Old Friend

The Florida sun was pouring down too much brightness, but I disliked wearing dark glasses so I just squinted my eyes for a better view of the highway on which my middle-aged car was dutifully rolling its middle-aged wheels.

I was on my way from Orlando down to Tampa Bay. The country here was flat, dotted with small lakes looking pretty but probably infested with alligators. Strange life here where those big reptiles might come crawling on your driveway anytime.

Was it any less strange that I should now be crossing this pancake-flat, sun-drenched country to visit this old friend with whom I had shared my early youth in a misty mountain town half the world and more than two decades away? Memories rushed back, and the road seemed less than a road and more like a bridge over a chasm of time with a face from the past waiting for me on the other side.

The Tampa skyline was visible now, looking pretty much like any other mid-sized city skyline, with just a few tall buildings clustering in the center the way big shots gathering among themselves, separated from lesser people. I drove past downtown towards a bridge crossing the bay. Near the beginning of the bridge I saw a sign urging motorists to make sure there was enough gas in their tanks. It must be a very long bridge indeed.

I drove over the immense sparkling blue water and felt my spirit lifted. I always have a soft spot for the sea, feeling much more alive when I'm close to it. On the far side of the bay was St. Petersburg with less traffic, more modest buildings, and a whiff of small-town atmosphere.

Definitely provincial, I thought when exiting the highway onto one of the narrow streets laid out in checkerboard. The houses looked somewhat dilapidated, the yards not well trimmed and the trees encumbered with dry twigs and dead leaves. They must have been dainty once, and like a bunch of tired old housewives had let themselves go at some point.

I parked in a gravelled driveway, next to a gaunt palm tree with droopy fronds half-heartedly waving in the lazy breeze. The house was painted in white and turquoise, in good taste but with overgrown weed lining the walls. Some bright flowers were in full bloom, lending a certain cheeriness to the place which would have felt neglected otherwise.

The door opened before I rang the bell, and I smiled into the eyes of a fellow I had known throughout my callow years.

Pelicans in St. Petersburg

Moonlight Sonata

I was listening to a renowned artist playing Moonlight Sonata on my CD player when Annie remarked that the classical piece sounded too creepy for her.

I looked at her, astonished. By way of explanation she said she had heard the sonata the first time in a movie where a man had been calmly playing it on his piano while the whole house had been on fire all around him. Creepy indeed.

For me, the music invariably brings me back to those childhood days when lying in my bed, looking out of my window at the moon casting its pale light into the cold darkness, I was listening to my older brother playing the mesmerizing piece in the next room and feeling awed at its unspeakable beauty. The memory has always been among my most cherished ones.

And so I realized that the way we feel about something often depends on what we associate it with and not necessarily on its own quality. Each individual mind has its own lenses to view the world with, which makes the world both rich and troublesome.

Now whenever I listen to Moonlight Sonata, I know that I am blessed being able to enjoy it. In fact, I am blessed being able to enjoy anything.

All Dressed Up and Nowhere to Go

On the radio a country singer started crooning about being all dressed up with no place to go. I smiled weakly, for I caught a glimpse of myself in the song.

Sometimes it happened that on a Friday evening, from force of habit I dressed up only to realize that there was no one to see and nowhere to go. A subsequent aimless cruise through busy streets, a dinner for one, browsing through the bookshelves at Borders, all helped me pass the time but also sharply accentuated my solitariness. Yes, I might look nice and turn a couple of heads, but what good did it do for me?

A fat lot of good could my other qualities, whatever they might be, do me either. For without that special someone to share my life, I was just a guy all dressed up with nowhere to go.

Mom's Rose

In my front yard.

Magnolias

The weather is getting hot. Magnolias are blooming. At night, under the moonlight, their stark whiteness stands out sharply against the dark leaves while their exquisite scent is discreetly wafting in the warm, summerly air.

This picture was taken behind my shop.