The Band Plays....

It strikes me odd that we can sit on a crowded porch of a bar listening to live music with waitresses bussing empty bottles of beer and half-eaten appetizers, between a bunch of close friends and even more acquaintances, and yet we can still have an acute sense of being alone.

They sit only 10 feet from each other, each pretending as though the C- band is the next big thing to hit iTunes - pretending as though they are mesmerized by lyrics that my 5th grade brother could write. They can not look at each other. Even a quick glance would only admit defeat... admit guilt... admit sorrow. 

And as they remain and friends slowly leave together, their dependence on the band only intensifies. Yet she wants to be here. He's here. Why would she want to be anywhere else. If he would only look at her, she would be at his feet. 

He has become a professional at gazing at her when she's not aware. He can recall in detail most all of the backs of her t-shirts. He knows she bites the cuticles on her left hand when she's nervous and rubs her forehead with her right when she's tired. He knows the pattern of the freckles on her arms and neck. But he has forgotten the color of her eyes - they have not met his in a long time.

She is alone.

He is alone.

Even in this crowd their isolation is only intensified by the tired love ballads the band is now covering. "He is the one that needs to prove himself to me," she thinks. "She is the one who needs to prove herself to me," he thinks. Yet what is to be proved? That each of them struggles with selflessness? That they both are broken?

On a porch, at a bar, it is odd that we can feel so alone when we share so much.

The Band Plays....

New pieces of art by bo odom