I think this still needs more detail...

I met a busker once on the steps leading up to the Castle. Framed by a graffitied door, the long-haired, gray-bearded musician sat cross-legged with a guitar and a harmonica around his neck. My first reaction was to situate myself against the wall directly opposite him- an angle at which the sun shined direct light on his worn appearance.  As I sat against the stone, the man glanced in my direction and smiled. No sooner, however,  did he tilt his head downward to watch his fingers move eloquently across the six strings on his instrument. At first, his music seemed melancholy, but before I knew it I had fallen into a gentle stupor, as intrinsic melodies bounced off the enclosing walls and into the calm air above us. It was not sadness, but instead a man sharing his soul with the world- the story of a passion that led him on a much-anticipated and much-needed adventure. Everything about the moment became peaceful and reassuring; and as he let out a final, slow-moving harmonic note, I realized I had just been part of a most-intimate concert.

As he prepared for his next composition, I rose from my front-row seat to place a 10 czk piece in the hat by his side. Beginning to head down the steps, I became inclined to speak to the man and instead turned back around to face him.  

“Thank you. That was beautiful playing.”                                   

“Thank you.”

“I’m Kelly. It’s nice to meet you. I play some guitar myself…”

“It is nice to meet you Kelly. I am Ee-oo-lay. You must sit here and play then.”

Much taken aback by his invitation, I naturally hesitated. But as he stood, Ee-oo-lay handed me his guitar and innocently urged me to replace him on the step. Reminding myself that these were the kind of experiences I had been hoping for, I complied with his request and took the guitar from his hands. To my touch it felt smooth and well-kept as if it were the most treasured possession the man owned. Once situated, I looked up at the musician approvingly, and he once again produced a smile.

I began to strum the few chords I knew, and Ee-oo-lay soon blew in on his harmonica.  For a brief moment, our stories became one, as we provided for each other what the other needed… in the form of melody and harmony. Studying his face as he played, I could see it warming with each note and lifting him to the place where he had always wanted to be.

Though never to be played again, our tune was forever scripted into my memory of a surprisingly captivating busker in Prague.

When the playing ceased, I thanked Ee-oo-lay one last time.

“I enjoyed playing with you.”

“Yes, me too. My English not so good,” Ee-oo-lay smiled.

“I think you have great English. Goodbye, it was nice meeting you.”

“Yes, thank you. Good bye.”

As I took my final look at Ee-oo-lay I realized that the weathering of years past was no match against his music- against the soul released by the music, and against the person who shared the music with the people around him. The music, and more importantly the busker, had overcome and would never go back.

Excerpt from "For Now, an Untitled Story"

Gift.

Cobblestones.

Where did Prague's cobblestones come from?

This morning I emailed my Art and Architecture teacher from last fall to find the answer.

Her response:

Dear Kelly,

it is basically the tradition way how to make roads, which somehow survived in Prague due to the effort to keep the historic center. If you think of it, to put small pieces of the stones on the muddy road is a logical and quite cheap way how to create more or less comfortable passage. This was practiced probably since the middle age. It is part of traditional craft and still practised because it has certain advenages over the "normal" pavements (it can be replaced easily, you don't need expensive machines to make it, it looks nice if you create some designs).
All the best, Pavlina Morganova

Prague quickly became an innate part of my being.  For a long while, every movement was a reaction to the city around me. It triggered thought and idea across a generously vast plane- just an endless stream of stimuli buying for my attention and for their presence on paper.  It was much too difficult to choose those I would nurture through my writing, and those I would have to leave behind at the expense of discovery by the next passerby. And so, I did my best, as I had done with Prague’s people, to capture the essence of the city as I saw it- separate from all former and future recollections.

I started with the cobblestones.

During those first months, my feet did not take well to these awkward formations. I struggled across the uneven terrain, and the unfamiliarity of the surface caused me frustration.

But not moving was not an option. And so, I reacted.

I withdrew a stone one summer evening from its position on Kovaku. It accompanied me on the spiraled walk up to my apartment where once inside I positioned it on the railing of my balcony. Overlooking the southeastern side of the city, I studied the stone in respect to the cityscape I had created behind it. Its solidarity contrasted against the uneven, chaotic, and colorful mess that made up the backdrop. Before my eyes lay the iconic red and cream trams, passing by rows of baroque buildings; smoke from the Staropromen brewery billowing against a sea of red terracotta roofs; and a lone steeple, stretching in an attempt to match the height of the T.V. tower in the distance. From this perspective, the uneven mess was most beautiful- far more alluring than the bulky, cold, gray obstruction I had placed in front of it.

However, when I placed the stone back among its fellow stones, I realized that it too was part of the enticing unevenness that I had witnessed from my balcony. Separate it was useless, but as part of a cobblestone street, it kept alive the spirit of a city long-deserving of free expressionism. And in realizing this truth, I made my first observation of Prague.

The cobblestone bothered me no more.

Excerpt from "For Now, an Untitled Story"

Five months into my stay, I had exhausted the museums and galleries. They were fine, brilliant in fact, but I soon desired inspiration from something no one before me had already witnessed. I took interest in studying that which was newer- the people around me. Sure, as a whole the Czechs are a people that have been around for centuries, but as I looked closer I realized that they were changing every day. That different people moved in and out of my vision at all given moments. Often, I only had but brief moments to witness or interact with their existence; and then they went as quickly as they came. No one could hang them in a gallery, or place them on display in an exhibit for others to replicate for years to come. In my mind, they were all mine, and it was up to me to enlighten the world with their stories.

-Excerpt from "For Now, an Untitled Story"

some things just don't have as much meaning anymore now that I know that I am capable of being independent.

a drive on 123.

two streaming headlights

on a two-lane road

provide a clear direction, but keep so much hidden.

the rest is ready to be discovered, ready to be seen.

...if only we can trust those two streaming lights.

trust in the journey, not the destination.

Never an end.

The Fountainhead is finally finished.

Interesting how Ayn Rand seems to save the majority of her philosophy for the very end of the novel. She clearly draws readers into the novel through an easy-to-understand plot, through which we catch glimpses, and understand at basic levels, her philosophy. Yet, it is not until the last 150 pages (or so) that a reader truly comes face to face with what Rand wants her audience to understand. I think it is safe to say that this is intentional, as one can only truly grasp her philosphy once the plot and its characters are fully developed.

While I do not agree with the majority of Rand's philosophy, I believe there is still something to take from this novel. 

-I can now say that I truly understand why Communism and Facism are considered true evils. In understanding this, I come to respect Capitalism more. 

-And second, I believe that Rand's support for egotism versus altruism can suggest the common struggle that a person of faith has within their worldly existence (even though this is not, I know, her intention).

     - the knowledge that one is to be selfless, but also the need to be selfish in some contexts in order to survive in this world.

Thus closes the semester I have spent with this novel.

Next venture- Thoreau.

Harper Lee

I just met a black dog named Harper Lee.

She is named after the author of To Kill a Mockingbird.

Her owner was nine years old when he read the story.

In the beginning when Scout is describing her town, she mentions the heat, and a black dog that was panting heavily within it.

When he read that line at age nine, he knew that he would own a black dog named Harper one day.

Today, Harper Lee is a search and rescue dog. She has helped in missions throughout all of the great floods and hurricanes surrounding the past seven years.

She also knows Spanish and Sign Language.

Now I want one.