HOW HARD TO LOOK, HOW SIMPLE TO FIND?
By: W. Jude Aher
Where the moon is waxing close to full in sight, it is the only light
carrying through the uncurtained windows. A
room is empty but for a high unpolished wooden stool, and a few tightly packed
cardboard boxes, standing nameless against a wall. The
room is soft in its living between shadow and light. And
for a moment, such almost held sound. Cold
walls are white during an afternoon Sun’s fall. But
hard shadow tainted in its morning’s call. A
door stands closed around a knob of glass and brass, a movement of crystal
without light.
He
sits on the stool in jeans torn and unoticed. His
eyes are red within and somewhat glazed for the side of out. But
what others were there to notice. A
child in another room turning in its crib, waking almost. But
as if suddenly, realizing an awareness of its own advanced age of one and one
half years, maybe it's time to sleep through the whole night. A
woman wrapped too warmly in quilts, filled with feathers wasn't noticing the
small loss of heat in a body missing from its place.
He
holds a guitar on the lap of a leg raised high, with picking fingers at rest
atop the bow of its warm body. A
song almost intrudes upon his muse, if a drift such as his might so
be called, and never by him. A
song from a beginning time when a guitar was really little more then a box
with six notes tied to six equally simple strings of steel and nylon. But
it remains a song of too much distance to return on a night such as this. His
moments though very far adrift are too well embedded in reality. A
reality in which a past passed, dares not to return.
Who
would notice that the light casts no shadow upon his face from, the rises and
crevices there upon, as the rest of his body is called to truth by the natural
laws of shadow and light. Maybe in
the full of a moon’s light, even reality is allowed its momentary lapses. And
the man himself, of course never notices movements such as these.
There is no real sadness in
his eyes, though if he were an oil painting, done sitting in such a room, it
would call forth the memory of an old Blues song done quietly on Piano and
Bass. His eyes stare, almost as if
concentrating on restringing a Harpsichord or even a Harp, knowing that the
tuner was of another person, of another responsibility. They
are but caught in the visual drift of the nights scene, out in moonlight and
an open field.
His eyes just stroll as a
walking man far out into the valley, only occasionally looking into this
shadow or that, for what lost rock or even sound.
Is it but just a song he
looks for in those in-between moments. Or
simply himself passing along.
An hour passes in that
clockless room, unoticed by this man with his guitar held soundlessness,
until, so are the quirks of nature, a cloud passes high above the valley’s
wind walls. It passes across the
rooms light losing his walking in a shadow’s dark. A
moment quick and unexpected jars his eyes back to the room. This
causes him to blink and to remember the guitar, somewhat at rest upon his one
raised leg.
Long strong fingers, maybe just a hair too thick from a painter’s point of view, picked out a slow blues riff, while his free foot tapped a cold and naked rhythm onto the floor. He noticed the cold, as he always seemed to notice many things, while playing his guitar. Thinking of his cold feet he turned down his head, his slight build losing nothing to shadow, while gaining very little. He had played this tune so often during the past twenty years that his eyes gave no heed to his finger’s movements. His longing was for sound and music alone. But the cold drew them down, though wasn't strong enough to carry them all the way. They were caught by the movements of his right hands' fingers, and then, to the ancient guitar beneath. The wood was dull and almost worn through above the strings, while the illusion of a dove became simply cracked paint on the guard below. And the rhythm remained slow.
He could almost feel the years of living etched into the hollow of that
guitar. Dust met his fingers as they
drifted down the frets, enough dust that he noticed the barely registered sound
on effect. What the hell. He
played rarely anymore, but still he played. It seemed that the old songs were
played on request, only. His wife a
classical flutist, essentially so, rarely had heard of those old folk songs of
stage and revolution, of love and all the rest, and so never put in the request.
Songs and guitar included. And
his classical piano playing left a world to be considered.
He
thought for a moment of her, playing naked and unseen in their small bathroom,
its warmth due to its size. He
thought lovingly.
It
was the music this time that intruded upon his moments, music of another age -
of a life still wandering ever so deep in his soul - wandering as real but as
vast of distance as the reaches of Mt, McKinley and its northern face.
His
hair was longer back when, maybe more noticeable, his head was less bald.
A
smile comes to lips on the thought of his last adventure two years ago, just
before his marriage. His bicycle
pacing a g rage of life and death in speed, running with a friend on a long road
down the Colorado Rockies. Funny, he
had always been too sane, maybe, to go quite that far, to the edge on his
journeys, at least to his minds eye. Could he feel the silent approach of, no
not walls, but of responsibility? Forty-five
miles an hour rounding the curves of Arlo’s “Motorcycle Song”. But
with enough beer and needing a bathroom...
Too
many pianos tuned within a deadline this week, and all last Saturday night
greeting Halloween and it’s parade from the Washington Square Arch,
Walkie-Talkie in hand. No wonder he
was still awake this late into the night.
The
shadow of his guitar reappeared on the floor before him. And
her eyes, were they deep within, No, that is but a child’s memory, with no
where left to begin. Was his guitar playing mind games or was his mind.
A
Bootleg tape played on a bootlegged memory across his mind, with Joni Mitchell
and James Taylor playing the circle game , Playing on a cold winter’s evening
to an audience slightly stoned on grass in the shadow of a New York City
Apartment. Her hair was too short
and the lines of her face to hard and taking. Was
it her eyes that always caught him almost longing for something more or less?,
then friendship. Or was it his
highly repressed teenage hormones. Always
just for a moment in-between the before and after of friendship. She
sat across the room from him that night - close to him, but closer still to her
girlfriend, another smile deep inside. Should
he care to remember the plays of Love and Hate, of give and give, especially on
this night while his cold feet
grow colder.
It
was Spring, not just as a seasonal exchange, but as a taste of pain in the air.
Those days reach most people who live in Northern climates each to their own
play. He watched his younger
brother, Marie and Maggie drop a tab of Acid (LSD) each, while he and Patty
abstained. He had a folk concert
tonight at the church, and didn't trust his playing enough yet, to take
anything. Besides the day was in
Sunshine and warmth, as well as? Patty
had her nephew along. They were off
to Central Park . What refuge of nature for New York City’s not quite
poor.
His
guitar was strapped in Black imitation leather to his back, as it always was at
that point in his life. Maybe it was
a teenager’s place to hide, or to grow. Maybe it was simply that he loved
music more then what? He wasn't
worrying much about it at the time, like a shirt, it went with him.
The
Subway was crowded that Saturday morning, which was to be expected. He
watched his brother singing silence to himself while watching the loading and
the unloading of a group of Catholic Nuns, as the train moved along. He always
expected his brother to behave a little stranger then he did. Maybe
it was his hair, waist length and raging out like a permanent done from a wall
socket. Funny, he could never figure
out why his brother was along and why he wasn't. It
was just that sometimes he was there and sometimes he wasn't. His
brother kept asking, if, they were really being invaded by eternal tribes of
Catholic
Nuns or if it was the Acid. And of
course, as it was in most cases, it wasn't the Acid. Patty
held her pulling nephew close to her train centered pole near to his brother,
while talking to him as she could between the noise and the fog that seemed
adrift in his hair.
Maggie
and Marie sat, they had a lucky moment as two Nuns left the train on the first
stop reached after they boarded the train, sat below, it seemed, his six feet
two inch strap hanging form.
He
caught Marie looking up, her eyes just for a moment needing him there close to
her, and (Big Brother) caught himself wanting something more. And
for the first time he sort of wished that his game was a little less German and
a little more Irish. Kirk could play
his guitar, but will he ever be able to compose a song.
He
wonders between the clashing of metal wheels, how often adults seem not to
notice teenagers. How sometimes it's
so easy in reverse, not to notice adults, their wars maybe not but themselves,
easily. Though, his brother is one
of those exceptions to any so called rule. Too
many seem to notice him, while he continually barely notices them. Strange world
he thought, as he stood there in the rhythm of the train wondering whether he
should have also dropped some Acid.
Was
it the same evening, with both day and concert behind him, or but another all
too similar.
Marie
sat on the worn brown or grey rug. Her
black and short hair rested nearby windless, cut for easy care and in an eternal
rebellion to her father’s Italian Blood, straight as her hair or so called. She
watches a lamp called shadow carried in its own stillness, while the light from
a Street‑lamp fights its lines through dirt caked blinds and window
behind. Even before the pipe of
Hashish is passed her way, she had little urge to move. Acid, sweet LSD, her
daytime memories were dulled to a tired body’s rhythm while the beat of
Kirk’s fingers played “Summertime” in slow Folk‑Blues fashion. He
sat near to her, more brother then friend or lover. And
she didn't say a word when his eyes roamed towards her in a look of something
more ‑ for where else could she go, to find this close stranger’s love,
in the streets so near, so far away? Still
sixteen and no where to run.
She
let the pipe pass untouched during its third pass, as she wasn't ready yet to
fall asleep. She did have to return
home before 1:00 AM, or so her father hoped. Or
so her father demanded.
She
came to watch Kirk’s brother sitting cross legged and rocking to the motion of
the Blues he was playing. Patty sat
at his feet while he stroked her Strawberry Blond Hair. If she just stared at
them long enough, their hair
seemed to mesh as if fallen from a lone creature. His
hair fell down, and at a point past his shoulders, to hers as hers then reached
out and further down to the floor. How
easy it seems for him to be here or there. But Marie thought, No, he couldn't
really care for Patty. He was still
with her, and through the entire day, but it was just as likely that he would
suddenly turn and kiss her, just to wander out the door, and alone. Marie
liked watching his freedom, like that of his hair. But she would never trust him
and those deep hard blue eyes, and all his endless Poetry written for no one. And
never noticed on how broken was his soul. But
the smoke carried Marie just a quickly away from Kirks' brother. Her
eyes found Maggie across the room sitting straight‑backed on a couch. Their
eyes met to a message of silence. The
easy silence that two friends might hold, held and then she turned back to
listening as Kirk played on. Yes,
Kirk sang to her, maybe to her alone ‑ and she wanted him to play on,
wanting no clock to catch her attention. She
was safe in her drift, in her unquestioned Sweet Coal Eyed Blues. Kirk
would play for her, maybe even loves her a bit. He
was two years older, and she was but Sixteen. She
knew the honor in his eyes - yes, frozen in its warmth, if it would stay that
way letting the day just carry on - longer - just a little longer.
He
watched Marie, a little too intently for a moment, and then Maggie as they made
Patty ready to go. She swayed a
little as she rose from his brother’s lap. How
easily the girls seemed to dance to him. Him,
in all his hair and his cold distant eyes. As
the girls made ready to go, his brother just remained, not even offering to walk
them home. Kirk wondered if
Patty’s slightly uncontrolled state bothered him, as he showed no sign either
way, no sign or maybe just a little? Kirk
rose to leave with the girls, still half
watching his brother as he relit the pipe, which was still in motion from
its earlier movement. Kirk’s
guitar was packed and waiting.
Marie
turned towards him from the door, not quite opened yet; "You don't need to
walk me home, Kirk."
And
Kirk left with them anyway, almost running into Marie at the door as she stopped
and turned toward his brother. His
brother was staring right at her. "Don't
worry, I'll see that Patty gets home alright."
He
just sat there smiling at her. And Kirk knew that there was no smoke or Acid in
that smile ‑ it was the shrug of a stranger’s shoulders he had seen in
him many times before. Kirk noticed
his brother grabbing paper and pen from his bag on the floor besides the chair,
as he then quickly closed the door, hurrying to catch up still again, with the
girls.
Marie
came out of her hall seconds after Kirk left her off there. She
stood in a Street‑lamp and tree shadow, watching Kirk’s long stride and
slight bounce, just to turn around the block’s far corner. (Almost thought he
was going to try to kiss me, tonight) And
she thought of her father, and didn't want to go back inside to his apartment,
No not yet. Waiting a few more minutes to be sure Kirk was gone - Marie then
paced herself slowly down her front stoop, step by step. She
thought of the needle down in Brooklyn awaiting her arm. (If only they knew) And
thought little more of either Kirk or her father, as she pushed open that cast
Iron gate. In its silence, so
strong, and still it held nothing in, and nothing out.
Standing
in the Shadow of his bedroom, watching a bundle of blankets that is his wife
sleeping, he never even thought of how easily he could have lost it all. No!
not him, as he was an older brother or so his Birth Certificate said.
Maggie
called him on the phone. "Marie never came over tonight; her father has
just called and is looking for her. I
said that she is meeting me here at my house. But
still, he wants her to call; ‑ He knows that she has been sneaking out at
night. Kirk we have to find her before she gets home." And
Kirk listened to Maggie and thought, but just for a moment ‑ maybe it's
Maggie I should like. But the
thought just wandered away, as they both verbally prepared to find Marie before
her father did. He looked at his
watch to see how much time was left before his gig tonight. "Not
enough time", "Maggie I'll have to call Mike and cancel for tonight,
and then I'll meet you at your door.”
Down
the hall, moonlight played free on a guitar case. Winter
is for free ‑ but music, where has the music gone. Where are the days and
nights of playing with Maggie and Marie, the sweet harmony. The
cold beds and the sleeping alone. His
wife stirred as he thought to enter into the warmth of their bed. But
down the hall, and yet does he really hear anymore?, moonlight plays for free on
a guitar case.
Long
after leaving Maggie at home, Kirk kept walking. He
knew that he was worrying a little too much for Marie. He
knew that she must have other friends, but still believed that she would have
told him, she always did.
He
reached her block at about 12:30 that night. Looking down the block he saw that
her bedroom light wasn't on, yet, but yes the fifth house from the left was her
fathers. New York City and how much
of it looked the same deep into the night, switch a few signs and what would be
right. In night shadow, or morning
rain. But no, she couldn't be home
yet. He sat down on the front step of that corner store, long since closed for
the night, watching all the sleeping apartments.
He sat down to wait. And the hours passed along.
Two
in the morning, and Kirk was almost ready to leave that corner quiet store. He
thought of the job that had been so hard to get ‑ good money too! Someone
stumbled almost drunkenly around the corner tripping on Kirk’s long legs which
had been stretched out into the sidewalk. She
fell to her knees just across from him. Funny
how he just watched all this for a moment, noticing that the person was Marie,
and still not getting up. "Shit, Marie." But
said quietly. But before he could
get up to help her, someone else rounded the corner. He
was short, but very skinny. Kirk
would have run him down if he tried to rise at that moment. And
so, he just held for a second more. "Marie,
where are you, Fuck, what are you doing on the ground." This
man, and Kirk notices sunglasses ‑ which seemed dam silly for a person to
be wearing at two in the morning. "Come on Marie get up, where's your
house?"
Held
up, Marie stood on the corner for a moment. She
then turned away from the man holding her up, to the store. Kirk
stood up in the shadows. Marie
looked somewhere near to him in the ever deep pools of shadow which were, deeper
there in her eyes, and then just as quickly turned back to the man holding her. Saying
nothing, they both sort of stumbled further down the block. His
hand moving up her skirt - in what absent regard for who as he helped her toward
her father’s apartment.
And
where stood Kirk watching this play ‑ late that night. A
teenager or a man, though those New York City streets had never seemed to care
which. Taking a step towards the
two, really towards Marie, he began to think of her father’s reaction when his
foot landed on something hard, there where Marie had fallen just moments ago. (Great,
drunk and losing her purse or whatever, would she never grow up.) And
what wish did ever yet drift below that thought once again.
Kirk
lifted his foot, reaching down, while Marie thought she felt a hand, cold and
moving through the crease of her butt. Marie thought of her father, sitting at
home alone, asleep in chair or bed?, and wiggled her butt just enough for that
hand to feel. What silence her
father wouldn't see.
Kirk
watched Marie being held and kissed. He
watched her being held up by the hard Iron fence that is the front wall of her
father’s apartment. He had
forgotten about her father, as he watched for a moment another’s hand in
motion, in distance. He stared
blankly for a moment at his open hand, almost not seeing what was held within. Looking
one more time down the block to see Marie pull herself up her father’s steps,
now alone, he wondered where the man had gone.
And
Kirk turned away from the Store Front Shadows, turned and walked around the
corner. And an empty syringe fell in
it’s plastic silence, to concrete and nothing more.
Nothing
broke that night, and though Kirk still played while Maggie, Marie and Patty
sang in harmony, he began to have less to say. Walking
home alone, just for a moment, he came to wonder how difficult it would be to
build a guitar rather then play one. From
where the thought come he could never guess.
Lying
next to his wife, still again, feeling her accumulated warmth flow to his body,
he but smiled at such a simple pleasure. Hearing
his baby cry and its silence just as quickly, he thought that it was time for
sleep. He had a piano to tune at
eight that morning. He couldn't be late, it was for a friend. He'd
make little money, but what the hell. He'd
make up for the loss in his work at the college.
empty, moonlight plays for free on a guitar case.