a work out: read at your own risk

Thanks for reading my blog. I worked out after work. It was 5:20 when I got out of the office, carrying my laptop computer with a shoulder strap. The case is leather.

I worked on shoulders, trying a new free-weight exercise the gym employee/body-builder/personal-trainer showed me. It is new. And it seems to be working. Well see...

The sky was blue in the very late afternoon. The clouds were finished billowing; white fixtures in a fading sky. The pool was a competing blue, but not that blue. I watched the pool, filled with water and empty of people. The palm trees on the patio really did look dead. The disco ball was not turning except for the movements caused by the breeze. I went inside.

After my workout I took my work home. The promise of a paperless office fleeted from my brain. The stop-and-go traffic of a near empty downtown road with a lot of red lights kept me going and stopping and waiting and going. The cycle of the universe repeats infinitely. The artificial lights of a city sparkle in infinitesimal brevity compared to the eons the real stars shed light on the moon and her sisters. Don't forget her nearby brother.

I didn't forget. I'll always remember; for as long as always lasts. I thought about practicing the piano; my hands around Rachmaninoff's big chords. I would enjoy the music after I jump into it. Without me, music is like an empty pool. Do you want only the stars to hear? Do you want the moon to gaze into an empty pool?

Emptiness?

Is that on the menu this evening? Can you put that in your day-planner? Is that what I said? I can't hear myself think; not with this thundering piano. A prelude to a full moon reflects in the empty pool; which symbolizes one's dormant emotions. Waiting for a green light on an empty city street can seem an illogical stopping point. But we'll put the brakes on that. I will dive into the pool of the universe's sweet music and return to the surface so that I can breathe.

The airless emptiness is filled with something else. And the mystery of existence is lost in stop-and-go traffic despite the fact there are no other travelers on this journey. And the city lights make for a terrific title of a book that strives to catch an era. And a saxophone player proves how good his ear has become to no one. It takes one to know one. There is me. And then there is no one.

-James Legare