Juxtaposition
Aug. 5th, 2009 03:37 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
plonqOn my walk in yesterday I passed a flautist on the way.
At first I thought the wan strains music were just a machination of my own imagination; a combination of the early hour, and phantom sounds amongst the cacophony of the morning city rush. As I drew nearer though, I picked out the distinctive trill of flute music on the wind during the intermittent breaks in the traffic noises.
The notes reverberated off the glass and concrete, teasingly meandering in and out of hearing at the whim of the breeze and din. Overall it lent the music an ethereal, other-worldly quality that seemed at odds with the surroundings. It was almost finding a fully bloomed daffodil growing up through a crack in the side walk. Half a block later I finally spied the source of the music.
He stood in the recess at the front of the old Royal Bank building on Portage, which now sits empty after the bank moved to its new home down the street. If he was busking for change, he had no hat nor opened case to invite charity. His only accessory, other than the flute itself, was a closed backpack leaning against his right shin.
He was playing one of those nameless, staccato, upbeat little tunes that puts an extra bounce in your step when you hear it. I like to think that I’d have offered him some change, if I’d had the change to offer. Instead I did like everyone else was doing that morning; I scurried past with hunched shoulders, avoiding eye-contact with him and the others around me.
In retrospect, I regret that I did not stay awhile to enjoy the moment of Zen.
At first I thought the wan strains music were just a machination of my own imagination; a combination of the early hour, and phantom sounds amongst the cacophony of the morning city rush. As I drew nearer though, I picked out the distinctive trill of flute music on the wind during the intermittent breaks in the traffic noises.
The notes reverberated off the glass and concrete, teasingly meandering in and out of hearing at the whim of the breeze and din. Overall it lent the music an ethereal, other-worldly quality that seemed at odds with the surroundings. It was almost finding a fully bloomed daffodil growing up through a crack in the side walk. Half a block later I finally spied the source of the music.
He stood in the recess at the front of the old Royal Bank building on Portage, which now sits empty after the bank moved to its new home down the street. If he was busking for change, he had no hat nor opened case to invite charity. His only accessory, other than the flute itself, was a closed backpack leaning against his right shin.
He was playing one of those nameless, staccato, upbeat little tunes that puts an extra bounce in your step when you hear it. I like to think that I’d have offered him some change, if I’d had the change to offer. Instead I did like everyone else was doing that morning; I scurried past with hunched shoulders, avoiding eye-contact with him and the others around me.
In retrospect, I regret that I did not stay awhile to enjoy the moment of Zen.
