Night Music

Eine kleine Nachtmusik you awaken my spirit.  Your vibrations resuscitate me.

Just when I think that I’ve heard all of you, my hearing discovers more of you, and I’m touched by your simple complexity.

For forty years, you sat unpublished, rejected by the world, but your greatness not quenched.  From the Mannheim rocket theme ascension in the allegro, to the lively tempo of the last movement, the masterpiece serenade is breathtaking and childlike.

Four years after composing such perfect, mathematical loveliness, the end came on December 5, 1791 at 1 AM.  Interred in a common grave, St. Marx Cemetery holds a marvel that indicts the planet for its complacency.

A common grave for such a revelation—is this how to give honor to a genius?

What of riches and treasure, should not such a virtuoso be bestowed all of the world’s wealth?  Yet, a pauper was he.  In the end, not even a headstone to mark the place of final rest.

I do not forget you.

When I am at the end of my inspiration, I hear your brilliance and believe in heaven.

In my darkest nights, all I need is a little night music to help me make it to the sunrise.

Land of 4 Seasons

My home is in the land of 4 seasons.

Indeed, Vivaldi dreamed of it when he wrote his symphonic masterpiece.

The seasons cross over the land and feed my consciousness.

Inspiration is but a rainfall away; imagination is but a snowflake in the snowstorm.

From out of the northern wood, my heart thrives and my mind awakens.

The land is a conduit and my life moves through the seasons; thereafter, seeds planted until fruit grows in the dirt of my soul.

By my fruits, my soul is cultivated.

My fruits are my work, my love, my life.

In the land of 4 seasons, I live in the realm of the creator.  My inspiration pours out of me and I pass my pen over the clean paper until my conviction is satisfied.

The land of 4 seasons is the land of my father and mother—it is the land of my youth—the home of my heart.

Wherever time moves me, in the northern wind is where I am most complete.  Each season lifts my spirit, and when the gale storms explode across the lake, I moor my ship.

It is in the seasonal clouds where the creator dwells.

Across the land of 4 seasons, it is winter—long cold.  Under the harsh snow, my garden sleeps.

Soon, below the spring sunlight, the seed will live again; the bud will give birth to the lace leaf and the cherry blossom.  Kissed by the springtime breeze, the maple and the weeping cherry will touch once more in the garden.

In the transformation of the seasons, as the garden’s breath passes over the dust of my skin, my heart will be happy.

Fly Culture

I burn to fly.

My last name means to fly.

It is a meaning I have struggled to live up to.

It isn’t easy.

When you are destined to fly, failure will result in certain death.

I am still alive.

Flying can be lonely, unless you find another to fly with you.

In the far reaches of cyberspace, my words dwell in the middle of the sky, across the stars.

I wonder—can you see them?

I have this great message and I wish to tell you the good news.

As the world spins all around me, as Iran and Afghanistan still dominate the news, as our country faces an economic crisis, as we struggle to answer the difficult questions of violence and hate—I burn… to fly.

It’s 2013 and my time must be now, or it will never be my time.

I burn like an eagle in the highest sky, looking for my prize in the heavens.

The Bolados that flew before me flew high and far.

Every sunrise and sunset, I check my wings and challenge my heart.

I am a Bolado.

I was born to fly.

I must fly…

…or die trying…