Stephen Evans

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Stephen is a playwright and author of The Marriage of True Minds and A Transcendental Journey.

Time to Sing

So there’s this cricket.

He comes to visit every August, and he stays in the wall of my bedroom.  His living room seems to be the window frame by my bed, I think because it is the best place to sing. It is long and slender, almost like an echo chamber.

 

He likes to sing.

Especially at night.

My hearing is pretty sensitive. And I find I am unable to fall asleep while he (or she – we’ve never actually met in person) is serenading me.

So if I have been a little grump lately I apologize. I am not getting as much sleep as usual.

Not to be un-neighborly, but I have tried to convince him to move. I drop essential oils in a small hole in the window frame, which are supposedly too aromatic for the species. I shoot compressed air down the chamber, hoping to convince him a hurricane is approaching and he should take (other) shelter.  I put in an ultrasonic device.

None of these have worked. But I refuse to take more drastic measures. I don’t want to hurt him; I just want him to find another place to sing.

I have also tried ways to co-exist. Noise generators. Ear plugs. These help, but not enough.

I thought perhaps he might be insulted at the lengths I would go to avoid his song. If someone did that while I was singing, I think I would get the hint. But he keeps on singing, even knowing that he is singing to himself.

But it occurred to me this morning that we are the same in this way. He keeps on singing whether anyone is listening. I keep on writing whether anyone is reading.

I’m luckier than he. Once his song is done, it is gone. My words will last a bit. I can’t say how long. But longer than I will, likely. And that is one of the things that keeps me writing.

He is singing now as I write this. And as I am singing in my own way here, I think: “keep singing little one”.

Everyone needs their time to sing.

Recent Comments
Rosy Cole
Permission to sing is a wonderful thing, especially if you are raised in a family that, for strange puritanical reasons, does not ... Read More
Saturday, 12 October 2019 16:35
Stephen Evans
My father sang all his life, very nice second tenor voice. He got a ukulele for Christmas once and loved to sing along with it. ... Read More
Sunday, 13 October 2019 03:20
173 Hits
2 Comments

Memory

"I am grown old and my memory is not as active as it used to be. When I was younger I could remember anything, whether it had happened or not; but my faculties are decaying now and soon I shall be so I cannot remember any but the things that never happened."   

        Mark Twain

Autobiography

Recent Comments
Rosy Cole
Some mischievous ambiguity here :-)
Sunday, 28 July 2019 23:28
Rosy Cole
In view of the above theme, I feel bound to add this: Back in the theater again after too many years. My new play, MONUMENTS open... Read More
Sunday, 28 July 2019 23:57
Stephen Evans
Very kind! ... Read More
Monday, 29 July 2019 01:25
450 Hits
3 Comments

The Butterfly and the Bee

As we all know, I have a low threshold of fascination. Today for example as I have been working on a book, I have also been keeping an eye on my petunias. I have never had petunias before, so perhaps that accounts for some of the fascination.  But really what garnered my attention for the last few hours is two visitors: a butterfly and an bee.

Initially actually I was watching a pail of water. It’s very hot today and I had set out what I hoped would be a makeshift birdbath. As I watched the pail, the water looked still and undisturbed. But the bright sun threw a reflection of the water onto the roof of my porch. In the reflection I could see the water moving, from the wind or maybe convection currents as the water heated in the brutal daylight. The reflection also showed the rippling waves as my gift evaporated. I felt like I  had my own little Plato’s cave, except the reflection was truer than the actual. Though I suspect that was true of Plato's as well. 

But then the butterfly appeared, a large one, likely a swallowtail  (my older brother would know), black wings with blue and gold spots. She (I think) kept flying around the weeds in my little garden. I have weeds in my garden, a lot of them this year. I leave them there because I don’t hurt anything if I don’t have to and they seem to feel the same. Anyway, the butterfly kept landing on one after another of the weeds, continually disappointed I assume, and completely ignorant of the cornucopia of petunias in the hanging basket not five feet overhead. Every once in a while she would float up and I would think—there, now she’s finally got it! But, so far at least, she has not made the leap. Perhaps it was an aesthetic choice and green is her preference. But the purple and pink treasure remained unclaimed. By the butterfly anyway.

The bee came later. A tiny one—though as scarce as bees have become around here I was glad to see any—found the petunias. But instead of gorging on the large full flowers, he instead insisted on trying to make his way into the nearly closed nearly dead blossoms, skipping entirely the glorious siblings. I watched him disappear into the narrow passage, and could see the from the turbulence outside the tunnel how difficult his passage was. I don’t if he made all the way it in, nor what he found when he got there. Maybe he just wanted a challenge. Or maybe the ripened juice is sweeter. Perhaps the bee knew his business better than I.

There are many morals that could be drawn here. But I will leave it to you, and the butterfly, and the bee. My wish is simply this: May you be  fascinated by flowers.

(Image by Paul Brennan from Pixabay )

Recent Comments
Rosy Cole
This is so beautiful...and profound. A Christian friend said recently that he thought our view of heaven tended to be Platonic and... Read More
Sunday, 21 July 2019 16:53
Stephen Evans
Thank you Rosy!
Sunday, 21 July 2019 18:13
1183 Hits
2 Comments

Living Poetry

"There is nothing inorganic... The earth is not a mere fragment of dead history, stratum upon stratum like the leaves of a book, to be studied by geologists and antiquaries chiefly, but living poetry like the leaves of a tree, which precede flowers and fruit -- not a fossil earth, but a living earth"

Henry David Thoreau

Walden

 

Recent Comments
Rosy Cole
This is so consoling.
Friday, 19 July 2019 22:44
Stephen Evans
More things in heaven and earth...
Saturday, 20 July 2019 03:23
839 Hits
2 Comments

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Latest Comments

Stephen Evans Anne Hathaway Remembers
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When I wrote this, I wonder if I knew that it was (almost) a sonnet:They say that he was good, but I...
Virginia M Macasaet Anne Hathaway Remembers
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Love this! So eloquent!
Stephen Evans Time to Sing
13 October 2019
My father sang all his life, very nice second tenor voice. He got a ukulele for Christmas once and ...
Rosy Cole Time to Sing
12 October 2019
Permission to sing is a wonderful thing, especially if you are raised in a family that, for strange ...
Ken Hartke This place
30 September 2019
A very late comment on an excellent post...thank you for sharing. Everyone has a sacred space that r...