“There’s always someone singing

Instead of wondering why.”

         - Shuggie Otis

 

In the stillness of a solitary night, when all the buzzing and babbling of the day has been reduced to white noise on an untitled disk, I lie back, listen, and meditate:

 

The guitarist paces the length of the stage, nodding his head along to his strumming, the crowd madly cheering; he peers out from under his long dark bangs at a breathing Seurat

A barber taps his foot to the beat resounding from the shop’s stereo while his seated client lightly snaps his fingers

A student takes her fingers off the keyboard as she grabs the ear cups of her headphones and dances wildly in her desk chair; the expectant cursor of the word processor now seems to be dancing along

A father’s fingers frolic along the edge of the steering wheel as he waits for the green light; the clicking of the blinker becomes another instrument

The drummer bops his head as he rhythmically raps at his set; his mind floats into a realm of cloudless oblivion

A shopper hums along to the overhead speaker as he pushes his cart toward the avocados. He squints to read his illegible list

A teacher mimics the song’s beat, red markers her drumsticks, a stack of ungraded papers her drums

A farmer fills the water buckets as she boogies to the radio, mouthing the singer’s subtle lyrics

The bassist strums lightly as she sways her hips; the frills of her lustrous skirt bounce around

 

The crowd and I smile.