When I saw the grand piano in the middle of the gigantic, well-appointed hotel lobby yesterday I wished what I always wish in such situations. "I wish I could remember enough Spanish and played piano well enough to sit and belt out an ironic rendition of the Eagles song Desperado in a melodramatic Spanish baritone." Why? Who knows.
I've spent the week in tourist luxury, where everything is palatial and abundant. Everything is lovely and elegant. It's really starting to get on my nerves. I'm having the exact feelings of rebellious disdain that, while attending a week-long conference in San Diego a couple of years ago, inspired me to write this:
Gods once walked these halls of stone, long ago, and men and women of great renown shed blood to water the fledgling seeds of their legacy. And here am I, coming such a long time after, following the whims of small concerns. The echo of those old footsteps still drowns my patter, and the vaulted stone around me shouts my insignificance at me like an accusation, as though my presence offends. If I could, I'd rise up like a titan and rend these old bones, casting their dismay into the dark, boiling sea. I am here and I am now. Whatever boasts these ghosts have etched into these walls, they cannot claim this feat of mine. I am here and I am now. No one has written my story. I am free.
If you're hiding in the shadows, come out and walk with me. We'll cast off these old bones and burn down this old world. We'll let the flames light these low places, chasing all shadows far away. We'll tell our own tales to the world, rooting them in truth but embellishing them with lies. We'll clothe ourselves in greatness and cast our echoes out into the ages ahead, for others to tear down.
There's just something in my nature that can't abide such materialistic gaudiness for long. It grates on me. One day I'll crack and start tearing the fine wood trim from the walls of an opulent hotel meeting room called "Ravenwell Salon" or some other ridiculous name. I'll kick off my shoes and start to pile the broken wood in the middle of the room.
"Sir," the presenter will say nervously into his lapel mic, "what are you doing?"
"Let's build a fire," I'll respond, tearing off my shirt. "Let's build a fire and dance around it!"
People will start to close their laptops, grab their packets of conference information and move slowly to the door. Soon security will show up to take me, but I won't go quietly. I'll brandish the broken leg of a Queen Anne console table at them and growl.
Hello, friends. How are you today?
Love.
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