Flying Song

Daddy what would you sing to me
Mommy what would you sing
What would you sing to your baby girl?

I love you
I love you
Whatever you do

Go fly my child
Go fly my child
I gave you wings
So you can fly

I will cry my child
I will cry my child
But don't you come flyin back to me

But if you cry my child
When you cry my child
You can come flyin home to me

Wherever you go
Whatever you do
I will think the world of you

When I am not your home
And you are feeling alone
You can always come flying back to me.

And we will sing:

I love you
I love you
Whatever you do

Go fly my child
Go fly my child
I gave you wings
So you can fly

Just know that you can't stay
And I will never make you pay
When you come flying back to me.

Being an Observer of Magic

Observe: notice or perceive something and register it as being significant

I sat with this man, this old man with a scarf, that is the main character in the game "what doesn't belong here". As he smoked a pack of cigarettes and sipped on espresso and seltzer, he told me of magic, of hope that is real and his years of pretending. I saw that there are options:you can pretend or you could actually experience beauty in the hands of grace before a meal. Beauty in the way a home embraces you with its color and warmth, the kind of home you encounter a couple times in a lifetime.

As we talked about the impoverished lifestyle of the "famous" street we were on, the sound of liquid streaming on the pavement behind me distracted me. I turned and sure enough it was exactly what I had imagined, yet in a different form. A large brown hound dog was urinating on the pavement right in front of the coffee shop where the man with the scarf and I were talking about the magic that seemed dead in this place. We both leaned back in our chairs and wailed with laughter as I caught his half astonished half disgusted mouth drop at this sight of this rabid beast turned pet making his mark. This dog had no idea how profound his action was at that very moment, he was only responding to nature.

The statement he made is that there was no room for nature on this famous street, only room for cold plastic seats and tattoos that tell half of a story the holder never cared to finish. Therefore it is etched on the authors skin for eternity, hoarded selfishly, never to enter the ears and hearts of humanity around him starving for that half chewed story that he gave up on.

I wanted to believe this man in the red scarf. I wanted to believe that magic does exist, a part of me was picking up on the magic inside of him. The stories he had made from being an observer in his everyday life. We don't have to live in the mundane, we can create and experience magic everywhere because it is inside of us!