the flautist.

i can never seem to spell that word correctly on the first try.

i know which letters to use, but my skewed typing always gets in the way.

i sit in a coffee house, aptly named, the coffee house, and i listen to the sound of the generator plugging away, the music being played through the mediocre sound system and the sound of the barista piddle farting around at this boring albeit lazy job he has. he makes one helluva cup of coffee, i must give him credit for.

outside, in front of the cafe, is a man. he wears one of those hideous State t shirts, this one hailing from Arizona, that he undoubtedly picked up at a thrift store or stole from a friend one drunken eve. he wears cargo shorts so faded, if i didn't know any better i wouldn't even think they used to be camo.

he stands playing the flute.

he does not know how to play the flute.

his hands dance along the keys and he breathes a little too heavily into the chamber.

the music comes out choppy and in spurts.

a girl on a bike passes him, and she doesn't even turn her head in the slightest to see him.

to the right is a table, as if necessary in the state of Oregon to sit outside with coffee.

it is filled, and the people are laughing.

i can feel his anxiety; he shuffles his feet crossing and uncrossing as he plays.

he is wearing a pair of tired old what i think is brown nikes with a hideous orange swoosh across the side.

the barista saunters to the door and opens it, beginning to sweep the floor around the entrance and shoving it outside.

i hear the flute more clearly now. Yep, still not awesome.

but i watch him, and he plays. in his opened case also lies a saxophone, and i begin to wonder if he plays that one, or if he just tries. he doesnt appear to be homeless. he just seems to be passionate moreso than anything, and that passion is more than slightly intriguing.

he keeps playing, and does not seem to care about what goes on around him. and it hits me like a craving, i want to meet him.

i want to know his name.

in my mind i go up to him and meet him, and strike up a conversation and i just learn about him. we talk for awhile and we go our separate ways. in reality i stay glued to my seat, embarrassed and slightly less aware of myself.

the door is still open, and i watch over the top of my laptop screen, hiding behind it and my bashfulness.

i feel a nice Oregon breeze waft in, and also the words of one of the patrons near me.

"he may not be good, but its much better that he is here, than that he isnt."

so true. so true. you cant ever do music wrong, if you love it right.

when i get up the courage. im going to go meet you Flautist.

love yourself.

and get rest.

you cant take care of the world without also taking care of yourself.

its such an important part.