SUNDAY MORNING IN THE CITY

The sounds of the city.

On Sunday mornings I come to the office early to pursue my novel and my memoirs - that being only time that I can expect to get anything done on anything that might actually financially benefit me.

But even then the lure of downtown comes creeping into my office. And, inevitably, the sounds of the city slink into my consciousness - and slowly seduce me away from my work. Leaving my office door open, I hear the sounds of Spring Street though the windows of the vacant offices down the hall and I listen to a lone trumpet player sweetly playing Moon River with a sad, unusually melancholic lilt.

Now whether that is the musician's heartfelt response to this particular song or his own personal feelings as he discovers that the mere handful of pedestrians that pass him by are unlikely to be able to afford to fill his awaiting, upturned hat on the sidewalk, I do not know. I only wish I could afford to pay him to remain there the remainder of the day so I could continue to enjoy his playing.

Then, though the opened windows that face my building's courtyard, I can hear the sporadic enthusiasm of a power drill - the patron tool of all artists - busily working screws into studs and drywall for an art space (Kristi Engel Gallery) in the adjoining suite that will shortly become yet another contributor to Gallery Row.

But I can also hear the monotone sound of the sewing machine of the young fashion designer across the air well, the muted sound of a score for an Indy film being mixed next to her and the playbacks from a recording studio across the hall from them both.

And I find myself thinking more and more about all that is surrounding me rather than paying attention to my word smithing of the never-ending travails of Jed Matthews. in The Long Rider.