A Symphony Of Olives

New York City — Spring 2005

The music I hear as of late is not one of discordant melodies or random noise scattered across the sonic landscape. The music I hear is accompanied by sangria, wine, olives, guitar; and although the first movement has barely begun, I embrace this sound like no other. It has already given me hope that somewhere beyond this frenetic beehive in which I live is a place where everything I know is turned upside down, on its side, and backward; a place where all that is deemed important here is buried deep within the sea which flows through my blood.

It is there I feel the touch of the hand that comforts, soothes, loves, warms, never reaching out to grip the throat, never reaching out to stop you from living the way you want to live.

I catch glimpses between the iron and steel skyscrapers which loom like Gods over those who have embraced the weeds which burst through concrete to strangle any sense of progress one wishes to make in a time when it is often not allowed by those who have taken it upon themselves to be the arbiters of one’s life.

I catch glimpses between each plastic smile, each pair of Hollywood eyes, each touch by waxen hands. I catch glimpses of it between each face that awakens every morning ready to fight for the scraps that are dropped for them by the real enemy, the enemy that these faces, in reality, aspire to become.

In between all this is the subtle glimpse of tranquility, somewhere far away from this never ending war of conscience, this never ending attempt by madmen to compose the next movement.