10 January, 2014

The real Blues

... Ordinary. The kind of beautiful, dangerous ordinary that you just can't leave alone.
Jet Black: I see.
Faye Valentine: Like an angel from the underworld. Or a devil from Paradise.

  That's from one of the few anime series' I really got caught up with in younger days. Cowboy Bebop. Made in the 90s. There's a saxophone part there that makes a gulp and a swallow necessary. Always.

 There's posters of a Van Gogh "Starry night" and a Monet sunrise giving an impression of artsyness to my room. (See what I did there?). Along with Dali, Abbey Road, a pipe and other bric-a-brac that I cannot live without.

 Read Camus' The Outsider. Re-read Salinger's Catcher in the Rye. Having recently made a trip to NYC, the last book read even better - being able to actually visualize the exact locations.

 One must talk then of matters most vague. That throng and thrive in shadows and dust. In strange mystic patterns left by the afterimages of a setting sun in the sudden fall of a New England dusk. In the lilting phrases of icy rivulets frozen in the winter chill. In the brittle reserve and delicate pauses before a crackling stomp-stomp through fresh snow.

 Also, in those moments of sudden nothingness. Peering into the yellow warmth of a coffee shop. Or the welcoming hearths of homesteads, undaunted by the cold, the damp and the lonesome snowscape of Amherst.

 Those sudden moments that threaten to tear off the topsails of the staid argosy of a settled life. To trim it down to a racing yatch maybe, getting rid of the what-ifs and the but-thens. Prows forever pointed to those uncharted waters of childhood yore - East of the Sun, West of the Moon.  The Never-Neverland where might-have-beens meet the hapless brunt of if-onlys.

 Patterns of regulated breathing given to sudden gasps. Of the tip-toe of fingers tracing the gentle curve of a collarbone, down to the depths of a sunless sea. Of darkling eyes and lights streaking down the EM Byepass. Patterns in the sand of sleep, and in the bark of trees later lost for widened highways and turnpike thoughts. Of sipping cautiously at tea in an earthen cup - on Southern Avenue? Or Park Street? Or Highland Park? Any of those shop-soiled Queen Janes. Approximately.


 Sehnsucht (n.) "the inconsolable longing in the human heart for we know not what"; a yearning for a far, familiar, non-earthly land one can identify as one's home.

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