A Slow Rising Crescendo

Hot air will pass over the grooves in the reed. Following the grooves of potential splinters, it passes over flying lightly into the open chamber of the barrel of the instrument to which it is assigned a note...assigned a destiny and a purpose. Each pad of the instrument closes, sectioning off a certain percentage of the air passing through to deliver, in a shrink-wrapped package, a note upon the ears of the world. At first it's forced...we're forced, to go in directions we weren't made to follow. But with each closing hole, and each blocked direction, we find a new passage that leads to freedom and into the vast open to be shared with the infinite abundance of audible destinations. Lewis and Clark experienced a variable of this type of freedom and seclusion. The mighty Colorado forced them in directions that weren't necessarily on the map, but ultimately led them to the freedom they had the passion to follow...whether it was planned or not.

We follow the direction and the flow of the tide. Swim against it and you drown like a virgin amongst today's hip scene, but swim with it, and you have the opportunity to take the turns and abrupt stops that are required upon yourself. We rise and fall, rise and fall into oblivion and upwards like the phoenix rising out of ash. Reborn into something abundant and fruitful where we fall upon the infinite abundance of audible and mental destinations. Who hears us we can only hope for, but we can't control. If you have a song, sing it to those who want to hear it. If you have a picture, draw it for those who want to see it. If you have a story write it for those who want to read it. If you have a crime commit it against those who deserve it, and if you have love deliver it to those who have never truly felt it or know it's consuming power. Don't be surprised if you're turned away, but don't let your message fall on deaf ears. Just because you're turned away at one corner, doesn't mean that the childhood of wasted opportunity wants to waste yours.

Rise above the decaying monotony that surrounds you. Be a light that shines. Be the note that is delivered at the apex of the solo. Be the color that draws all attentions to the decipherable message within the picture. Be the moral of the story. Like a rocket climbing the stratosphere, we jettison our solid rocket boosters to climb into the clear blue cold of silence that holds only purity...the type of purity that looks back on the world and sees what is left. The madness, the mess. Move awkward in your gravity deprived environment and see your reflection in the face of the sun. Because in your orbit, you hold the highest note...higher than a piccolo with fingers at the end of a high "C"...and your mercurial rise shall be the justification for us all, but more importantly, for yourself.