Semi-Daily Scribbles

Gary was inordinately preoccupied with music. It was a major part of his day-to-day existence, and that was the problem. Gary was tone deaf and couldn't keep time to save his life. Despite these deficiencies, music nevertheless issued from his pores and filled the air around him. His head hummed with one concerto after another. 8th and 16th notes flashed and danced in front of his bloodshot eyes. Gary couldn't walk down the street without a passerby stopping to pick out the faint refrain coming from the open window of a brownstone. The source, of course, was never an open window. Songs clung to Gary's skin like sweat. He longed for a release from the constant barrage of bass and treble notes, but he dared not make his request heard. The god of music would be displeased. Bragi chose Gary to be his clarion because Gary walked a lonely road. He was a fixture in the places that needed poetry, like bus stops and plasma donation centers. There were still many pockets of humanity that did not sing Bragi's tune. The god needed help to enchant the lost and lyricless. Gary's beat was the out of the way places. He measured up to the task as well as anyone.