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the pipers song
2001-02-25 @ 23:06:42

I think I may have mentioned my resident bag piper before.

The first time I heard the pipes I thought I was going crazy. It was one of the first times me and jet had talked on the phone.

It was so faint. Like a dream, but I was very awake. I kept thinking to myself that I heard bagpipes, but, again they were so low I was not sure.

I really did think I was hearing things. I would walk outside, and not be able to hear them. Walk back inside and hear them again. It must have been coincidence, but at the time I really was doubting my sanity. A few minutes later, I went outside again, and was relieved to hear the pipes yet again, louder and more sure of them selves this time.

Now the pipes are a regular fixture here at 3535 _______. The man that plays them, the Adonis that he is, is really quite good. I open my door and turn of the t.v. in the evenings so as to hear him better. Some people think the mournful sound of the pipes is a bit annoying, I find them comforting. there is something about them that reaches down into my soul.

To my past.

To my roots.

To other times and places.

He was out there playing again this evening. It really was too warm to have the door open. Already the deep south is becoming close, and muggy with humidity. The afternoon fogs roll in draping the city in their protective covering. Fingers of the thick vapor rap themselves around the artificial mountains of downtown. The dawn looks a little different on those monoliths everyday, not unlike my beloved Florida, and Organ mountains of my homeland, but back to the piper. It really was too warm, but I left my door open anyway.

A couple of weeks ago, I decided to be brave and walk up to him while he was playing. It was the first time I had been close enough to him, to see just how striking his features and dark curly hair are. That dark curly hair, that looks like tendrils would rap themselves around your fingers as you ran your hands through it . . .

I walked up to him.

His eyes were closed.

He was in deep meditation as he played.

He never even knew I had approached him.

I backed away in silent reverence.

Letting him continue his meditation and melody undisturbed.

Needless to say, I really was quite touched. Such a singular moment. I felt as though my eyes had made a transgression, as if I never should have dared to approach.

Now I just listen.

I'll continue to open my door on evenings that are to steamy.

And I'll listen, and know that he is out there with his eyes closed, playing with all his heart.

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