Stella gets her groove back...AGAIN

My creative side has been quite unleashed lately. It's nice to get back into a routine that allows for that. Not only have I been writing consistently, I've been reading A LOT. I always read during my lunch at work and really how it's going. I read a short story from Ernest Hemingway, then continue on The Know-It-All, a book about a guy reading the entire encyclopedia Britannica. And at home I just finished a book by Nick Hornby (creepily pictured right) called Songbook. I thoroughly enjoyed his style and his take on pop music. I have another book of his that I'll probably start today, but it was a very quick read.

In regards to my Cranston-ing, I've decided to hold off on another album and to focus on the cross country collaboration. We've kind of chosen a theme that I've been composing to, a sort of church theme. More spiritual I suppose, but also inspired by the architecture and beauty of old cathedrals and such. I've come up with 5 or 6 songettes and am really getting into it.

So, it is really nice to find a balance between reading, writing, and composing. I've labored under the assumption that I had to choose between my writing and music for the last two years or so, but words from a few people have really helped me realize how stupid that is. It's like Bruce Wayne and Batman. I can't choose to be either of them. They are one and the same.

So here is yesterday's promptly. I tried to put a much bigger idea into 500 words and will probably expand on this one, but try and fill in the gaps. That may help.

She'd passed him the note years ago, when he was studying abroad. He'd never had it translated. Until now.

Raymond had loved and lost several times since his return home. He tried to forget her. But with each new lover came great disappointment. They were not what he desired. Occasionally he would find one or two aspects that sent him to a state of pure bliss. Of course those things would soon be drowned out by their true personalities. They weren’t bad. They just weren’t her.

Etheline. She was what he dreamed of. She was what he left behind. Ray was enchanted by her eyes, crippled by her voice, delighted by her skin, incapacitated by her lips. They had four weeks together. She was a native of Florence, Italy. Etheline had traveled the world, but was in love with her home. She made a living giving tours to people studying abroad and selling flowers on the street. Ethaline loved both of those things and knew that she could never leave.

Raymond had been in one of her tour groups and immediately fell for her. He asked many questions on the tour, most of which a five-year-old knew. But it was a chance to talk to her. He found her selling her flowers outside a bakery the next day. Raymond asked her to create a bouquet fit for a queen. He bought it and handed it to her with a juvenile smile on his face. Her eyes widened and said, “But I am no queen.”

They saw each other every day, taking walks and doing all the things a couple that has been together for twenty years do. To Ray it was perfection. Her hand would crawl inside of his in a way that tickled but was incredibly intimate. There was nothing he didn’t love.

On his last day in Florence, Raymond proposed to Ethaline. He asked her to come back to America with him. They would live a charmed life, he claimed. Ethaline looked at him and stroked his face with the back of her hand. A tear escaped from her eye. She turned for a moment, scribbling something on a scrap of paper. She placed the paper in his hand, kissed him softly, and turned. She knew he would be disappointed and heartbroken, but it was all a dream to him. She knew they would not be able to continue living their life in America. She would be grounded there. This was where she belonged. He did not.

Raymond went to the airport full of rage. The note was in Italian. She knew he couldn’t read it. He had planned it all out. He had planned that moment the day they met. This was not how it was supposed to be. He returned to America.

Years later, after Raymond’s failed attempts at finding a suitable replacement, he had the note translated. It was one sentence, clear and concise: “I was born to fly.”

He crushed the old paper in his hand. Raymond went out into the night, searching for another Ethaline, one that wouldn’t need to fly.