Let me set a scene for you:
There is a round bed in the far right corner of a room. The bedclothes are in disarray. There is a door just to the left of the bed in the far wall and it opens upon the sea.
It is cloudy but the sun’s ghost lingers in the clouds’ confluent ripples. The sea is the color of winter skin, though alive and vibrant, murky, promising kept secrets. There is music and the bustle of hawkers’ voices and the deep groaning of the wind on tin roofs. Through the open door by the bed you can see the fishing skiffs, and farther out, past the breakers, the three-masters, the schooners.
It is hot and humid and the air smells of salt and rain.
There is a small table to the right of the bed, against the right wall. There is a neat pile of books beneath an oil lamp.
There is sun then, shafts like searchlights, far out, casting the deeps in momentary brilliance.
And then it begins to rain, and the noise is big and musical on the tin roof, a sound that invites sleeping or dancing, depending on one’s mood.
A man walks by the door. His skin is very dark. He is oblivious to the rain and he smiles and nods at us as he passes. His smile is genuine.
In the far-left corner of the room is a guitar, a beat up looking acoustic.
Thunder echoes across the sky. It sounds like laughter, and, as if on cue, a group of dark-skinned children dance across the beach, tongues flapping to catch the rain, giggling euphoniously.
Against the left wall, next to the guitar is a small desk with a laptop computer on it. There is a candle next to the computer, and a stack of papers held in place by a coffee cup. A lamp hangs from the ceiling over the desk.
The room smells heavy, like old damp wood. The smell is pleasant, foreign, the scent of travel.
When things get too dark, I go there. I think it may be in the Comoros, or perhaps even hallowed Madagascar (on the rainy East Coast). Josh suggested Qatar, a country in the Middle East, bordering Saudi Arabia, but the people are too dark for that. It is somewhere either in Africa or the Caribbean. I hope that it is Africa.
I see it so clearly sometimes. I was standing outside in the chill of the early morning after Friday’s party at Ann and Josh’s, leaning on my door; the sky was low and pink from the lights of the city, and I felt, in that moment, the world open around me, and knew that there was (is) so much more, that somewhere it was morning, and warm, and raining. Somewhere there is music, even in the quietude of an afternoon spent dreaming.
I feel such freedom in these moments! I feel so happy! I long for solitude, and the deep embrace of friends. There is such profound sadness, but that is a part of my joy.
It all seems so clear right now. I’ve realized (as has Sarah) that our journey together (at least in one sense) is coming to an end – it has ended.
And I feel such possibility.
I want to weep in the spaces of the night and then awake shaking with the force of my joy.
I want to make a big noise, and write songs that fill heads with strange visions; I want to make something wonderful out of this. I know I will.
Perhaps no one will listen; perhaps no one will read.
But who cares? It’s wonderful. Right now, typing by the light of the clear Christmas bulbs that I’ve strung around the room (a light that reminds me of warm starlight), I really feel that.
Where do all these highways go, now that we are free?
There is a round bed in the far right corner of a room. The bedclothes are in disarray. There is a door just to the left of the bed in the far wall and it opens upon the sea.
It is cloudy but the sun’s ghost lingers in the clouds’ confluent ripples. The sea is the color of winter skin, though alive and vibrant, murky, promising kept secrets. There is music and the bustle of hawkers’ voices and the deep groaning of the wind on tin roofs. Through the open door by the bed you can see the fishing skiffs, and farther out, past the breakers, the three-masters, the schooners.
It is hot and humid and the air smells of salt and rain.
There is a small table to the right of the bed, against the right wall. There is a neat pile of books beneath an oil lamp.
There is sun then, shafts like searchlights, far out, casting the deeps in momentary brilliance.
And then it begins to rain, and the noise is big and musical on the tin roof, a sound that invites sleeping or dancing, depending on one’s mood.
A man walks by the door. His skin is very dark. He is oblivious to the rain and he smiles and nods at us as he passes. His smile is genuine.
In the far-left corner of the room is a guitar, a beat up looking acoustic.
Thunder echoes across the sky. It sounds like laughter, and, as if on cue, a group of dark-skinned children dance across the beach, tongues flapping to catch the rain, giggling euphoniously.
Against the left wall, next to the guitar is a small desk with a laptop computer on it. There is a candle next to the computer, and a stack of papers held in place by a coffee cup. A lamp hangs from the ceiling over the desk.
The room smells heavy, like old damp wood. The smell is pleasant, foreign, the scent of travel.
When things get too dark, I go there. I think it may be in the Comoros, or perhaps even hallowed Madagascar (on the rainy East Coast). Josh suggested Qatar, a country in the Middle East, bordering Saudi Arabia, but the people are too dark for that. It is somewhere either in Africa or the Caribbean. I hope that it is Africa.
I see it so clearly sometimes. I was standing outside in the chill of the early morning after Friday’s party at Ann and Josh’s, leaning on my door; the sky was low and pink from the lights of the city, and I felt, in that moment, the world open around me, and knew that there was (is) so much more, that somewhere it was morning, and warm, and raining. Somewhere there is music, even in the quietude of an afternoon spent dreaming.
I feel such freedom in these moments! I feel so happy! I long for solitude, and the deep embrace of friends. There is such profound sadness, but that is a part of my joy.
It all seems so clear right now. I’ve realized (as has Sarah) that our journey together (at least in one sense) is coming to an end – it has ended.
And I feel such possibility.
I want to weep in the spaces of the night and then awake shaking with the force of my joy.
I want to make a big noise, and write songs that fill heads with strange visions; I want to make something wonderful out of this. I know I will.
Perhaps no one will listen; perhaps no one will read.
But who cares? It’s wonderful. Right now, typing by the light of the clear Christmas bulbs that I’ve strung around the room (a light that reminds me of warm starlight), I really feel that.
Where do all these highways go, now that we are free?
Comments
I want to make a big noise, and write songs that fill heads with strange visions ...I love the sound of that.
SJP