A butterfly appears, not quite a Monarch, but more psychedelic, with the colors of a DayGlo painting, and the gaudy appearance of self-realization. The Truth can be beautiful, for anyone who wishes to see it, as it spreads its wings and alights a breeze. How often randomness turns out not to be.
A wandering breeze, which traverses the micro-climates of San Francisco, has a serpentine course through various neighborhoods. Some would call them barrios. Isn’t there a place for everything? Or, will we find a place where anyone can exist?
Anyone can be.
The name Monarch is not august enough. The wings are powdery, but, the powder enables her to fly. Her legs, spindly, will explore the face of a flower. And, like so many creatures, she is not as she has always appeared. And so, fly she does, with the spirit and voice of a woman. With the cadence of a woman she will caress like music.
We follow our self-possessed butterfly. The cadence of music continues.
EROS -the sex club on Market Street, across from the Safeway with its colossal sign, has been a beacon to the sexually adventurous, or at least curious, for years. There is a patio, or there was one at one time, for smokers to be sure. But, the patio was also for flowers.
And where there are flowers, there are also insects, and, caterpillars, and finally even birds. But, this was an enchanted butterfly, free from such banalities.
Some things are easier to grasp when less effort is applied, like climbing a rock face. One may grasp like a Gecko. As the saying goes, one may view Paradise. It’s that simple.
And, one may grasp a flower with spindly legs. Just watch and see.
As the denizens of San Francisco know, the days can be gloriously crisp. But this butterfly eschews clichés.
The patio’s only occupant, other than the butterfly, would be Randy. He would think of the fallen spirit represented by the painting, The Lady Enchanting, herself. In a more endearing language, encantadora. Pleas for help now engrave his memory as they were on that voice mail. And his reaction had been very commercial, very enterprising. An exchange took place that day.
The Financial District is a place to hide money, as well.
The art collecting, Marina District resident came to Randy’s office that afternoon, and, in exchange for the cellphone, and his silence, wrote a check for a cool five million to be invested in Randy’s floundering project; an idea so banal the competition refused to steal it; Can-O-Coffee; an initial public offering that had been squeezed for all the capital it was worth.
Who decides what the actual facts would ever be? “May I congratulate San Francisco’s newest millionaire?” -said Blanche. Not quite yet. But, you will be. Dare I say it?
Blanche was his nickname and he now sat across from Randy in the other patio chair, also in a low-hung towel and flip-flops. A cigarette was lit, then, quickly frowned upon despite the ostensible purpose of the patio.
We still have second-class citizens. The help will steal the silver. Some of us look better nude. Blah, blah, blah.
You are not my encantadora, my enchantress. And, I cannot picture you in high-heels. Don’t even try lip-syncing.
Blanche would have so many features similar to the woman in the painting. However, these features belonged to a man. Blanche was a man, through and through, after all. And his smile was not as endearing.
There are those who are great patrons, and, those who inspire great patrons. Blanche was neither of those people. But, he sufficed for Randy, in what he provided.
A goddess or a deity, merely changes form, but never dies.
Blanche had a classic chin, never too masculine at any angle, a thin nose -almost dainty. He was inquisitive, almost to the point of distraction. The eyes -Regal Blue, approaching Cobalt, but not quiet there, continuously questioned. A butch-blonde hair-cut set it all off, no, set it aflame. And, after the inquisition, his eyes always told you exactly what he wanted. From beneath the towel appeared tennis-player legs, much more masculine then our fallen friend, our enchantress of late. Try squeezing those into pantyhose. You have lipstick on your pearly-whites.
She was an acquaintance really. I had barely met her. We had barely spoken, in the time it takes to drain a champagne flute, Rhône Valley.
Blanche finished his cigarette. “Don’t worry about your project. It is never the best ideas that succeed. It is the people behind them. Come upstairs, I want to congratulate you further.” -Blanche said as he turned and went inside EROS.
And Randy was left alone, but not really. The butterfly would be there. Some would call it Mariposa, in another tongue, in a language closer to the heart. One’s final departure is usually so unnoteworthy as to go unnoticed at the time. We fail to see it for what it is.
It is possible to feel a presence without knowing who is there. Time can change you, friend. But, would a Mariposa lend us her thoughts? The truth does unfurl and travel heavenward. If one were to notice DayGlo on a Gerbera Daisy, that would be the first of many revelations.