memory

i remember
what i've never known,
but always been.

existence

unified we emerge, a fractal growth towards the
heavens.
one.
two.
thirty two.
the pattern begins.

Look But Don't Touch - A Song for Jess

Look but don’t touch. That phrase sits in a parent’s tool belt as long as a nail does a carpenter’s. Sophie’s mother had used it and reused it and reworded it more than any other mother in the Mid West, but that’s all little Sophie knew how to do; touch. The phrase was nonsense to her, however. How else could one truly assess their environment without touch?

Now 26 years old, Sophie didn’t have her mother spewing nonsense at her but an Asian woman in a suit. She was in San Francisco at the Museum of Modern Art stroking the turquoise oil Matisse applied to his painting, “Woman with a hat.” When Sophie continued, undeterred, the Asian woman had two men wearing ties give her a complimentary tour of the rotating doors. They were a ’95 steel work by Botto.

Sophie remained grateful. She had experienced the art in a manner others were blind to. A smile grew and she began to run her fingers along the brick wall as she walked barefoot down Third Street. You see Sophie appreciated a sense that was gravely undervalued in her culture. People were so oblivious to their surroundings; precariously relying on sight as their guiding mantra. Sophie welcomed her vision, but received much greater satisfaction from touching things. Still, she was aware enough to know there were yet undiscovered dimensions to life that she desired to recognize – dimensions she would explore through touch. A dirty man, bare from his waste down, mumbled something to her. She nodded as she passed. Sadly, this man was more sentient than most.

In the park Sophie spotted a longhaired young man near her age waving his fingers madly onto a Casio keyboard as he sat. He performed across the grass. An empty shoe sat beside him. Her eyes exhausted she approached. The Casio man was so caught up in shouting and banging he didn’t notice Sophie until her fingers began running through his lengthy locks. But unlike so many meetings in her past this man allowed her to touch as she pleased until his song was finished.

“I like your hair.”

“See why I have such a hard time getting rid of it?”

Sophie knelt to his level and guided her fingers down to his keyboard, stealthily sliding it from his lap into her own. She stroked the keys and closed her eyes, gently pressing – feeling – each one.

“You feel the life in this, don’t you?”

“Don’t look. Feel”

He thought for a moment. She smiled, opened her eyes, and handed it back to the young man, who remained transfixed.

“You’re speaking through the keys. Instead allow the keys to speak through you.”

Sophie stood up, waved, and spun sauntering back across the grass. Curious, the young man closed his eyes and felt. Each. Key.

Cars honked as she absently crossed the street. It wasn’t 48 hours later that Sophie, dissecting with her fingers a half eaten sandwich, ran into the young keyboardist again, this time in Union Square. And this time he was sitting, eyes closed, not shouting, but singing. Not banging but feeling. And the shoe beside him contained more than one green piece of paper. As she approached, Sophie noticed something in the man’s voice. Frustrated by her inability to identify the sound she ditched lunch, sat behind him and began to rub his shoulders. Again, the man finished without flinching.

“Thank you,” He whispered.

“You’re now aware of the keyboard, but not yet feeling it’s essence. Close your eyes and tell me what color it is.”

…

“Black. White.”

“No.”

She quickly stood up.

“What’s lacking? What is it you can’t hear?”

“Be true to yourself.”

Sophie turned and left, patting the skull of each pedestrian she passed on her way. The young man remained silent and still. His eyes closed. He caressed the Casio.

Another week passed but Sophie had noticed something different about the streets of San Francisco. They seemed a lot more noisy to her. While as grimy and golden as ever, she began to notice bits of conversation. But like a French film, she could only admire the beauty of it, without truly understanding. Near the wharf, an interaction between a child and his father caught her attention and she sat to observe.

The father was pointing across the bay at a ferry mumbling nonsense. The child’s eyes followed, but for a moment a sunflower left lying near the water’s edge captured his attention. He cautiously brushed it with his foot and waited a moment before grabbing the flower and thrusting it upward towards his father’s babbling face as an offering. The father stopped speaking, momentarily absorbed by his child’s curiosity. He took the flower, gazed at it, pet it, smelt it, then kneeled to the eye level of his son.

“Thank you.”

“I love you, daddy.”

The two hugged…

Sophie, transfixed by what she had just witnessed and heard was startled when someone began massaging her back. It was the young keyboardist. Slowly she succumbed to the manipulation of her muscles by his weary fingertips. It was rare for her to be the touched, but she liked it. A lot.

The two sat in silence for a while, communicating by feel alone. Finally, she turned, relaxing his grip. Their gazes met.

“I want you to listen.”

The keyboardist sat back with his instrument, now painted a golden yellow, closed his eyes, and laid each finger slowly onto the keys. With a deep breath he began to play. His fingertips gently sank and rose – in harmony with every note. As he opened his mouth and music flowed outward something powerful and soothing fell over Sophie.

She could hear.

copyright 2010 thomas fitch

Familiars should be vegitarian

Strangers meet.

Seventeen percent gone.

They greet.

Fifty four percent gone.

They eat.

Twenty nine percent gone.

These two ate three months ago.

They are familiars.

Familiars greet.

They eat.

They eat meat.

One hundred percent gone.

have i or haven't i

I wrote her a letter.

Didn't give it to her though.

I probably never will.

She reads too much anyway.

People read.  People write.

In that order.

Why is that?

Which came first?

What are circumstances so much that the words some poor soul poured out at some point in time make their way in front of my eyes so I may glimpse into the essence of another suffering the same condition as I?

The odds that I, Thomas Fitch, read what I read are immeasurable.  World renowned authors have written countless books that I haven't and never will even touch.  Billions wont touch.  But somehow I read a book this morning.  Somehow the stars aligned and God gave his blessing that the words of another human being may be passed onto me.  It boggles my mind.

I'm writing a blog.

Haven't posted it yet.

I probably never will.

No one reads blogs anyway.

life's journey

I began this journey alone

Strolling down life's path

Things appeared new, interesting...scary

Abundant.

I learned

To be comfortable in my journey

To be trust in myself

In my instincts.

But then I met another

Also on a journey

For a moment we walked together

Sharing what we had learned.

I smiled

Neither of us knew where we were going

Only a general direction

A direction we both partook.

Enjoying the company I got lazy

Lost

I forgot who I was

Which direction I was headed.

I stumbled

There were things in the road I didn't notice

Again

Many unforeseen obstacles emerged in my path.

It became more and more difficult to share this route

There was only room for one

We held on a moment longer

Savoring what we knew could not last.

I stopped

Looked around

I had wandered off coarse

Our journeys no longer coincided.

So we part ways

Each a little smarter

Each a little hurt

And a lot more determined.

I continue this journey alone.

morning walk

It's 9am and I'm hungry.

God decided the day was best dressed in a metallic grey ensemble accented by plunging gemstones

An interesting choice considering subtle pallets were so last season

Not wanting to argue fashion with the creator, I don a vogue proof jacket and begin my journey

Barefoot.

Festivities of the evening prior still hold leverage over my activities

I walk slowly as each quick movement grates my

Fever

My soles find the wet pavement invigorating

Like Mr. Miyagi, it encourages my damp feet to pick up their pace.

The fever shrinks as what seemed to only be a dollhouse a moment ago grows quickly into a lavish hotel

Has that always been there, I wonder

With no time for idle thoughts the voice of Mr. Miyagi swells with strain as

My stomach joins in his chorus.

Food.

FOOD.

I reach a corner and look right

Victory stares right back

As I size up my destination a bird chirps from across the street telling me to come.

My stomach commandeers my character and I run

Run

RUN.

As I approach salvation God, in true fashion queen status, impulsively corrects the outfit of the day

A beam of light guides me to the door and I open it

Consumed by satisfaction.