In the Arena: A Childlike Haze

We arrive at the doors. This memory is one of a dream; a dream distant and indefinite. Men tower over me with flashlights and paper wristbands in their hands. I remember in a childlike haze, the sight from their forearms to their feet. I was delicate then, I was young then. A heart composed of infinitesimal gemstones.

Master of manipulation, he was. Father talks to the tower men of the entrance. The process is uncertain in my mind, but his efforts are still appreciated. We made it inside, in the arena, music and cigarette smoke swirling like my mother's burnt sienna curls. The arena lights and music start and we sit in those red covered seats. I hear words through a microphone projecting through the hollow body of the building. He cared for my comfort. Declined, we sit listening to the notes composed and melodies spoken, "...be scared of it all, sometime the rain's gonna wash away what I beleive in..."

Show's over and we walk side by side. Father: tower of influence. Son: young learning eyes. My ears had that buzzing sound; the sound of lively hood. The buzzing sound was of notes composed by an orchestra of seashells resting in my ear.

I heard them then. I hear them now. These memories are like seeing through an iridescent wing. I saw through those young learning, daydreaming eyes. That tower of influence vanished. I'm a tower over myself. I say, "Tower, show me how to live. Show me how to breath again..."