Rovana.
Over the tuna cannery in Noro.
On the ground at Munda.
Flying out from Munda. Rendova is not very clear.
lift off from Gizo.
Kennedy Island.
The day eventually cleared up, a little bit.
Noel and Rosie at Liapari.
Young Liapari Ladies.
Over the Roviana Lagoon.
Honiara.
Back seat flying.
Standing At The Dig Tree
Prompted by standing in front of the dig tree,
found here: http://www.outbackonline.net/digtree/dig_main.htm
I don’t want to dig anymore.
I don’t want to think anymore.
My head is killing me. Every little thing I turn to catch a glimpse of today is bringing tears to my eyes.
I don’t want to play this game anymore.
I just want to turn around, go back to bed, pull the covers up over my head and pretend I never have to move again.
I can’t do that either. I know that.
The kids need to eat…the dog has to pee.
So many people are depending upon me, my calming voice, my compassionate sense of integrity…at least that’s what they tell me.
How did I get to be this person?
It is what I always wanted to be, always wanted to do, just not the way I thought it would be. This isn’t exactly the how of what I wanted things to be. I never wanted to be at the telephone’s beck and call day and night. I do so much better with people when we are talking in person.
Then there are my children. All I ever wanted was a family, a safe place for the kids, for me. A space we could trust.
Everything is all in the details. I have what I want, basically, mostly, simply not in the fashion that I have been wanting it.
it is in my power to change the way things are, to turn them in the direction I am wanting them to go.
But my question returns again and again to how…
Let me blame it on the coming full moon….let me blame it on the weather…let me blame it on the economy..something..whatever excuse it takes to make me feel less weak and less out of control…less tossed about in stormy seas….
But, I can’t do that. I hate blaming any and everything else. I don’t like that. I would rather accept the blame, man up and take the responsibility, even when I know it’s not me, not mine to shoulder and bear. I know it’s easier for most people to blame others rather than accept things as their own issues. Life with those exes taught me a lot about that. More than I care to mention.
So, where do I go from here? What do I do?
Where do I start?
I was asked this question today, via bloglandia: “If no one had ever told you who you were, who would you be?”
Oh, the places within me that resonate for that question, crying to be heard, to be understood, to be set free…
I have no choice now, now that my whining here is done.
I have to pick up my shovel and go digging…
I will let you know what I find. It may be easier for me to tell you than it is for me to tell myself…
Thanks for listening…
written by Tabitha K
http://onthewrongsideofthemirror.wordpress.com/
http://knittingjourneymanredux.blogspot.com/
Mirror, Mirror
Prompt found at:
http://dailywriting.net/mirrorceremony.htm
Sweet ever-lasting life, here I am again, wandering through these corridors, trying to find the way, any way, the right way. I know how I got here, trapped in the castle of my own mind. I am not so certain how to get back out again. I wander these halls, back and forth, up and down. I don’t know what I am looking for. There are so many locked doors. Words like ‘oubliette’ scripted across brass plaques hanging across the thresholds. This is my mind; this is my place. I have been here countless times before, but I’ve never felt so lost, this discombobulated.
There are whispers here. The very walls speak, in hushed tones. I am not afraid. These voices are familiar to me. I hear them every day. Those shy voices, not always sweet or mild, but always consistent. One may call them intuition, gut instinct, the higher self. I know them simply as The Voices. There is no meanness in them. There is no taunting. They keep the bitter voices from my past away. These voices now, they lift me up; they support me. Yet, as I wander like some lost princess in a faery dream, they offer me no assistance. I hear the sound of them all, but am able to discern no words. I cannot fathom why they should turn from me in this manner.
I keep on walking. There is a thick layer of dust everywhere. It clings like murky disillusionment, caught in the spider’s web, turned into stunning silks of greys and browns, coverlets to protect this world from turning old and disintegrating. I used to love to amble through these wide halls. There used to be torches every few feet, set deeply and soundly into sconces. There used to be well-polished chandeliers in every room. Musicians playing in the ballroom. People dancing. Others with which to while away the hours, talking and laughing, exploring the depths of the place, inside and out. The castle is surrounded by a huge garden, full of flowers, tall trees, chattering birds. Or at least it used to be. Every time I find a door leading out I find myself at the entrance to a mammoth labyrinth, overgrown, dark, and strangling. Whenever I look out any window, I see the same thing, all over again. This hungry ravaging labyrinth, lying in wait to swallow me up inside.
How did all of this happen? Where did all the glow go? Why did everything start to die off? What happened in here? Better yet, why seek out the past? There is no reason to cast blame, to find out who could be responsible. What is done is done. Better to let it go and leave it lie. Better to touch it, hold it, kiss it good-bye and lay it all to rest. How do I bring back the light to my inner realm? The life? To whom can I go to hire cleaners to scrub and dust and buff? Where can I go to gather up my violin players and pianists? Where is he with flute and fife and drum? Let them come to me and play. Let me play. Let me roam with freedom and glee throughout these hallowed halls of memory. Let me taste love, success. Let me know me once again.
It is no easy process this. It took time to sink into ruin. It will take time to raise it up again. Where can I find paint and brush? Maybe even just a crayon or two. How can I part these heavy leaden curtains, bring back the light, the glow of the Moon? I am more than willing to get down on my hands and knees, use my shirt to scrub away the grime. I shall use my tears to wash away these cinders. Let my castle be my own once again.
Please. Oh please. Just give me a clue. Give hint to which direction I should turn. I am not afraid of hard work. I am afraid of the gloom.
I hear one whisper, now louder than all the rest. I am drawn to the mirror, gallant and gilt, standing at the end of the hall. I see a face there, a fabulous conglomeration of reds and bronzes. My own wind dragon, beckoning from the other side of the mirror. Which side is mine? Where do I truly belong? How do I fix things? If things can change on one side, surely they can change on the other.
I reach out, my fingertips stroking the chilled silver surface, as my dragon friend writhes like a dog, trying to get his head scratched through the filmy glass between us. The scent of burning amber floods my mind. Something reaches out, grabs me. I am off. I fly. I can see nothing at all around me in the split second it takes for me to be snatched from one realm to not quite the next.
When I am able to see, I find myself In-Between. There is nothing here, just me, just my dragon floating gently in the non-air around me. There is no reason to ask silly questions, so I skip the normal ‘where are we?’ and head straight for, ‘what should I do now?’ Dragon chuckles, chuffing warm air into my hair to calm me. I get no other response. It seems everything then is to be left up to me. I shake my head.
Who am I? The Queen of Dreams? Do I know what to do? Or even where to start if I did have a clue? I am seeking guidance and receiving none. I look around once more. Dragon does not pause. I see support before me. I am not alone. That is where I shall start. What to do now? I dragon ride is surely called for. I reach out and grab one hefty paw. He helps draw me up so I can swing onto his back. Time to take a ride and see what we can see along this side. Time to find that space and then decide.
Dragon in the Mirror
written and drawn by Tabitha K
http://onthewrongsideofthemirror.wordpress.com/
http://knittingjourneymanredux.blogspot.com/
Letting go and moving on
I made this image a few days ago when I was thinking about how I need to let go of a negative emotional pattern that is holding me back. The seeds for this pattern were sewn in my childhood and still play out in my life today. I’ve been wandering around in the cyberspace of the alluvial mines. The links I have explored have prompted me to dig and delve in my past. I haven’t found a particular link which corresponds with my letting go image but the mood the creativity prompts I’ve been reading has generated is similar to the mood I was in when I made the image.
For your listening pleasure
Here’s a little something to listen to as you engage your inner Wild Thing:
Weighing Words
At the entrance to the Alluvial Mine you are greeted by the Keeper of the Mine.
This is very like the place Goethe writes of in Faust.
Mephistopheles: You see what great advantage it can bring?
The key will scent the right place and skip others
Follow it down. It takes you to the Mothers…..
Sink, then! I could say well say:
Rise! It makes no difference
From forms developed flee
Into realms which are from forms set free!
Rejoice in the things long vanished from our eyes
Whose files, like cloud processions wend their way:
Brandish the key and hold them all at bay
I have been driving all over the place recently, seemingly from one end of Victoria to the other. One thing about driving is that it gives you time to meditate, to reflect and to weigh things up. I remembered when the Alluvial Mine emerged and delighted in the memory of digging and Weighing Words.
Read about Alluvial Mining and consider spending some time in this magical world of the Mine. You have to use your mouse intuitively when you enter the mine.
Inside the mine I offer a piece I wrote, what seems now like long ago and far, far away
An eye for an eye
A tooth for a tooth
Within the field of rushes
Lies the heart of one
Mother, daughter, wife, sister, friend,
Whose time in this realm is done?
Within the field of rushes
Lies the heart of one
Teacher, counsellor, advocate, imagineer, friend
Who took but gave an eye, a tooth, a shoulder
Earth to Earth
Ashes to ashes dust to dust
Within the field of rushes
Lies a heart of one
Who gave more than she took
Who returns to the source
As light as a feather
Heather Blakey March 29 2005
Drawings by Heather Blakey
A brief street scene
His fingers move lovingly over the keys. Only with the gentlest caress is it possible to get anything out of the old piano. Best its best, it is, just like him. Getting on. Not very special to look at. A bit battered by life’s ups and downs, but still going strong, if a little out of tune.
But together they are beautiful. Together, they make music. Chopin and the Beatles. Amazing Grace and Greensleeves. Played on an old tinny piano with such love and joy that crowds stop to watch. A woman in an executive suit, fastidiously tucking into a pre-packed sandwich, taps her foot in time to it. A frail looking old lady sings along energetically, smiling with happy memories. Two small children dance in the sunshine.
He smiles and nods his head when people come up to leave a coin. He wears a black leather jacket, even in this heat; he is never seen without it. The grey busker’s cap is upturned on the top of the piano, but he wear the usual faded blue jeans. He is here in all weathers, hunched over his piano, perched on an old office chair, his music filling the streets. You never know where you will find him. It might be King’s Square, or High Petergate, or St Helen’s or in the Minster Yard, or round some other corner where you least expect him. It is good, plain, honest music that fits his surroundings. It is the sort of music that the uneven wonky, white painted buildings with their overhanging upper storeys and dark timbers and thick translucent glass, can recognise as something of their own.
How does he get the piano there? He is never seen pushing or pulling or carrying it. An intriguing mystery, but one that does not need solving. Better that it should remain unexplained. It is not brought there. It grows on the pavement; a new spot every day. It is at home here. The music is a part of the fabric of the streets. It mingles with the ghosts and lingers in the stones and the cobbles and it will be here long after the busker and his audience have gone.
