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2004-08-07 - 8:52 a.m. A stroll, something as simple as a stroll along the boulevard takes on a whole new meaning. So used to a stroll along an avenue of non-event, a street of nothing I am in such awe of an avenue alive, and a street bursting with life or a boulevard that itself depicts a personality. I am stopped, alone in my tracks. Forced to look all around me and digest this massive meal. Barely able to continue I look for the nearest route to my French home. Only 7 blocks, 7 long Panamien blocks and then I can lock myself in my apartment and begin to decipher all that has been presented to me. I cannot help but think of the young kings of Egypt and with what they were given to rule. Where do you begin, how do you process. A 21st century term, but an ancient riddle. All those along your path have a direction, to home, to family, to loved ones, alone. I begin to understand the place of the individual. I begin to understand the place of the uniform. Safe within the courtyard of my complex I allow myself a moment of reflection with the sky. Crawling heavenward is the French Ivy, at once keeping the U shaped building alive from within as well as deflecting the light rain from damaging the exterior. As the whispered rain carefully lies to rest upon each separate leaf of this dear ivy, one is reminded of those delicate Geisha from a forgotten time in Gion. If I stand still I can hear the rain delicately tap the leaves, I can hear the women quietly titter at an anecdote they have heard many times before. But like the leaves, they are able to impress upon us that this, this time here, this is the first time they have been honored with the words, or the sounds, or the feeling of the rain. The women, like the leaves are able to pretend. And I stand, alone, in awe. � � 
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