Is it the East?... (A Bittersweet Interlude)

Dear readers, I will postpone my quest for one day to tell you some magical news. I, Herbert Sebastian Crotch, do believe I am IN LOVE. She arrived tonight in choir. Her brilliant green eyes could pierce miles of masculine flesh to puncture the noblest and guarded hearts. Oh sweet Esmeralda!

But soft! I must keep my distance. I mustn’t break her heart. I am a tempestuous soul. One who cannot be tamed or resisted. A Byron on the mast of a great ship called fate. A lion, too proud for a Pride. My Pirates heart would only taunt her and she deserves more than this Don Quixote can give. I am a bitter, winter wind and she a window flower.

You dear reader will not know, from the limited posts, how rare this actually is… To prove the anomaly of mon amour, I will venture one more confession to authenticate… For a brief moment, while passing a bar filled with those that succumb to every vice known to man, I found myself almost enjoying what Stravinsky called “the musical equivalent of masturbation”… Jazz. I blush at the confession and crude choice of words but nothing else but love could explain my delight in a sound that would normally have made me walk faster and hum Bach inventions loudly to drown out the aural and moral assault.

I also missed my cue four times tonight at choir practice. To which the “Minister” began to grit his teeth and say my name amid angry glare. But what would HE know of love but for his Toupee collection and polyester? I grow more and more weary of he that shall be henceforth named “Loki.” (The irony being “low-key”) Yes, I thought it cute as well.

Oh heart, let us go to the living room organ and improvise choral fantasies while reading passages aloud from my beloved Augustine Confessions. But first I think, an emergency trip to Dunkin Donuts...

H. S. C.
Appolo