The musicians room

Do you remember the writers room way back when? Well here is the long awaited (Not really) sequel to one of my favorite scribbles. hope you enjoy.

The Musicians Room

The most notable aspect of the room was the clutter. Although most would call it cluttered, the owner would say it just random objects in useful locations.

For example, the clothes belong on the floor because the hamper is under the keyboard, and too full for anything more. The harmonica simply has to go on top of the dresser because if it didn’t, where would the other 11 harmonicas go? Music books obviously belong under the speakers in the corner, so that they will hold the speakers up to be heard better. Everybody knows that microphones need to be kept on the ever growing pile of paper that is always on hand, just in case the new tune pops in to head. And where else could a guitar go but leaning on the wall right next to the bed? Violins, obviously  belong by the wall next to the window because—because… Because that is the only open area space.

Most of the floor is covered in picks, capos, sheet music and cds, because if they weren’t how would he ever be able to find them? But that’s not the only thing that makes this room say, a musician lives here. Everything from the overbooked calendar on the wall right next to the Mumford and Sons poster,  to the recording software and ipods, make the owners profession clear.

But even though there are Cds in every location where there isn’t a living necessity or instrument, which some would say are a living necessity, this room is still useful. No, It can still make beautiful renditions of Moonlight sonata, all 15 minutes of it. Even though there is no room for walking, it can still have Spanish guitar ringing out the window. Who says, that even though the laundry hasn’t been done for much longer that you want to know about, that it can’t sound like bill Clinton whipped out his ol’ sax?

Actually lots of people say that. But that doesn’t make it true. Because who care what the world says? Not him, because this is the musicians room.


Pianolover’s Inspiration Monday

The prompts were a strangers thankyou and I’m the only one who can’t. I underlined them.

A Strangers Thank You

The busy shouts of rush-hour echo in my ears. They all need to go somewhere. The man with the red shirt needs to go to the football stadium. The short old lady needs to go to target. I need to make it to the train station so that I can report the weather for channel 7 news.
It’s a good job. I love reporting weather. I do it all the time. My shoes click on the stairs in time with the rain drops leaking from the sky. A heavy rainstorm is on approach and will hit southern Springfield first, before heading west towards Jacksonville.
Hmm, I should buy an umbrella, I’m headed to Jacksonville.
I reach into my pocket and pull out my days history. A receipt, half chewed gum placed back into it’s wrapper, a ticket that says Troy Jameson, train number 623 and $10.26. Perfect, I think walking into the store. I can get a red umbrella. Like that one. I love the color red because it reminds me of the sun setting the evening air in fire, as it dips beneath the mountains.
“That ‘ll be $9.99” the cashiers southern accent reminds me of the new intern., Bethany. She tried to get MY weather segment. Stupid hick. Nobody gets MY weather segment.
As I step outside, I see a stranger walk in the same direction as me. His face is long and he has a blonde beard. I can’t see his hair, which is underneath a business hat. It perfectly matches his large trench coat. As he walks past me, I hear him say thank-you.
“for what?” I raise my eyebrows.
“for this!” he teases me, flaunting my ticket in front of my face.
“hey! Thief!” I yell, hoping someone will stop him, but, unfortunately, no one does.
-Sigh- It’s okay. I wanted to walk home anyway.

∞                            ∞                            ∞

“Hey chuck,” I sigh into the cell phone standing out-side of my house. “sorry I missed work today.”
“Who is this?” Chuck asked over the phone.
“It’s Troy. Didn’t you recognize my number?”
“Troy?! Thank God your okay!”
“Chuck, what do you mean?”
“Listen, don’t worry about your weather segment.”
I bury my head into my hands and sigh. “Please tell me you didn’t give it to Bethany?”
“You still don’t know, do you?”
“Know what?! What are you making such a deal of!”
“Go inside and watch channel seven. You’ll see then.”
“Okay. Fine. Talk to you later.”
I step in to my house and feel the familiar cold of a house that hasn’t been occupied for a day. What could be so important? It probably doesn’t even affect me. I grab the remote and hit power, than 7. I did not expect the sight that greeted me.
A beautiful reporter with long blonde hair and a white jacket was standing in an open field. In the background was a train lying on it’s side. The reporter was saying, “I’m at the site of a tragic train wreck. The cause remains unknown. Luckily it was a small train and wasn’t very full. 17 have sustained serious injury and are currently in the hospital in critical condition. 49 have escaped with only minor injuries and remain in the hospital for observation. A handful of lucky people, 7, remain unscathed. Shockingly only one death has been reported. This man had no identification on him and no one is sure of his name yet. If you have information regarding the identity of this man,” She said, as the screen zoomed out to show a mans face, “please call us at….” here the phone number for the news station flashes onscreen.
Who could that be? I wonder. To the left of the reporter is a very recognizable face. I see a man with a long face and a blonde beard. His hair is hidden underneath a large business hat. All that i can see of his body, is a blood-stained trench coat.
How can the world just keep on going? I wonder. this man just died, because he got on the train I was supposed to be on. I should be dead, but im not. And no one know or cares. life goes on.

∞                              ∞                            ∞

“This is Bethany Hodges, bringing the weather to you.” I turn the T.V. off. Years later, I’m the only one who can’t get over his death.
‘It doesn’t make that much difference’ They say. ‘You never even knew him’ ‘Let life go on, move on’ But what they don’t realize is that I already did. It does make that much difference, it changed my life. I never would have let Bethany even help me with the weather segment, but now I just gave it to her. I never even knew him, but he was still a person with a family and a life. Just like people would say of me if he hadn’t stolen my ticket. And i am letting life go on, I am moving on. In fact my life is moving on even better than before.
I can now enjoy each day like it was my first, and live each day like it was my last, because a strangers thank-you has changed my life for the better.

* * * * *
Hope you like.

Pianolover’s Inmon XVI

The first one inspired by “I Can’t draw love, but I know it when I see it” (Thankyou Pete) and the second one was inspired by a line in the first one (I underlined it for you). The first one is kindof weird and I’m not sure what the point of it is but thanks for reading anyway.

It’s Everywhere

What is it like to be normal? I never have been. I’ve always seen things. Seeing other people’s happiness is why I will never be classified as “normal”. When I see someone, I can see their lives.

I see the young writer, who was just published the first time. I smile at the young man, who just had his first kiss. I’m just as proud as the musician I see who is so proud of the work he spent hours perfecting.

I’m seeing Joy. Or at-least, that’s what I think it is. That’s another reason that I don’t fit in; that I am an outcast. I can’t understand this thing that people call emotion. But I’m not sure I want to. It doesn’t seem as good as some people say it is. Because joy isn’t all I see. I can also see, what do you call it? Anguish? Sorrow? Pain?  Whatever you call it, it’s everywhere. But I don’t want to feel it. I can almost feel it. I can see it.

It’s in the back-alley where the mother grieves for her lost son. It’s in the parking lot where the perfect relationship ends for no reason. It’s hiding inside the widower in the office, pretending everything is alright.

So that’s probably why I’m not “Normal”, because I’m the only thing without pain in this pain-filled broken world.


When I wake up in the morning, I hop in the shower. Then I’d eat a quick bowl of cereal before rushing upstairs to brush my teeth and grab my back-pack. But I’m not perfect. I forgot to make my bed after my Mom told me too.

I have a specific spot that I sit in on the school bus, just like most of the other kids. I blow bubbles in-between chatting with my friends. And we talk about the same things most of the other boys talk about. You know, normal things. Sports, hobbies and friends. We talk and laugh about how Joe’s 2nd string cornerback for our school, how hard barre chords are on guitar and how Troy’s friend embarrassed himself.

Although I could hang out with them all day, we have to go to school. In math, I pass notes occasionally just like most of the kids do sometimes. I’m not really one to stick out. I got a C in English. But I do have a favorite subject. I like history. But I have to wait until after lunch.

So I grab the same “Mystery-meat-casserole” that all the other kids are forced to try. My eyes scan the lunchroom as I look for Troy and Joe. But I can’t find them so I just sit at a random table. But as I sit down, one of the kids at the table yells at me, “Freak! You can’t sit here your too much of a weirdo! Only normal people can sit here!”

Sigh- highschool drama.