George and I

George and I know each other since play yard times. And for me it was hard to see he became that butterfly effect from my school time memories, which flattered so la la from one disappointment to another Abigail, to the swan of the World he now is, which brings flourishing life to any pond – maze and lace, daze and Naze – with grace and inimitable presence of just being present.

And while George wafted through the grades of my leaded High School steps, enchanting all the Heathers to full blossom and open buttons of their weeds, I found myself zipped out from brick woven class mates, the bricks the zip, which left me out of being in, nevertheless in pants, but awkward drifting style through Abigail’s picket fences giggle braces, and silently adored this majestic swan from aside my snowy snow globe world in April. For being just present in my presence.

George was that type of swan, none of the fly-bys, who always stopped by between the Heathers and Amys and then more and more often the Vanessas and Valeries of our College years and gave a clap to my shoulder to console me. He was always kind to me, and once he collared me from my pick-up spot along all the other nerds, who were spitted to the wall of indulgence beside the parking lot of the Vs and the bicycle parking lot of the Me-s, and gave me this mild advice, that only graceful swans can charmingly give without humbling ugly pimpled duckies itching its non-appearance into limestone library facades by saying:

“…!”

And when George won his first of so far four Tony Awards for starring in the record and breath breaking Broadway show gonzilla-grotesque Bonny Swan Lads I was amidst the few chosen ones from his childhood-thru-puberty-to-adolescence acquaintances who were personally invited to share his moment in the audience. In his white tutu he flapped through the chorus line cheerers to the acceptance speech microphone scepter of stardom, and when George flitter-flapped off the boards – squired by up-roaring oceans of ovations – the medaled globe spun within the statuette, and that was, I think, what brought light to my memory, and I remembered the words George dedicated to me:

“A swan cannot dive. A swan cannot dive in the pond he paddles onto. A swan paddles onto to shine. Don’t shine, buddy. Dive, buddy, dive!“

I am now a commuter services mogul with dependencies in 21 countries, married to a super model wife named Abigail, we have three children. I thank George for his advice.

Thank. You. Very. Much.

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