Rainy Alley

Entering a dark alley, the rain pummeling me, I head toward the only open door. An art gallery greets me, it's warm and inviting, but the door has been open a little while. The cold air sweeps across the floor chilling me to the bone. Van Gogh's Starry Night over the Rhone hangs on the wall, while his self-portrait leans against the same wall. Weird, someone put these paintings up and left the door ajar? They can't be real, maybe they are replicas?

The little gallery offered a piece of meaningful advice as I began to wonder why the globe had no continents. "Collect moments not things." It touched me in a way that in that very moment I tried to stay present and remember every detail of the room.

Walking back out into the alley, the uncovered manhole was oddly inviting. Dropping to my knees, peering in, I could smell beer, and hear the faint music from an old timey jukebox. It had that background scratch noise, giving it a sense of realness to my ears.

I climbed down the ladder and to my surprise and entire underground bar awoke my senses. The rain providing an echo in between records. I walk over to the stage and tap the mic. There was no one there, why not sing a solo? Wrapping my hands around the microphone, I found my voice to Dark Doo Wop by MS MR in a empty bar underneath a Rainy Alley, maybe you should stick around.


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