Meditations from Birdland

It was the night of the 11th, February 2017, and I sat at the bar after an internal pep–or rather, inspirational monologue I shared with myself out on 8th and 46th. I said to myself, “look at where you are and everything that lead to your being here.” Those little things that felt lonely left my being in a sweeping flush like the blood that ran through my face the night before — after half a pill, no bigger than a fingernail sent me into a spiraling slumber. I sat at the bar feeling a little nostalgic for a time that predated my own. No, I wasn’t Rick in Casablanca, but in that moment Birdland felt like Rick’s: a place of neutrality, where the only thing that mattered was the music–and maybe the drinks. Sipping from a cordial glass, I felt as though I had escaped; escaped to the special place of reverberating sounds of Brazilian brass and drums; to escape from a broken heart and to avoid the war going on outside. Most people would only read the headlines, but the blood had already been spilt, and lives were being ripped apart from within, from one another, and from homes of many sorts.

As I found myself in a pleasant place, the melancholy never escapes me. I wonder, if all mankind was at stake, would anyone stand up and fight for it? Maybe I’m wrong to think these thoughts, but I cannot say for sure that the world is worth saving to most men. This earth, a once divine garden, now seems more divided than it’s ever been — or is it the way it’s always been?

Meanwhile, the bartender was kicking out the noisy Russian for not shutting his trap. Maybe this little victory in the bar would amount to something bigger. I can only imagine the way the butterfly flaps its wings and the tree in the forest falls without a sound.