The rats, the expectations, the possibilities?

They were philandering in the midnight lined garbage cans. The rats, or the hungry? Both? I didn’t look to see. It was enough to keep on walking. The churning, the loitering of the plastic ballerina-dancing- jewelry box song via a cold, steel, garbage can on the side of a Brooklyn thoroughfare. It’s harsh. But it’s not even winter yet. It is still temperate, mild, and accommodating enough to look as this distraction. But the senses have been so long distracted, I just keep pacing forward. It’s not interesting or compelling anymore. And I wonder what I’ve lost by that. What of myself I threw in that garbage can by choice, circumstance, or subconscious action.

With guitars and bags of gear slung over the shoulder like the work horse that I am, I was on my way home. And all I could think of was that. Home. And the little dog that would be awaiting my arrival so eagerly, with the love, warmth, and joy a person can never find in all the parties and pleasantries of even the most divine. A place something like home, but never just so. A place with the accoutrements, and the silverware, and sitting area, but never quite the same appeal, the same soul, as home as I once knew it to be. We’re all just transitory strangers to ourselves and each other at this point. Even as I walk home with my significant other, and the philandering scavengers I don’t bother to look at or perceive. I hope we can overcome this. I hope we do leave eventually. Cause these concrete livelihoods are no place for fragile hearts softly beating. We all know this.

By 6am this morning (it’s now 2:37) I’m supposed to be on a flight to New Orleans, from which I am supposed to be driving to North Louisiana, Shreveport to be precise. There is a very big hurricane to hit by night Friday. But I’m still expected to fly into the middle of the impending disaster. Is any music really that important? (No). Because no one knows the trouble at hand. This is sad, and frightening. But it looks as if I’ll just fly right into Shreveport anyway, instead of new orleans. I should just barely miss the hurricane. But who won’t miss this hurricane is what worries me.

The dollar of everyone is at a higher premium than safety, prudence, and reasonable judgment. And we’re all victims of this crutch. Hey, I have rent to pay. So. Do they? So do they.

So we’re not isolated, free orbiting beings. We are connected after all. And when this category five lands, we’ll have a whole new land of brothers and sisters stranded. But hopefully this time we’ll know better, know we should react before, not long after.

But who am I to say that? With my family in tact and a temperate bed to rest in tonight. I am no one to say that at all. But I can’t help but keep thinking of change to come. What change we can make. Or can we?

I don’t mean to be idealistic. I know the world is a mean place. But even the rats in the garbage cans have their good days. And there is more possibility for goodness than we ever knew.

Perhaps we just have some digging to do.