Notes of Spring

I woke up yesterday morning, disappointed in the fact that I had slept in for a day like it was. Spring has announced its dominion over the times. I stayed outside reading by a fountain, for as long as I could. Soaking in the rays of the sun, my skin baking, while my eyes soaked in pages. I finished reading Shakespeare's "Love's Labor's Lost," the epitome of the perfect spring book. Short, light, where wise men break study vows by falling in love.
Then, if I hadn't already had enough Shakespeare (which is hardly possible), there was a musical performance last night, that I just happened to hear about at the last moment, where several crafty musicians were going to perform musical renditions of dance songs during Shakespeare's time. It was going to be a whole Renaissance pageantry of sound. They called their list of songs as "The Food of Love". I grabbed my friend Sean and as we walked in I saw my roommate Steven. So the 3 of us sat down for the performance.
I sat there as they played my mind and heart trumpeting with a thousand images and feelings, and memories. When I noticed that the very thoughts that were tugging at my chest were right there before me in the personification of the 3 Renaissance musicians. Such a day as yesterday as well as today, when springtime rhythms sent all of the earth in rhapsodic concordance, these 3 musicians played each their separate instruments, parts, and tones, but with artistic accompaniment to the whole song, spilling out the entire essence and effect that the springtime douses, those who sit in its sunshine and feel it awaken from flower to flower.
The first musician was this tall, lanky fellow with a long, bush for hair. He strummed his lyre-like instrument, forming the background for the other two. I've heard and know his song well...for I spent all day long listening to it. He was Nature. And the lanky man took on the aspects of some towering tree. His hair, that windswept bush, was but the crowning foilage of inspired leaves on the upper reaches of his bark. I could hear the strings of his lyre being twanged and trilled giving appropriate rhythm for the others. His chords vibrated to the sounds of sunlight patching the earth, and the swaying of flowers in the wind. If it's possible at all, I believe that the ears and eyes are but cousins, for many sounds have their accompanying images as well. Each note that he played was the sight of a sunbeam streaming through a green leaf. This tree, the voice of nature, sparked the other two musicians to contend for the lead parts.
The next musician was the woman with a miniature cello, alternating with a violin. I've heard her song, a time or two, as well. She was Love. She wore this multi-colored jacket and had this dark curly hair. She resembled this gypsy. Her sound pierced the stage sounding deep and tragic and then light, seductive, and nasally as she waved that bow across the strings. The gypsy charmed one's ears into the heart's longing and cast amorous notes of anguish and playfulness, changing, finicky, as she fiddled and thus fell one's mind frame into her fantasy wiles of folly and melancholic frolic.
Battling with her for lead instrumentation was the third musician. And I hear his tones very often. He was Freedom piping very carelessly of the strive to not be held down by anything. He held his flute, turning it this way and that, his hands dashing across the holes. He had this short, spruce-like hair that seemed to stand on end matched with a beard. After seeing him play, I thought that he should have some little horn peeking out of the tops of his head, and a pair of hooves instead of feet. He looked like a mischevious satyr. And like Pan, he blew into his woodwind, being filled up with enough wind, freedom's respective element, and letting it flow out into the breezy voice of his flute.
-And so the music played on, as I sat there, my senses catching snippets of each voice, as their themes tried to lullaby my heart. The tall tree twirled his tiny twigs over the ringing strings. The tapestry of the times, Spring, teemed in my mind-tread dreams. Nature, that tunic of delight, tattled and rattled inside. I turned my thinking to the swinging of forest tops and the wild tyranny of the skies, winking its tingling totality in the twinkling of stars, and suns, with its tinged twilights entertwined with the winging and singing of birds, with their twitter and tweet and trils that they bring to the scenes of the warbling spring. Then tenderly, and then tempestuously the other parts sang and would fling their tangled-up themes.
Verily, verily, the foxy-eyed gypsy forced out the voluptuous vibrations of flame-voiced love on her violin. Waves of vertigo overcame one's fortification. The gypsy swerved and swindled the brave vantage-point of the striving single individual. For in the forages of spring, folks fall violently in love in front of fountains. The frothing and vigorous foaming of waters falling while the soft faces converse, no words, no verbalization, only violet-hued eyes verging into each's fiery vision. The villianess up on stage, vexes and raves, my own visions into heart-felt craves. And the vast volume of some fast female glance or vague Eve-like figure contrives and solidifies into the fanciful version of some fairy-land vixen full of love's fascination. As though, I was viewing inside the gyspy's crystal ball, the face and feature of my future wife. -And there fallen on the freshly shaved leaves of grass, my vision formed, my visage framed with that fever. My head couched and vulnerable on the heaving chest of my imagined fair nymph, her huffing breath reverberating, vibrating its woven vibe, from my pillowed head to the fancy-filled ventricles of my venting heart, while it, unfrozen and flitting, the vibrant fanning of love's foment vows its everlasting vigilance. And there fastened to each other amid flowers and fields in the fibres of love's saving ravishment, our volting love flourishes.
But then the piper pipes up, Pan the peppy satyr, proud in his hyper pronoucement, pours his gusty parts to the powerful potency of the piercing wind. While supplanting the prissy pictures of romance, replacing them with the resplendent places of this spinning globe. Plane propellers rolling to take me away. Plans of distant places crop up in my brain. Perhaps, after graduation I'll prance over into Bangkok again, and there probe the jungles getting teaching posts in paradise. Or maybe to Istanbul, and pouncing among darkened princesses and opulent palaces, perhaps, pave my pedaling way. And the satyr played on, my propensity to dwell on all the priceless possibilities for this summer. Maybe to Colorado to backpack and ontop of peaks and pinnacles give my personal praise to the omnipotent Presence and Person displayed in this panoply of creation. Please, please, I don't have any pressure from which I must appease this person or that person, or these people. I'm present in life, here, now, and independent. Pryed free from the prison doors of perplexity and dependence. Plucked is my permanence from the pavement. I can pass along, peering at life's precious prizes, like a petal pushed into the sky by the propeling breeze. My only performance, to ripen and sharpen my piercing awareness of the presence of life's passage. -And then only to, with pen and paper, give proper shape to this passionate epiphany.
Such were the sounds of the 3 musicians, and the emerging aura of their springtime themes, tickling the times, versifying fantasties, and pricking and prodding my plots