A fortnight into November, on a greased skillet left to dry; the glistening obsidian dance floor freshly waxed with twilight flurries stretched its two lanes down either end of the midnight neighborhood, vacant and ridden with nighttime specters. The inhabitance of dreams loomed humid in the mauve wind, and these drifting figments danced heavily on to the breeze as they seeped out of bedroom windows, occasionally kicking-up the debris of withered leaves; a heavy melody of typewriters producing a text of Tolstoy proportions. They fled like antelopes, prancing in violent graceful bounds, maple mammals on a concrete plain under siege, disoriented by panic. Given one’s presence, you would have been distracted from the sight by the melancholy sigh of wind; an exhalation of a fellow made desolate after his love was put to waste, suppressing memories with a surfeit of distilled spirits. The chill which made even the massive skeletal structures of autumn trees chatter there branches, like an elementary juvenile’s teeth after a bitter defeat in a snowball fight.
And in the midst of this sonic-vacancy, significant to those who desired rest, came a distant pitter-patter too quick to be replicated by a four-legged wonderer. An apparition, with strobe-like tendencies, an on-and-off rhythm as he passed under the illumination of streetlights, only to plunge quickly back in to shadow. Upon an ancient Schwinn he glided, with a wake of fallen flora, a sputtering V trailing close behind the back tire. Though only visible for seconds before passing back into the nebulous night, he remained visible by a constant unfiltered addiction, which made him resemble qualities of a particular red-nosed Christmas tale character. A locomotive, he left wisps of contaminated toxic breath, dissipating rapidly by his side.
As I gazed apathetically at him from the headache-gray curb some thirty feet beyond, I became aware of the dangling headphones draped around his tree trunk neck, blasting the poetry of Radiohead. They jovially swung in their makeshift glory, broken and bound carelessly with a series of duct-tape mounds and slipknots. The brilliant handyman of this exceptional repair was unquestionably riding upon the bike; for his jeans seemed to be a concoction of denim and the spare scraps discarded from an elderly man’s dresser. His gaunt Goodwill knit sweater billowed three sizes too large in the brisk wind, and remained mostly trailing like a parachute behind him. And as Nick, my friend’s unkempt face drifted into the illumination of a streetlight, I became ever aware of his nicotine stained “sulfury” whites glistening at me. Observing the corn-like teeth protruding from his gums I gave a drowsy halfway grin in salutation of his approaching presence.
The usual exchange of endearing insults soon followed, with the typical, “Lazy bastard-this,” and the classic “God took a shit and there was you.” This of course was accompanied by the aggressive game of who can simultaneously break the other’s hand while shaking it like it’s engulfed in flames; your typical manly greetings of the casual nature. Releasing the limp pulp that was once our hands, we went about our way. Strolling the pavement, a footloose mosey, we meandered off in to the chasm of night.
Along the thick uninhabited pavement we found sanctuary in presence of the other’s company. The open ear of a confidant used as a landfill for the anxiety of the previous week bore as bone-warming reminder of what good can be found in elementary leisure. And amongst the solitude of the twilight ether, shared only by the blue boob-tube light of fellow insomniacs behind glass, and the blissful air illuminated by the gospel of streetlights dwelling in midnight serenity, we came upon a secular salvation. The fat chewing of days gone bye was romanticized by the divinity of the simple. We basked in the fact that in the night air everything exceeds its own existence. Beneath the sifting blue veil over the starry skies we drifted in to a world of visual poetry, and found awe in the optical lyrics of this suburban lullaby.
And in the midst of this sonic-vacancy, significant to those who desired rest, came a distant pitter-patter too quick to be replicated by a four-legged wonderer. An apparition, with strobe-like tendencies, an on-and-off rhythm as he passed under the illumination of streetlights, only to plunge quickly back in to shadow. Upon an ancient Schwinn he glided, with a wake of fallen flora, a sputtering V trailing close behind the back tire. Though only visible for seconds before passing back into the nebulous night, he remained visible by a constant unfiltered addiction, which made him resemble qualities of a particular red-nosed Christmas tale character. A locomotive, he left wisps of contaminated toxic breath, dissipating rapidly by his side.
As I gazed apathetically at him from the headache-gray curb some thirty feet beyond, I became aware of the dangling headphones draped around his tree trunk neck, blasting the poetry of Radiohead. They jovially swung in their makeshift glory, broken and bound carelessly with a series of duct-tape mounds and slipknots. The brilliant handyman of this exceptional repair was unquestionably riding upon the bike; for his jeans seemed to be a concoction of denim and the spare scraps discarded from an elderly man’s dresser. His gaunt Goodwill knit sweater billowed three sizes too large in the brisk wind, and remained mostly trailing like a parachute behind him. And as Nick, my friend’s unkempt face drifted into the illumination of a streetlight, I became ever aware of his nicotine stained “sulfury” whites glistening at me. Observing the corn-like teeth protruding from his gums I gave a drowsy halfway grin in salutation of his approaching presence.
The usual exchange of endearing insults soon followed, with the typical, “Lazy bastard-this,” and the classic “God took a shit and there was you.” This of course was accompanied by the aggressive game of who can simultaneously break the other’s hand while shaking it like it’s engulfed in flames; your typical manly greetings of the casual nature. Releasing the limp pulp that was once our hands, we went about our way. Strolling the pavement, a footloose mosey, we meandered off in to the chasm of night.
Along the thick uninhabited pavement we found sanctuary in presence of the other’s company. The open ear of a confidant used as a landfill for the anxiety of the previous week bore as bone-warming reminder of what good can be found in elementary leisure. And amongst the solitude of the twilight ether, shared only by the blue boob-tube light of fellow insomniacs behind glass, and the blissful air illuminated by the gospel of streetlights dwelling in midnight serenity, we came upon a secular salvation. The fat chewing of days gone bye was romanticized by the divinity of the simple. We basked in the fact that in the night air everything exceeds its own existence. Beneath the sifting blue veil over the starry skies we drifted in to a world of visual poetry, and found awe in the optical lyrics of this suburban lullaby.
No comments:
Post a Comment