Refracted Neurons

Billy Collins makes me jump up and down.  This is from his book Nine Horses, called "Poetry": "Let the playwright with her torn cardigan and a dog curled on the rug move the characters from the wings of the stage to face the many-eyed darkness of the house. Poetry is no place for that. We have enough to do complaining about the price of tobacco, passing the dripping ladle, and singing songs to a bird in a cage. We are busy doing nothing- and all we need for that is an afternoon, a rowboat under a blue sky, and maybe a man fishing from a stone bridge, or, better still, nobody on that bridge at all."

With the economic downturn and a fair share of change and so on, I've been really craving rainbows and unicorns.  So I was delighted by the turn of events that occured last weekend.  I was sitting in a greek restaurant in Fremont eating dolmades, when I started to hear what sounded like a marching band. Well, it was a marching band.  About 15 or so people carrying an array of instruments.  They were dressed carnivalesque, one wore a monkey mask, and their playing was actually rather good (if you happen to like that sort of thing).  People were following them, and laughing, and generally having a good time. The woman at a table next to me said, "They must be a bunch of 20-something misfits." Because that's what freaks do apparently.  I should see if they need a majorette.