There are days where I really luck out on my lunch hour and get to catch a performance in the rain.
This fellow is named Alan, and he is banned from a local corner store called The Den after a feud with the owner who sounds like a bit of a dick if you ask me. Alan is a ramblin’ man, with calloused hands, a thick head of hair, and a beautiful guitar that he accompanies through a variety of music perfect for hearing on a rainy day.
I was fortunate enough to catch an admittedly poor recording of one of his original tunes and I enjoyed meeting him. He’s never met an Emory before, and it pleased me to be the first.
I was awaiting news from a friend, who knows a gal, that knows a guy. I had a question that I wanted answered and he seems to be the person that is uniquely well equipped to drop such science on me. On the way back from my lunch, a tap on the shoulder, a breeze across my cheeks, up, up, look up swirling out of mist and light, barely corporal and yet real.
“This is no good at all, we need to let more light in,”
the mist becomes rain, the fog drifts low. The walls are still rigid and now damp with the tense utterance. Like too much has been asked, and they strain under the weight of what they have been commanded.