I’m sad to say, but I did not like Back Spacer. That’s not the first time I don’t like a Pearl Jam album. Ok, grunge is dead, but the “sound”, no matter how it was labelled, no matter what demented effect it had in fashion and business (yeah, nothing to do with music…), no matter how dated it might seem, the sound itself was mind-blowing. I think that, to escape the “poser” culture around it, bands tried to run as far from it as they could. PJ was no exception.
As a “reborn” fan, I had the opportunity to go through the whole band’s discography about six years ago, and was a tad disappointed when I found out that sometimes only a couple of songs per album would make my heart jump. When “the Avocado” was released, I had just been to the first PJ concerts in my life, drenched in the emotion of the live experience. The album was a breath of fresh air, whole, furious, brave, breathtaking. Even the “bad songs” had their place in the story the album tells. Even the graphic design tells more than meets the eye (was I the only one to recognize the “singing head” of the Sandman universe?). I listened in tears, in ecstasy. Epiphany.
Well, life took me through other paths and all of a sudden there’s the new album. Listened once. Skipped a couple of songs after the first chords. Riot Act strikes back? Maybe I’m stuck in the past. Maybe I don’t understand evolution. Baby.
But then… Just Breathe. Ok, it’s one of those songs that, if ever played, will be one of Eddie’s solos, when the band is chilling backstage and he plays alone with the guitar and the harmonica. That would be all right, it would be in good company with other masterpieces like Dead Man Walking. Or maybe it’s one of those almost-boring-too-country-ish songs that Eddie writes sometimes. All right with me. But it’s not. It’s a gem. It’s beautiful. Moving. It slides through clichés like a surfboard through maverick waves.
And then… The End. Listened like a hundred times, for more than three hours in a row. Burst into tears. It’s one of the saddest songs I’ve ever listened to. It’s probably one the most beautiful songs Eddie has ever written. And the voice? I really like the way he lets the voice come out hoarse, sort of aspirated, in that almost impossible high pitch progression. That’s totally his own. “I’ll take the blame, but just the same, this is not me…” Was it the arrangement, strings and all, one might ask? Risky, to say the least; it could have turned into the corniest thing ever. But it has not. It adds to the mood of the song. It’s respectful. Many, many, many tears later, my favourite lines: “Before I disappear, whisper in my ear, give me something to echo in my unknown future’s ear.”
All right, I’ll give it a second listen. It might win me over. You know, Pearl Jam saved my life once. Quite literally. For that I’m forever grateful. I’ll love PJ forever, even though I don’t automatically love every single thing that they do.
So, please, do come back to play. I’ll be there, me and my 10C wristband, standing for 12, 13, 14 hours, without eating, without going to the toilet, grabbing the rail, on the right side of the audience. I’ll even take a nap every now and then, head on the rail; the “Polar Bear”, the security guy, will worry about me again, wondering if I’m passing out. I’ll be fine, me and my endless grin and my chart with my song list, when the band begins to play. And I’ll jump, and sing along, and dodge the elbows of those tall people on my head and ribs. I’ll duck when they take some guy out of the crowd over me, the “hole on the rail”. I’ll probably be “rail cushion” to someone again. The hunger, the thirst, the pain, will vanish at some point. I won’t mind the heat or the rain. And when the guys go backstage to rest, I’ll stare at the spotlight when Ed begins to play The End on the guitar, no fancy strings needed, more intimate before a crowd than he would be if he were playing at someone’s porch. And I’ll cry my eyes out. Cry with my eyes open, so I won’t miss a thing.
"drowning in a sea of faces, hardly keep my head above the surface..."
thirst (by deav 2003)
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
Friday, June 19, 2009
Tuesday, July 01, 2008
the heart of midlothian
by deav - 12 mar 2008
“tear my chest and grab out my heart
kiss it, lick it, toss it, stare
step on, dance on, spit on my heart
i won’t have a heart to care.”
“tear my chest and grab out my heart
kiss it, lick it, toss it, stare
step on, dance on, spit on my heart
i won’t have a heart to care.”
flashback
by deav - 27 jun 2007
She was in light spirit. They were in the other room, it was clean, the bed soft with the rattling of recently washed bedsheets. The window was open and the clear starry sky could be seen, no neighboring buildings from that angle. He smelled of fresh soap and cologne, snoring by her side. His hand touched her arm in his sleep and moved forward to her waist. It became slowly aware of her, bringing him closer to consciousness. He moaned and moved his head to kiss her on the neck.
Why not? She thought, not particularly in the mood, wondering that it would mean another bath after. It was hot, anyways.
It was still quite simple, then. She could not foresee how harder it would become as years went by. He was gentle, as usual. He had not become hesitant, then frustrated, then angry and rough. Yet.
But even as she slowly began to fall in that state of abandonment closely followed by the strain of building pleasure, she could fell that something was wrong.
She suddenly realized that she was panting, not out of desire, but out of fear. She wondered in slow motion that he would not notice, he could not tell the lines carved between her eyebrows and her growing moans now from her usual face of lust. Unless she told him. She tried to wash away the escalating sensation of anguish. Why now? She thought, now that everything seemed to be all right? Maybe she could just bear it, for the sake of starting over. Because she wanted everything to be well again.
But she just could not. All of a sudden she realized she had stopped breathing. Behind eyes shut there were images floating, lurking and she knew it was not about him, it was not his fault. She did not want to see the images, memories of things she was unaware of having experienced. But she could not open her eyes, she would have to look at him and she could not look at him, not now. But neither could she just bear it, she could not control the urge to push him away. And she did.
But he did not realize it was not the repulsion that comes from unbearable passion, not this time.
“Please, stop!” She did not know if she had said it aloud. She began to struggle and squirm. He groaned startled when she punched and kicked.
“What?!” Still panting, he released her, scared, worry washing away with paleness the flush of pleasure.
She stopped with a halt, eyes wide-open, breathing heavily, tears still rolling by the side of her face into her ears.
Was she screaming? NO-NO-NO-NO-NO-NO-NO-NO-NO! She remembered she had.
“What happened? Did I hurt you?” He tried to touch her but she cringed away.
“I don’t know.” She just pulled the covers up to her breasts and rolled over, her back to him. She just wished she could explain; say that she was sorry, that it was not about him. But now she could barely stand his voice, his heat, let alone look at him.
He did not understand, but at least let her be, jumping out of the bed and dashing out of the room.
She just wished she could vanish. She swallowed back the bile. She did not dare to close her eyes again, lest the images would come back. Oh, tears. Now she could keep them open and yet not see.
* * *
She was in light spirit. They were in the other room, it was clean, the bed soft with the rattling of recently washed bedsheets. The window was open and the clear starry sky could be seen, no neighboring buildings from that angle. He smelled of fresh soap and cologne, snoring by her side. His hand touched her arm in his sleep and moved forward to her waist. It became slowly aware of her, bringing him closer to consciousness. He moaned and moved his head to kiss her on the neck.
Why not? She thought, not particularly in the mood, wondering that it would mean another bath after. It was hot, anyways.
It was still quite simple, then. She could not foresee how harder it would become as years went by. He was gentle, as usual. He had not become hesitant, then frustrated, then angry and rough. Yet.
But even as she slowly began to fall in that state of abandonment closely followed by the strain of building pleasure, she could fell that something was wrong.
She suddenly realized that she was panting, not out of desire, but out of fear. She wondered in slow motion that he would not notice, he could not tell the lines carved between her eyebrows and her growing moans now from her usual face of lust. Unless she told him. She tried to wash away the escalating sensation of anguish. Why now? She thought, now that everything seemed to be all right? Maybe she could just bear it, for the sake of starting over. Because she wanted everything to be well again.
But she just could not. All of a sudden she realized she had stopped breathing. Behind eyes shut there were images floating, lurking and she knew it was not about him, it was not his fault. She did not want to see the images, memories of things she was unaware of having experienced. But she could not open her eyes, she would have to look at him and she could not look at him, not now. But neither could she just bear it, she could not control the urge to push him away. And she did.
But he did not realize it was not the repulsion that comes from unbearable passion, not this time.
“Please, stop!” She did not know if she had said it aloud. She began to struggle and squirm. He groaned startled when she punched and kicked.
“What?!” Still panting, he released her, scared, worry washing away with paleness the flush of pleasure.
She stopped with a halt, eyes wide-open, breathing heavily, tears still rolling by the side of her face into her ears.
Was she screaming? NO-NO-NO-NO-NO-NO-NO-NO-NO! She remembered she had.
“What happened? Did I hurt you?” He tried to touch her but she cringed away.
“I don’t know.” She just pulled the covers up to her breasts and rolled over, her back to him. She just wished she could explain; say that she was sorry, that it was not about him. But now she could barely stand his voice, his heat, let alone look at him.
He did not understand, but at least let her be, jumping out of the bed and dashing out of the room.
She just wished she could vanish. She swallowed back the bile. She did not dare to close her eyes again, lest the images would come back. Oh, tears. Now she could keep them open and yet not see.
* * *
scribblings II
by deav - June 2007
M’eudail,
I put down the book for a while. I went to the kitchen for water and it just popped in my mind: “I need you.” I wonder what you’re doing now. Sleeping? Looking up at the oak beams in the ceiling, unable to sleep with restlessness not figured out? Dozing off in the leather armchair by the dying fire in the library, a book resting on your lap? Or is it too hot already for a fire, I wonder? But you left the window open. A gust of chill might eventually cool your cheeks and wake you with a slight shiver, as dawn breaks. I wish I were there to ease the crease between your brows with a kiss. And rub the tip of my finger gently on the deep red mark the rim of your glasses carved on the bridge of your nose.
“I need you” struck me with a shock, you know. I’ve been doing my best for a long time not to need anyone. I hope you will understand that it came then as a way of being at peace with solitude. And dealing with the dread of depending and being depended on. The need to be unattached. Free to go – where, I wonder?. But “I need you” comes now with a different meaning I can’t quite make out. All I know – feel – is, it’s huge, overwhelming. Scary. Like walking through fire. But I’m willing to do it if it takes me to you.
I hold my breath and shut my eyes and say a prayer for you. Sweet dreams, m’eudail. That feathery brush on your cool lips? It’s just the ghost of my kiss.
M’eudail,
I put down the book for a while. I went to the kitchen for water and it just popped in my mind: “I need you.” I wonder what you’re doing now. Sleeping? Looking up at the oak beams in the ceiling, unable to sleep with restlessness not figured out? Dozing off in the leather armchair by the dying fire in the library, a book resting on your lap? Or is it too hot already for a fire, I wonder? But you left the window open. A gust of chill might eventually cool your cheeks and wake you with a slight shiver, as dawn breaks. I wish I were there to ease the crease between your brows with a kiss. And rub the tip of my finger gently on the deep red mark the rim of your glasses carved on the bridge of your nose.
“I need you” struck me with a shock, you know. I’ve been doing my best for a long time not to need anyone. I hope you will understand that it came then as a way of being at peace with solitude. And dealing with the dread of depending and being depended on. The need to be unattached. Free to go – where, I wonder?. But “I need you” comes now with a different meaning I can’t quite make out. All I know – feel – is, it’s huge, overwhelming. Scary. Like walking through fire. But I’m willing to do it if it takes me to you.
I hold my breath and shut my eyes and say a prayer for you. Sweet dreams, m’eudail. That feathery brush on your cool lips? It’s just the ghost of my kiss.
scribblings (pencil tip rest)
by deav - 11 jun 2007
i can’t read anymore. it’s too painful. the smoke with a scent of vanilla burns my mouth and the rim of my lips. someone outside is boasting a championship. futile. it’s beautiful when the smoke goes up in perfect rings that shimmer and vanish in bluish swirls. when i blow out it’s yellowish and uglier, haze hanging beneath the lamp. it just does not linger enough and there’s no reason for another. the last sip of cool water, and the taste of vanilla remains fresh and pleasant.
i don’t want to think of it; yet the thought not thought hangs as much as the water that does not sink as fast as it should. there was rapture earlier brought by invisible hands and invisible lips on mine. i miss you so much. i write and shut my eyes.
there’s one thing i’m sure of: i have to go. through pain and disappointment. i have to go. i have to go. tic-tic. i shut my eyes.
i have to go. i boldface the i and sigh. tic-tic. i hope the answer comes with slumber. i hope i can remember. i shut my eyes.
i fill the cup again. i could have the pleasure again, easy in the cleft between my thighs in spite of myself. should i save it for when the hands are hot and the lips are real?
my hand hurts as i force the writing. i can hardly read through painful scribblings and letters erased. is it sleep, then? tic-tic. i snort but the lump in the throat brings the water back. go to bed. i fondle my knuckles dry. i drool on the page. go to bed. i shut my eyes. what i do next i don’t write.
* * *
i can’t read anymore. it’s too painful. the smoke with a scent of vanilla burns my mouth and the rim of my lips. someone outside is boasting a championship. futile. it’s beautiful when the smoke goes up in perfect rings that shimmer and vanish in bluish swirls. when i blow out it’s yellowish and uglier, haze hanging beneath the lamp. it just does not linger enough and there’s no reason for another. the last sip of cool water, and the taste of vanilla remains fresh and pleasant.
i don’t want to think of it; yet the thought not thought hangs as much as the water that does not sink as fast as it should. there was rapture earlier brought by invisible hands and invisible lips on mine. i miss you so much. i write and shut my eyes.
there’s one thing i’m sure of: i have to go. through pain and disappointment. i have to go. i have to go. tic-tic. i shut my eyes.
i have to go. i boldface the i and sigh. tic-tic. i hope the answer comes with slumber. i hope i can remember. i shut my eyes.
i fill the cup again. i could have the pleasure again, easy in the cleft between my thighs in spite of myself. should i save it for when the hands are hot and the lips are real?
my hand hurts as i force the writing. i can hardly read through painful scribblings and letters erased. is it sleep, then? tic-tic. i snort but the lump in the throat brings the water back. go to bed. i fondle my knuckles dry. i drool on the page. go to bed. i shut my eyes. what i do next i don’t write.
* * *
round lunch time I - II
by deav - 11 mar 2008
Round lunch time
As I walked in she was already there. She seemed small in the waiting room crowded with furniture too big for the tiny space. It crossed my mind that it had not changed in thirty years, as far as I could remember: the same dark oak desk opposite the entrance door, the pair of two-seat leather couches facing each other, the low wooden table with a glass top placed between the couches in a way that made moving quite hard. The twelve year-old I once was called it “the penguin dance” and laughed in silence as people did their best to walk sideways, hopping from left to right in the narrow gap, to sit down at last with a grunt or a sigh. The long-legged were the funniest. Now I was the long-legged hopping penguin.
Damn. I ventured a slant and thanked God she was not paying attention, too busy trying to wipe her red nose with one hand while tucking a dirty tissue in her bag with the other.
“Good afternoon”, I said, just to be polite. She raised a pair of red tired eyes to me with a nod, an effortful faint smile partially seen under the new tissue, the other quickly tucked in the bag. Poor thing. I tried to concentrate on the magazine that seemed the newest one among the others on the table. Wow, Pearl Jam is playing next week? How could I have missed that? Oh, ok, last year, I was there. Damn, Dr. Mac should really upgrade his library.
She coughed, coughed and coughed again, in spasms, as if having difficulty in getting the air in her lungs. As she fussed about in the bag the empty box of tissues fell down through the gap between the couch and the table.
“Er… There’s a toilet… That door on your right…”
She raised the wet eyes again in a mixture of despair and gratitude and made her own penguin dance towards the toilet. Gracefully, I had to admit. Nice ass, I could not avoid thinking.
As I went through last year’s news, one ear was paying attention to the noises coming from the toilet. Running water… Cough, cough… Cough, cough… Man, the woman knows how to blow a nose for sure. I wondered why I was not disgusted; maybe because I had been in her shoes growing up. Dr. Mac would fix her too.
“A little better?” I asked as she came out of the toilet, hopping gracefully again towards the couch and sitting with a sigh.
“Yes, thank you.” Visibly she was not, but her effort was quite moving. Her lids were swollen and probably burning. Fever only made her eyes brighter. Dark blue. Hmm…
“Don’t worry, Dr. Mac will fix you in no time.”
“I hope so…” She gave that faint smile back to me again for only one second, reaching inside the bag for the new stash of tissues. Then she just put on what I use to call a subway look and sank in the leather, miserably trying to control the flood from her nose.
As I picked up another magazine and went through what was news a year and a half ago, I had to admit that she was beautiful. Not particularly hot, certainly not the big rack type. The golden light from the long narrow window above Mrs. Kent’s oak desk gave her brown hair a dark copper tone.
Where is the old cow, anyways? I had told her I only had a little time before a meeting; it was only a follow-up appointment, for Christ’s sake. She was probably inside the exam room with him, debriefing the last patient.
Great legs. I swear I tried not to stare. She looked younger than she probably was. A little younger than myself, I calculated. Not married… Not at present, probably divorced. I wondered if she had kids… No. And why was I wasting time wondering about her again? There was something about her. Vulnerability? Well, she looked quite vulnerable now, all swollen and sore. Maybe she was just another crazy woman who had driven her ex-husband mad. The bitch.
Man, get a grip. She is not “her”. Damn. Those pretty eyes could not lie. But I had been lied to by pretty eyes before.
“John, my lad! Tae wha’ do I owe the pleasure of yer visit?”
“Dr. Mac, hi, you asked me to come as soon as I finished the treatment…”
“Och, aye. Come in, lad.”
I could feel it when she trembled.
“Er… Dr. Mac, I think this nice lady here needs you more than I do… She can go in now, I can wait…”
“Verra nice, then! Dinna fash, lad, it wilna be loung!” Yes, Dr. Mac, I know, not more than a couple of hours, I thought trying to conceal a laugh.
“Come in, lassie!”
I almost climbed the glass tabletop to grab her arm as she struggled to stand up. Or carry her inside in my arms. But I did not.
“Thank you, sir. You’re awfully kind”, she said in a whisper, a broader smile on her face of relief.
Man, you are fucking beautiful… I was afraid I had said it out loud but what came out was simply “Don’t mention it.” And I watched her walk inside with him as if she were entering a sanctuary.
I penguin-danced back to the couch, a stubborn smile making my jaw hurt. It had been a while since I had felt like smiling like that. I sat down, sighed and searched for my mobile.
“Greg? Hi! Er… Something came up and I have to re-schedule our meeting… Really, you too? … Great! … Five is good for you? ... Five thirty is fine. See you. Bye.”
As I tucked the phone in my pocket it hit me: I was feeling relaxed, invigorated, actually. Somehow I knew that everything would be all right now. Strange…
Round lunch time II
She had been there for a while when he walked in. Right, she thought. Of course it had to be a handsome man, sure, just now that her nose looked and behaved like a big red dripping tap. Damn. It was probably the mould, that old carpet must be crowded with acarids. She could almost feel them crawling up her legs. Long boots had been a good choice. And jeans. She closed her brown velvet jacket round her neck and quickly replaced the wet tissue for a new one. I should have bought another box. Damn.
She averted her look as he clumsily made his way to the leather couch opposite her. Funny. And kinda cute. But she was not going to laugh; she was not really in the mood for laughing, not after the last sleepless nights sitting up on the bed to prevent the coughing attacks, the headache, the fever, the running nose, the pain all over her body.
“Good afternoon.”
She was sure he had just said that to be polite. She nodded and forced a smile under the next tissue. And she was really grateful when he grabbed a magazine and tried to look really interested in last year’s news. She would not venture a read this time. Old magazines plus doctor’s office equals acarids. The last thing she needed now was a sneezing crisis. Or another session of coughs.
She looked around. Although the pieces of furniture were too big for the waiting room, she had to admit that they were beautiful. She wondered that the oak desk must be two hundred years old. The leather crackled beneath her – and him, for that matter - every time she moved, as if it were new and had been recently polished. Polish. Oh, no, the cough! She screamed in her mind trying desperately to hold back the spasm and get some air in her lungs.
Fuck me. She just could not believe when she realized that the box of tissues was empty. She searched hopelessly in the bag for that last single piece of tissue that could be hiding under her wallet. No. Ok, she could try to reuse the ones she had tucked in there. Eew!
She was about to try to rescue the empty box that of course had fallen down that impossible gap between the couch and the table – what nut, sadistic person would place those humongous pieces of furniture in that impossible fashion?! – when the handsome man came to her aid:
“Er… There’s a toilet…” - where, for the love of the Goddess? – “That door on your right…”
She raised her wet eyes to him with a mixture of despair and gratitude and made her way through that ridiculous half meter towards the toilet as graciously as she could. At least she would preserve her dignity. Go ahead, check my butt, you pervert. At least that part of her was presentable. She locked the door too thin for her taste and tried to control the attack. Fuck it, this is a doctor’s office, I’m fucking sick, I just can’t be a fucking lady now! She was really mad at handsome man when she gave her nose a deep and thorough blow. She stared at the reddish-green thing in the sink with disgust. My Goddess, I’ll never be able to kiss anybody again, ever, for the rest of my life! She sighed and fiercely attacked the tissue dispenser, staring at her running nose that seemed to defy her from the other side of the mirror. Now I’m ready for you. She looked at her wasted face, tucked a stubborn lock of hair behind her ear and felt like crying. You’re a mess, woman. She wished she could just hide there, at least until handsome man was gone, maybe let her nose drip straight into the sink. No? Go, woman, be brave.
“A little better?” he asked as she hopped back to her couch.
“Yes, thank you”, she replied through a clogged nose. Beautiful baritone…
“Don’t worry, Dr. Mac will fix you in no time.”
“I hope so.” She smiled faintly. He’d better. She rushed to get another tissue as her nose started running again. And now her eyelids were burning. Fever. She knew the symptoms too well. She sank in the leather and surrendered to a terrible feeling of exhaustion. She had always had those episodes, but it had all got worse since the divorce. New home, new job… She knew she was turning all the stress into illness. All of a sudden she felt ashamed of her private tantrum against handsome man. She had to admit he had tried to be nice. He was not him, for the Goddess’s sake. By now he would be quite mad at her, actually blaming her for being sick. She wondered it had been a blessing after all that they had not had kids. Fifteen years. She knew she looked younger than she was, but lately she had been feeling a lot much older. She wondered if handsome man was checking her, but she was too tired to worry. Ok, did he really stare as she crossed her legs? Or was she hallucinating? The fever, perhaps…
But he was really handsome. Grey eyes. Sad eyes. She could tell that he had suffered, that crease between his eyebrows could not lie. Tissue after tissue provided good shelter for a closer watch: light brown hair turning grey on the sides; tall; broad shoulders; strong arms visible beneath the sleeves of the suit; business man, probably self-made; a little older than herself; she could bet he was divorced. But his most striking feature was the eyes. Sweet, softening the grave expression of the square jaw, the nose almost too long, the hard thin lips. Lips… Kiss…
“John, my lad! Tae wha’ do I owe the pleasure of yer visit?”
“Dr. Mac, hi, you asked me to come as soon as I finished the treatment…”
“Och, aye. Come in, lad.”
For no particular reason she trembled. It could be that she was shivering. It could be the perspective of another long wait. It could be that he would go away and she would never see him again. Damn fever!
“Er… Dr. Mac, I think this nice lady here needs you more than I do… She can go in now, I can wait…” She held her breath.
“Verra nice, then! Dinna fash, lad, it wilna be loung! Come in, lassie!” Handsome man made an almost imperceptible funny face.
“Thank you, sir. You’re awfully kind”, she smiled and sighed with relief. I love you, you’re my hero, I want to marry you and be the mother of your four children. She was afraid she had said it out loud. Crazy fever!
“Don’t mention it.” He had the most beautiful smile and she thought that he was actually glowing. Blessed fever!
A smile frozen in her face made her jaw hurt. She wondered it had been a while since she had felt like smiling that way. She suddenly felt light and safe and entered the office with that nice old doctor as if it were a sanctuary. Somehow she knew that everything would be all right now. Good…
* * *
Round lunch time
As I walked in she was already there. She seemed small in the waiting room crowded with furniture too big for the tiny space. It crossed my mind that it had not changed in thirty years, as far as I could remember: the same dark oak desk opposite the entrance door, the pair of two-seat leather couches facing each other, the low wooden table with a glass top placed between the couches in a way that made moving quite hard. The twelve year-old I once was called it “the penguin dance” and laughed in silence as people did their best to walk sideways, hopping from left to right in the narrow gap, to sit down at last with a grunt or a sigh. The long-legged were the funniest. Now I was the long-legged hopping penguin.
Damn. I ventured a slant and thanked God she was not paying attention, too busy trying to wipe her red nose with one hand while tucking a dirty tissue in her bag with the other.
“Good afternoon”, I said, just to be polite. She raised a pair of red tired eyes to me with a nod, an effortful faint smile partially seen under the new tissue, the other quickly tucked in the bag. Poor thing. I tried to concentrate on the magazine that seemed the newest one among the others on the table. Wow, Pearl Jam is playing next week? How could I have missed that? Oh, ok, last year, I was there. Damn, Dr. Mac should really upgrade his library.
She coughed, coughed and coughed again, in spasms, as if having difficulty in getting the air in her lungs. As she fussed about in the bag the empty box of tissues fell down through the gap between the couch and the table.
“Er… There’s a toilet… That door on your right…”
She raised the wet eyes again in a mixture of despair and gratitude and made her own penguin dance towards the toilet. Gracefully, I had to admit. Nice ass, I could not avoid thinking.
As I went through last year’s news, one ear was paying attention to the noises coming from the toilet. Running water… Cough, cough… Cough, cough… Man, the woman knows how to blow a nose for sure. I wondered why I was not disgusted; maybe because I had been in her shoes growing up. Dr. Mac would fix her too.
“A little better?” I asked as she came out of the toilet, hopping gracefully again towards the couch and sitting with a sigh.
“Yes, thank you.” Visibly she was not, but her effort was quite moving. Her lids were swollen and probably burning. Fever only made her eyes brighter. Dark blue. Hmm…
“Don’t worry, Dr. Mac will fix you in no time.”
“I hope so…” She gave that faint smile back to me again for only one second, reaching inside the bag for the new stash of tissues. Then she just put on what I use to call a subway look and sank in the leather, miserably trying to control the flood from her nose.
As I picked up another magazine and went through what was news a year and a half ago, I had to admit that she was beautiful. Not particularly hot, certainly not the big rack type. The golden light from the long narrow window above Mrs. Kent’s oak desk gave her brown hair a dark copper tone.
Where is the old cow, anyways? I had told her I only had a little time before a meeting; it was only a follow-up appointment, for Christ’s sake. She was probably inside the exam room with him, debriefing the last patient.
Great legs. I swear I tried not to stare. She looked younger than she probably was. A little younger than myself, I calculated. Not married… Not at present, probably divorced. I wondered if she had kids… No. And why was I wasting time wondering about her again? There was something about her. Vulnerability? Well, she looked quite vulnerable now, all swollen and sore. Maybe she was just another crazy woman who had driven her ex-husband mad. The bitch.
Man, get a grip. She is not “her”. Damn. Those pretty eyes could not lie. But I had been lied to by pretty eyes before.
“John, my lad! Tae wha’ do I owe the pleasure of yer visit?”
“Dr. Mac, hi, you asked me to come as soon as I finished the treatment…”
“Och, aye. Come in, lad.”
I could feel it when she trembled.
“Er… Dr. Mac, I think this nice lady here needs you more than I do… She can go in now, I can wait…”
“Verra nice, then! Dinna fash, lad, it wilna be loung!” Yes, Dr. Mac, I know, not more than a couple of hours, I thought trying to conceal a laugh.
“Come in, lassie!”
I almost climbed the glass tabletop to grab her arm as she struggled to stand up. Or carry her inside in my arms. But I did not.
“Thank you, sir. You’re awfully kind”, she said in a whisper, a broader smile on her face of relief.
Man, you are fucking beautiful… I was afraid I had said it out loud but what came out was simply “Don’t mention it.” And I watched her walk inside with him as if she were entering a sanctuary.
I penguin-danced back to the couch, a stubborn smile making my jaw hurt. It had been a while since I had felt like smiling like that. I sat down, sighed and searched for my mobile.
“Greg? Hi! Er… Something came up and I have to re-schedule our meeting… Really, you too? … Great! … Five is good for you? ... Five thirty is fine. See you. Bye.”
As I tucked the phone in my pocket it hit me: I was feeling relaxed, invigorated, actually. Somehow I knew that everything would be all right now. Strange…
Round lunch time II
She had been there for a while when he walked in. Right, she thought. Of course it had to be a handsome man, sure, just now that her nose looked and behaved like a big red dripping tap. Damn. It was probably the mould, that old carpet must be crowded with acarids. She could almost feel them crawling up her legs. Long boots had been a good choice. And jeans. She closed her brown velvet jacket round her neck and quickly replaced the wet tissue for a new one. I should have bought another box. Damn.
She averted her look as he clumsily made his way to the leather couch opposite her. Funny. And kinda cute. But she was not going to laugh; she was not really in the mood for laughing, not after the last sleepless nights sitting up on the bed to prevent the coughing attacks, the headache, the fever, the running nose, the pain all over her body.
“Good afternoon.”
She was sure he had just said that to be polite. She nodded and forced a smile under the next tissue. And she was really grateful when he grabbed a magazine and tried to look really interested in last year’s news. She would not venture a read this time. Old magazines plus doctor’s office equals acarids. The last thing she needed now was a sneezing crisis. Or another session of coughs.
She looked around. Although the pieces of furniture were too big for the waiting room, she had to admit that they were beautiful. She wondered that the oak desk must be two hundred years old. The leather crackled beneath her – and him, for that matter - every time she moved, as if it were new and had been recently polished. Polish. Oh, no, the cough! She screamed in her mind trying desperately to hold back the spasm and get some air in her lungs.
Fuck me. She just could not believe when she realized that the box of tissues was empty. She searched hopelessly in the bag for that last single piece of tissue that could be hiding under her wallet. No. Ok, she could try to reuse the ones she had tucked in there. Eew!
She was about to try to rescue the empty box that of course had fallen down that impossible gap between the couch and the table – what nut, sadistic person would place those humongous pieces of furniture in that impossible fashion?! – when the handsome man came to her aid:
“Er… There’s a toilet…” - where, for the love of the Goddess? – “That door on your right…”
She raised her wet eyes to him with a mixture of despair and gratitude and made her way through that ridiculous half meter towards the toilet as graciously as she could. At least she would preserve her dignity. Go ahead, check my butt, you pervert. At least that part of her was presentable. She locked the door too thin for her taste and tried to control the attack. Fuck it, this is a doctor’s office, I’m fucking sick, I just can’t be a fucking lady now! She was really mad at handsome man when she gave her nose a deep and thorough blow. She stared at the reddish-green thing in the sink with disgust. My Goddess, I’ll never be able to kiss anybody again, ever, for the rest of my life! She sighed and fiercely attacked the tissue dispenser, staring at her running nose that seemed to defy her from the other side of the mirror. Now I’m ready for you. She looked at her wasted face, tucked a stubborn lock of hair behind her ear and felt like crying. You’re a mess, woman. She wished she could just hide there, at least until handsome man was gone, maybe let her nose drip straight into the sink. No? Go, woman, be brave.
“A little better?” he asked as she hopped back to her couch.
“Yes, thank you”, she replied through a clogged nose. Beautiful baritone…
“Don’t worry, Dr. Mac will fix you in no time.”
“I hope so.” She smiled faintly. He’d better. She rushed to get another tissue as her nose started running again. And now her eyelids were burning. Fever. She knew the symptoms too well. She sank in the leather and surrendered to a terrible feeling of exhaustion. She had always had those episodes, but it had all got worse since the divorce. New home, new job… She knew she was turning all the stress into illness. All of a sudden she felt ashamed of her private tantrum against handsome man. She had to admit he had tried to be nice. He was not him, for the Goddess’s sake. By now he would be quite mad at her, actually blaming her for being sick. She wondered it had been a blessing after all that they had not had kids. Fifteen years. She knew she looked younger than she was, but lately she had been feeling a lot much older. She wondered if handsome man was checking her, but she was too tired to worry. Ok, did he really stare as she crossed her legs? Or was she hallucinating? The fever, perhaps…
But he was really handsome. Grey eyes. Sad eyes. She could tell that he had suffered, that crease between his eyebrows could not lie. Tissue after tissue provided good shelter for a closer watch: light brown hair turning grey on the sides; tall; broad shoulders; strong arms visible beneath the sleeves of the suit; business man, probably self-made; a little older than herself; she could bet he was divorced. But his most striking feature was the eyes. Sweet, softening the grave expression of the square jaw, the nose almost too long, the hard thin lips. Lips… Kiss…
“John, my lad! Tae wha’ do I owe the pleasure of yer visit?”
“Dr. Mac, hi, you asked me to come as soon as I finished the treatment…”
“Och, aye. Come in, lad.”
For no particular reason she trembled. It could be that she was shivering. It could be the perspective of another long wait. It could be that he would go away and she would never see him again. Damn fever!
“Er… Dr. Mac, I think this nice lady here needs you more than I do… She can go in now, I can wait…” She held her breath.
“Verra nice, then! Dinna fash, lad, it wilna be loung! Come in, lassie!” Handsome man made an almost imperceptible funny face.
“Thank you, sir. You’re awfully kind”, she smiled and sighed with relief. I love you, you’re my hero, I want to marry you and be the mother of your four children. She was afraid she had said it out loud. Crazy fever!
“Don’t mention it.” He had the most beautiful smile and she thought that he was actually glowing. Blessed fever!
A smile frozen in her face made her jaw hurt. She wondered it had been a while since she had felt like smiling that way. She suddenly felt light and safe and entered the office with that nice old doctor as if it were a sanctuary. Somehow she knew that everything would be all right now. Good…
* * *
pictures in mind
by deav - 28 feb 2008
The rain floated around her like foam. She pulled up the collar of the leather coat and folded the lapels over the scarf already rolled up around her neck. It was cold, but that was exactly what she had been hoping for. The woolen cap down to the eyebrows would have to do; she would not open the umbrella again.
They had just walked ahead, leaving her behind. They were probably used by now to her compulsion for tiny little flowers growing on every roadside. There were many here, scattered on the bushes that showed above the stonewalls along the way. At last. She closed her eyes to enjoy the silence of almost wilderness; she was disturbed too soon, though. The roar of an engine in the distance was louder than the buzzing of the midges, the flapping of wings, the occasional chirp hidden by the leaves, when the wind was too strong, shaking the higher branches. Eyes still closed, she lifted her head and breathed in the flowery scent. She tried to identify beneath the overall green all the strange notes the soft rain extracted from the landscape, so alien to her. Ozone. Peat. Salt. Smoke. Honey, perhaps? Something smelled red.
There was laughter from somewhere down below. She was surprised to see that the concrete pavement turned into a pebbly pathway around the bend, leading downwards. And that the tall oak she had seen from the top of the road actually hid a breathtaking view.
“Ah…” she sighed, coming to a halt at the top of the soft slope. There it was, again, the feeling she had been experiencing continuously since they had arrived, that she could only call awe. She went down slowly, her heart beating fast. She bit her lower lip, she would not cry in front of them. Soon her feet touched the slippery surface of the rocky shore.
“Watch your step, it’s slippery there,” he said, and she was grateful again for his care, and somewhat disturbed. He made her feel that way, she was aware of that by now. She gave a shrug.
“Ok.” She went on cautiously, closer to the waterline, until she had the whole view.
It was a small bay. Actually, she was not so sure they were not trespassing; it could well be someone’s backyard. While they played and laughed, she put on her landscape face and shut them out. She wanted to keep that place carved in her memory. The line where the bay met the grey-green bushy hill on her left. The narrow band of rocky beach. Moist black stones beneath her feet, covered with seaweed that smelled like caviar, in dark shades of yellow and brown; and floating cushions bigger than she had ever seen. They were having fun popping the airbags like in those plastic wrappings. There were trees to her right. And, beyond, the point where the bay met the open water that she could see with her mind’s eyes. The water mirror lay in shades of lead, where more seaweed floated like grass around the small boat; it seemed that only the towrope prevented it from going adrift.
Her eyes moved slowly up. She held her breath when she saw the black shaded reflex of the moors beyond, as if for the first time. And she exhaled when silvery clouds emerged dramatically from yonder. They kept on laughing and she just wanted to cry, of joy, of gratefulness. She knew that they could not understand. Maybe he could, but she was not sure about who he really was. As she stood there, looking in the face of wonder, it became clear that she had no right to try to find out. But it did not really matter. All she could do was accept his kindness as another thing to be grateful for.
She closed her eyes. The image of that special place was vivid enough in her mind. She could go now.
She opened her eyes and reeled on the slipping stones towards them and smiled to herself. The only bright color in the whole black and white scene was the red of his scarf.
The rain floated around her like foam. She pulled up the collar of the leather coat and folded the lapels over the scarf already rolled up around her neck. It was cold, but that was exactly what she had been hoping for. The woolen cap down to the eyebrows would have to do; she would not open the umbrella again.
They had just walked ahead, leaving her behind. They were probably used by now to her compulsion for tiny little flowers growing on every roadside. There were many here, scattered on the bushes that showed above the stonewalls along the way. At last. She closed her eyes to enjoy the silence of almost wilderness; she was disturbed too soon, though. The roar of an engine in the distance was louder than the buzzing of the midges, the flapping of wings, the occasional chirp hidden by the leaves, when the wind was too strong, shaking the higher branches. Eyes still closed, she lifted her head and breathed in the flowery scent. She tried to identify beneath the overall green all the strange notes the soft rain extracted from the landscape, so alien to her. Ozone. Peat. Salt. Smoke. Honey, perhaps? Something smelled red.
There was laughter from somewhere down below. She was surprised to see that the concrete pavement turned into a pebbly pathway around the bend, leading downwards. And that the tall oak she had seen from the top of the road actually hid a breathtaking view.
“Ah…” she sighed, coming to a halt at the top of the soft slope. There it was, again, the feeling she had been experiencing continuously since they had arrived, that she could only call awe. She went down slowly, her heart beating fast. She bit her lower lip, she would not cry in front of them. Soon her feet touched the slippery surface of the rocky shore.
“Watch your step, it’s slippery there,” he said, and she was grateful again for his care, and somewhat disturbed. He made her feel that way, she was aware of that by now. She gave a shrug.
“Ok.” She went on cautiously, closer to the waterline, until she had the whole view.
It was a small bay. Actually, she was not so sure they were not trespassing; it could well be someone’s backyard. While they played and laughed, she put on her landscape face and shut them out. She wanted to keep that place carved in her memory. The line where the bay met the grey-green bushy hill on her left. The narrow band of rocky beach. Moist black stones beneath her feet, covered with seaweed that smelled like caviar, in dark shades of yellow and brown; and floating cushions bigger than she had ever seen. They were having fun popping the airbags like in those plastic wrappings. There were trees to her right. And, beyond, the point where the bay met the open water that she could see with her mind’s eyes. The water mirror lay in shades of lead, where more seaweed floated like grass around the small boat; it seemed that only the towrope prevented it from going adrift.
Her eyes moved slowly up. She held her breath when she saw the black shaded reflex of the moors beyond, as if for the first time. And she exhaled when silvery clouds emerged dramatically from yonder. They kept on laughing and she just wanted to cry, of joy, of gratefulness. She knew that they could not understand. Maybe he could, but she was not sure about who he really was. As she stood there, looking in the face of wonder, it became clear that she had no right to try to find out. But it did not really matter. All she could do was accept his kindness as another thing to be grateful for.
She closed her eyes. The image of that special place was vivid enough in her mind. She could go now.
She opened her eyes and reeled on the slipping stones towards them and smiled to herself. The only bright color in the whole black and white scene was the red of his scarf.
arrange something
by deav - 27 feb 2008
SCREEEEESH … DRUUMM!
She trembled violently and opened her eyes. Panting, heart beating fast, she was disoriented at first, in the dark. Someone was screaming and shouting outside, but at first it felt like a nightmare.
Fuck, she thought, lying back down, still shaking and nauseous with her heart in her throat. She tried to focus her ear above the sound of the fan. Someone was cursing really loud; to her it meant that nobody had been seriously hurt. She took a deep breath and turned to the side.
“Fuck,” she said low, when she accidentally saw the alarm clock: 4 am, universal insomnia time; wake-up-in-the-middle-of-the-night time; cry-yourself-to-sleep time; and, apparently, wake-up-trembling-because-of-the-sound-of-a-car-crash time. Sometimes it was a gunshot. She could go on and on about 4 am, but she just wanted to go back to sleep.
“Fuck,” she grunted, knowing that going back to sleep would not be so easy. She rolled to her back and spread arms and legs. Eyes adjusted to the dark, the streetlights made the room annoyingly illuminated. The noise of the fan was just as annoying. She snorted, irritated.
And then she sneezed. Of course, it was hot, but the artificial wind against her naked skin made her shiver. There was the dust, too.
I have to vacuum the room, she thought, rolling to the other side and wrapping herself in the sheet. On the weekend. Maybe clean the top of the wardrobe. Change bedclothes too. Maybe she could finally clear the armoire and give all the empty folders to her nieces. After all, they’re plastic, good quality, for school. But then she would have to clean the vacuum cleaner… That was no problem. But for the clothes recently washed, she would have to take them from the hanger and keep them before cleaning the dust bag, otherwise they would get dusty, because of the wind. It always winds. She remembered the old house, the windstorms that used to shake the window frames. And that mini tornado, she had spent the night on the couch, grabbing her purse, watching tree branches fly by the window in the living room. On the eleventh floor.
“Shit,” she whispered, when she remembered that she had to repair the rack hanger in the wardrobe, collapsed under the weight of the clothes that now piled up on the inner shelf. Was she doing the same thing here, she wondered, let the house crumble down? It seemed the two houses were twins, it seemed that they were somehow connected, in a spooky way; the new one had developed problems in the same areas as in the old one. That leak on the bathroom ceiling. The clogging in the lock of the front door. Windows that don’t lock. Useful things piling up in the service room for future use. But she did not want to think about that. She had to sleep.
She turned to the other side to face the fan, feeling hot all of a sudden. Maybe it was time to give the old furniture for donation. She was feeling suffocated, as if things were cluttering around her. She didn’t need the rocking chair. Or the colossal bookshelf/tv rack. It was about time to change the couch, too. Yes, just get rid of it. She could give away the books too; and the cds, her brother-in-law would be thrilled.
“Good plan,” she mumbled, pulling the sheet to her shoulders. She forced the lids shut, trying to ignore the dim. That old mattress in the service room would have to go, definitely. She could assemble the single bed again in the spare room and use a futon for mattress. And the couch would go to the living room. Without the bookshelf, she would need another piece of furniture for the tv set. She wondered if that good store was still open, they had lovely pieces. Maybe this time there would be enough money to buy the crystal closet she’s always dreamed of, to keep her trinkets, stones, crystal jars, candles. Her hourglass collection, of course.
“Right,” she yawned, rolling again to the other side, grabbing the sheet by her breast but leaving the feet out. Maybe this way she could have friends for dinner; use that book of Greek recipes at last. It would be nice to have people in the house other than the cable guy or the doorman. Maybe he would come and she would not be ashamed of the mess.
“Not again,” she said out loud, opening her eyes. She sighed and closed them again slowly, holding back a stubborn tear. She knew that he would never come. She cuddled herself and cried, deeply, quietly. No one would hear her with the noise of the fan. Next thing she would wake up with the maddening sound of the alarm clock, not even noticing that she had fallen asleep. As usual.
SCREEEEESH … DRUUMM!
She trembled violently and opened her eyes. Panting, heart beating fast, she was disoriented at first, in the dark. Someone was screaming and shouting outside, but at first it felt like a nightmare.
Fuck, she thought, lying back down, still shaking and nauseous with her heart in her throat. She tried to focus her ear above the sound of the fan. Someone was cursing really loud; to her it meant that nobody had been seriously hurt. She took a deep breath and turned to the side.
“Fuck,” she said low, when she accidentally saw the alarm clock: 4 am, universal insomnia time; wake-up-in-the-middle-of-the-night time; cry-yourself-to-sleep time; and, apparently, wake-up-trembling-because-of-the-sound-of-a-car-crash time. Sometimes it was a gunshot. She could go on and on about 4 am, but she just wanted to go back to sleep.
“Fuck,” she grunted, knowing that going back to sleep would not be so easy. She rolled to her back and spread arms and legs. Eyes adjusted to the dark, the streetlights made the room annoyingly illuminated. The noise of the fan was just as annoying. She snorted, irritated.
And then she sneezed. Of course, it was hot, but the artificial wind against her naked skin made her shiver. There was the dust, too.
I have to vacuum the room, she thought, rolling to the other side and wrapping herself in the sheet. On the weekend. Maybe clean the top of the wardrobe. Change bedclothes too. Maybe she could finally clear the armoire and give all the empty folders to her nieces. After all, they’re plastic, good quality, for school. But then she would have to clean the vacuum cleaner… That was no problem. But for the clothes recently washed, she would have to take them from the hanger and keep them before cleaning the dust bag, otherwise they would get dusty, because of the wind. It always winds. She remembered the old house, the windstorms that used to shake the window frames. And that mini tornado, she had spent the night on the couch, grabbing her purse, watching tree branches fly by the window in the living room. On the eleventh floor.
“Shit,” she whispered, when she remembered that she had to repair the rack hanger in the wardrobe, collapsed under the weight of the clothes that now piled up on the inner shelf. Was she doing the same thing here, she wondered, let the house crumble down? It seemed the two houses were twins, it seemed that they were somehow connected, in a spooky way; the new one had developed problems in the same areas as in the old one. That leak on the bathroom ceiling. The clogging in the lock of the front door. Windows that don’t lock. Useful things piling up in the service room for future use. But she did not want to think about that. She had to sleep.
She turned to the other side to face the fan, feeling hot all of a sudden. Maybe it was time to give the old furniture for donation. She was feeling suffocated, as if things were cluttering around her. She didn’t need the rocking chair. Or the colossal bookshelf/tv rack. It was about time to change the couch, too. Yes, just get rid of it. She could give away the books too; and the cds, her brother-in-law would be thrilled.
“Good plan,” she mumbled, pulling the sheet to her shoulders. She forced the lids shut, trying to ignore the dim. That old mattress in the service room would have to go, definitely. She could assemble the single bed again in the spare room and use a futon for mattress. And the couch would go to the living room. Without the bookshelf, she would need another piece of furniture for the tv set. She wondered if that good store was still open, they had lovely pieces. Maybe this time there would be enough money to buy the crystal closet she’s always dreamed of, to keep her trinkets, stones, crystal jars, candles. Her hourglass collection, of course.
“Right,” she yawned, rolling again to the other side, grabbing the sheet by her breast but leaving the feet out. Maybe this way she could have friends for dinner; use that book of Greek recipes at last. It would be nice to have people in the house other than the cable guy or the doorman. Maybe he would come and she would not be ashamed of the mess.
“Not again,” she said out loud, opening her eyes. She sighed and closed them again slowly, holding back a stubborn tear. She knew that he would never come. She cuddled herself and cried, deeply, quietly. No one would hear her with the noise of the fan. Next thing she would wake up with the maddening sound of the alarm clock, not even noticing that she had fallen asleep. As usual.
twelve words
twelve words - 03 oct 2007
by deav
mark, social, spark, flaw, illuminate, embark, follow, school, rule, knuckles, lady, worn
another day breaks
as sunbeams spark
i think of you
like some daily rule
dreams illuminate
the old car park
i think of you
it’s somehow new
is it a social flaw
to cry as you embark?
i wave to you
like sending you to school
another day worn
that old shadows mark
i think of you
i’m the lady of fool
scraped knuckles ache
stain the wall in the dark
i think of you
if i could follow you...
by deav
mark, social, spark, flaw, illuminate, embark, follow, school, rule, knuckles, lady, worn
another day breaks
as sunbeams spark
i think of you
like some daily rule
dreams illuminate
the old car park
i think of you
it’s somehow new
is it a social flaw
to cry as you embark?
i wave to you
like sending you to school
another day worn
that old shadows mark
i think of you
i’m the lady of fool
scraped knuckles ache
stain the wall in the dark
i think of you
if i could follow you...
Friday, January 26, 2007
Ben Harper and Donavon Frankenreiter in Rio (Claro Hall - Jan 25th, 2007)
i have to bear witness to the transcendent event i took part in last night, when i saw Ben Harper and Donavon Frankenreiter play in Rio. yes, i've been a somewhat distant admirer of Ben since "Excuse me Mr.", i got the album “Diamonds On The Inside”, i was thrilled when he sang with Pearl Jam at the Madson Square Garden in 2003 (PJ's "Indifference" and "With my own two hands" as a tag for PJ's Daughter), i was aware that my favorite song was "She's only happy in the Sun". also i think "Free" is a nice song. ok. but nothing could have prepared me for what i was about to experience.
Donavon played first and i was blown away; the man goes way beyond "Free": an amazing blues/soulman, great guitar player, beautiful voice. and a kind of gentleness, of modesty, like he felt a little awkward for being literally acclaimed by the crowd, like "you know, man, that's just these things i play". i don't know, that's what i felt. i became an instant fan. one hour was not enough.
worthy of note was the performance of guests, two members of a famous brazilian rock band, Kid Abelha: Paula Toller (vocals) and George Israel (sax).
when Ben came on stage, the first thing that struck me was his seriousness. what could be perceived at first as some lack of interaction with the crowd, later on revealed itself as a profound respect for the music and this genuine spiritual way of addressing a song, like each one of them was something sacred. for about three hours, give and take, Ben and the Innocent Criminals just pushed the boundaries of what is considered a "jam". the man is really a monster of the slide. every song comes from somewhere deep inside of him, he sings with his body, his heart and soul.
the show ended and nobody in the audience left. after what seemed too long, Ben came back for the encore. he played two accoustics, just him and the guitar, this halo of light around him. 8000 people singing along. really, no-one wanted to leave. the band came back and all of a sudden Ben was literally preaching to the crowd! he left the mic, went to the edge of the stage and with only the power of his voice he sang. the band playing really low. the crowd willing to scream and he asking for silence. and he kept singing. i can tell, the man had the Holy Spirit in him. unbelievable.
the highlights were "Get up, Stand up", with a brazilian flag on the back wall of the stage and "Diamonds on the inside", with Donavon singing together.
after that, the band remained on stage and Ben said some words of thank you. i could tell that the experience had been as intense for him as it had been for me. he said sorry for not speaking our language, said that he would try to express how grateful he was. he said "you're the soul of the soul". he was amazed by the way "we played so many different things and you just went along", his hand moving like a wave. then they all held a brazilian flag together.
they were really happy. the bass player was the happiest, because people just loved him, his playing and his beautiful voice, and they kept calling him "Tim Maia", a famous and really missed brazilian musician.
i was in awe last night and have been in this state of joy ever since. i feel like i had one of those rare moments when you realise you just took one step ahead into becoming yourself. and for that i'm forever grateful.
i have to bear witness to the transcendent event i took part in last night, when i saw Ben Harper and Donavon Frankenreiter play in Rio. yes, i've been a somewhat distant admirer of Ben since "Excuse me Mr.", i got the album “Diamonds On The Inside”, i was thrilled when he sang with Pearl Jam at the Madson Square Garden in 2003 (PJ's "Indifference" and "With my own two hands" as a tag for PJ's Daughter), i was aware that my favorite song was "She's only happy in the Sun". also i think "Free" is a nice song. ok. but nothing could have prepared me for what i was about to experience.
Donavon played first and i was blown away; the man goes way beyond "Free": an amazing blues/soulman, great guitar player, beautiful voice. and a kind of gentleness, of modesty, like he felt a little awkward for being literally acclaimed by the crowd, like "you know, man, that's just these things i play". i don't know, that's what i felt. i became an instant fan. one hour was not enough.
worthy of note was the performance of guests, two members of a famous brazilian rock band, Kid Abelha: Paula Toller (vocals) and George Israel (sax).
when Ben came on stage, the first thing that struck me was his seriousness. what could be perceived at first as some lack of interaction with the crowd, later on revealed itself as a profound respect for the music and this genuine spiritual way of addressing a song, like each one of them was something sacred. for about three hours, give and take, Ben and the Innocent Criminals just pushed the boundaries of what is considered a "jam". the man is really a monster of the slide. every song comes from somewhere deep inside of him, he sings with his body, his heart and soul.
the show ended and nobody in the audience left. after what seemed too long, Ben came back for the encore. he played two accoustics, just him and the guitar, this halo of light around him. 8000 people singing along. really, no-one wanted to leave. the band came back and all of a sudden Ben was literally preaching to the crowd! he left the mic, went to the edge of the stage and with only the power of his voice he sang. the band playing really low. the crowd willing to scream and he asking for silence. and he kept singing. i can tell, the man had the Holy Spirit in him. unbelievable.
the highlights were "Get up, Stand up", with a brazilian flag on the back wall of the stage and "Diamonds on the inside", with Donavon singing together.
after that, the band remained on stage and Ben said some words of thank you. i could tell that the experience had been as intense for him as it had been for me. he said sorry for not speaking our language, said that he would try to express how grateful he was. he said "you're the soul of the soul". he was amazed by the way "we played so many different things and you just went along", his hand moving like a wave. then they all held a brazilian flag together.
they were really happy. the bass player was the happiest, because people just loved him, his playing and his beautiful voice, and they kept calling him "Tim Maia", a famous and really missed brazilian musician.
i was in awe last night and have been in this state of joy ever since. i feel like i had one of those rare moments when you realise you just took one step ahead into becoming yourself. and for that i'm forever grateful.
Monday, January 15, 2007
land of the blind (by deav)
Rio, Jan 2007
if you think you're safe
up your ivory tower
know there’s a greater power
locks won’t keep them out
if your feet is on the ground
you go on the simple way
take a good look around
that won’t keep them out
by or against the law
steel walls turned to straw
they’ll get your head down anyway
reason is just no use
you think you got nothing to lose
they’ll rape your women anyway
if you live by your belief
go on the righteous way
you just can’t keep your peace
faith won’t keep them out
if you fight to make a change
take justice in your hands
beware that in the end
you don’t become “them”
hero or heavy hand
no matter which side you stand
they’ll kill your children anyway
ideas misguided as flags
another turn of the hourglass
they’ll burn your poets anyway…
* * *
Rio, Jan 2007
if you think you're safe
up your ivory tower
know there’s a greater power
locks won’t keep them out
if your feet is on the ground
you go on the simple way
take a good look around
that won’t keep them out
by or against the law
steel walls turned to straw
they’ll get your head down anyway
reason is just no use
you think you got nothing to lose
they’ll rape your women anyway
if you live by your belief
go on the righteous way
you just can’t keep your peace
faith won’t keep them out
if you fight to make a change
take justice in your hands
beware that in the end
you don’t become “them”
hero or heavy hand
no matter which side you stand
they’ll kill your children anyway
ideas misguided as flags
another turn of the hourglass
they’ll burn your poets anyway…
* * *
Friday, December 08, 2006
blue (by deav)
Rio, Dez 2006
a late tide brings me crumbs of a song
i think of you as i sing along
my memory tells me what i know that is true
you’re still my favorite shade of blue
since you’ve been gone (well, you never really came)
my life goes on pretty much the same
every time i try to change my way
it’s like sneezing on an ashtray
you know?
time has a way of making ways shorter
time has a way of making things smaller
of making sweeter the pain
and me fall in love again
i fall in love with ghosts of dead men
always either too early or too late
but till the day that i die
you’ll be my favorite reason to cry…
a movie comes with a year delay
i think of you as i watch it today
my heart reminds me of that moment of truth
you’re still my favorite shade of blue
time has a way…
my favorite shade of blue…
* * *
Rio, Dez 2006
a late tide brings me crumbs of a song
i think of you as i sing along
my memory tells me what i know that is true
you’re still my favorite shade of blue
since you’ve been gone (well, you never really came)
my life goes on pretty much the same
every time i try to change my way
it’s like sneezing on an ashtray
you know?
time has a way of making ways shorter
time has a way of making things smaller
of making sweeter the pain
and me fall in love again
i fall in love with ghosts of dead men
always either too early or too late
but till the day that i die
you’ll be my favorite reason to cry…
a movie comes with a year delay
i think of you as i watch it today
my heart reminds me of that moment of truth
you’re still my favorite shade of blue
time has a way…
my favorite shade of blue…
* * *
Thursday, July 13, 2006
Monday, July 10, 2006
linhas azuis (deav)
Rio, Jul 2006
“eu sou um rio”
entre a vigília e o sonho
vieram as palavras
e há muito não vinham assim
sem o filtro.
“eu sou o leito por onde corre...”
vou lembrar amanhã
mas tantas vezes esqueci
que por medo levantei
era espantoso demais
para ignorar
nua, no escuro
escrevi nas linhas azuis
mais sobre as palavras
do que elas mesmas...
perdi-as de todo jeito
“eu sou o rio
eu sou o leito
a fonte jorra
das profundezas
de mim mesma
afinal.”
Rio, Jul 2006
“eu sou um rio”
entre a vigília e o sonho
vieram as palavras
e há muito não vinham assim
sem o filtro.
“eu sou o leito por onde corre...”
vou lembrar amanhã
mas tantas vezes esqueci
que por medo levantei
era espantoso demais
para ignorar
nua, no escuro
escrevi nas linhas azuis
mais sobre as palavras
do que elas mesmas...
perdi-as de todo jeito
“eu sou o rio
eu sou o leito
a fonte jorra
das profundezas
de mim mesma
afinal.”
Friday, July 07, 2006
home (by deav)
Rio, Mai 2006
(just lyrics)
when it rains it’s good
cause they won’t go out in the street
so i’m not scared
but when it rains
curtains get sucked outside
and clothes take longer to dry
my body still hurts from the past
or hurts already for the new
forgotten history in a box
clutter in the second room
out of the cave
time changed by a change of space
hopefully not a cage
life changed by a change of pace
when it’s hot it’s bad
my feet get swollen, i can’t sleep
and i sweat
but when it’s hot
my hands don’t hurt when i play
and clothes are dry the next day
i bump into furniture misplaced
exchange the old for the new
forgotten cutlery in a box
clutter in the second room
riding the wave
time changed by a change of place
truthfully not of age
life changed by a touch of grace
* * *
Rio, Mai 2006
(just lyrics)
when it rains it’s good
cause they won’t go out in the street
so i’m not scared
but when it rains
curtains get sucked outside
and clothes take longer to dry
my body still hurts from the past
or hurts already for the new
forgotten history in a box
clutter in the second room
out of the cave
time changed by a change of space
hopefully not a cage
life changed by a change of pace
when it’s hot it’s bad
my feet get swollen, i can’t sleep
and i sweat
but when it’s hot
my hands don’t hurt when i play
and clothes are dry the next day
i bump into furniture misplaced
exchange the old for the new
forgotten cutlery in a box
clutter in the second room
riding the wave
time changed by a change of place
truthfully not of age
life changed by a touch of grace
* * *
Tuesday, June 20, 2006
hey (by deav)
Rio, Mai-Jun 2006
(just lyrics)
hey Bob
how you’re doing?
hope i’m not intruding
i heard a song today
it touched me deep inside
and got me thinking
i don’t know you, i won’t pretend
just got your vision in my eyes
i won’t say i understand
just saw your words among the lies
no i won’t jump on your roof
dance naked in the backyard
don’t need your signature for proof
i’ll try not to make it hard
i don’t want to be led or to follow
the undecided messiah
nor the man of constant sorrow
give my solitude for hire
i just come to say hi
i just come to say thanks
for once more i can fly
no more crawl on the river bank
hey Bob,
still dealing
with this man that you’re building?
i just wanna say
heard a hundred songs today
dust inside i’ve been cleaning
i’ve been building myself too
some may say that i’m too late
well, better late than never, it’s true
i build my road, won’t drown in fate
let me listen to your song again
let the poetry overflow
for deaf were my ears back then
never really listened low
now slowly comes this song
many nights i’ve been dreaming
it comes softly, but strong
it comes humming, not screaming
i just sing to say hi
just to say “i love you so”
if you ever wonder why
all i can say is “i don’t know” (“that is so”)
* * *
Rio, Mai-Jun 2006
(just lyrics)
hey Bob
how you’re doing?
hope i’m not intruding
i heard a song today
it touched me deep inside
and got me thinking
i don’t know you, i won’t pretend
just got your vision in my eyes
i won’t say i understand
just saw your words among the lies
no i won’t jump on your roof
dance naked in the backyard
don’t need your signature for proof
i’ll try not to make it hard
i don’t want to be led or to follow
the undecided messiah
nor the man of constant sorrow
give my solitude for hire
i just come to say hi
i just come to say thanks
for once more i can fly
no more crawl on the river bank
hey Bob,
still dealing
with this man that you’re building?
i just wanna say
heard a hundred songs today
dust inside i’ve been cleaning
i’ve been building myself too
some may say that i’m too late
well, better late than never, it’s true
i build my road, won’t drown in fate
let me listen to your song again
let the poetry overflow
for deaf were my ears back then
never really listened low
now slowly comes this song
many nights i’ve been dreaming
it comes softly, but strong
it comes humming, not screaming
i just sing to say hi
just to say “i love you so”
if you ever wonder why
all i can say is “i don’t know” (“that is so”)
* * *
Thursday, May 25, 2006
dead soldiers dreams (by deav)
Rio, Mai 2006
(just lyrics)
in pieces in dirt they lie
made mud by blood and tears
like in sleep they die
sweet faces hold no fear
lives taken no longer a burden
on their shoulders, for their souls
have carried them, and under
a bruised sky death wave flows
can the open eyes that blindly stare
at nothing, visions hold still
of past sunsets and loving care
and dreams as unlikely as real?
in shallow honor they perished, but fear
not forgiveness should they
a voice of compassion to millions of ears
sings reckoning at the dawn of the day
it sings of dead soldiers dreams
of waste and suicide, dragons and waves
but of love and hope it also sings
of heart and desire where life stays
* * *
Rio, Mai 2006
(just lyrics)
in pieces in dirt they lie
made mud by blood and tears
like in sleep they die
sweet faces hold no fear
lives taken no longer a burden
on their shoulders, for their souls
have carried them, and under
a bruised sky death wave flows
can the open eyes that blindly stare
at nothing, visions hold still
of past sunsets and loving care
and dreams as unlikely as real?
in shallow honor they perished, but fear
not forgiveness should they
a voice of compassion to millions of ears
sings reckoning at the dawn of the day
it sings of dead soldiers dreams
of waste and suicide, dragons and waves
but of love and hope it also sings
of heart and desire where life stays
* * *
Wednesday, March 22, 2006
writer's prompt 03/20 - 03/26
"if the world would end on thursday, march 23rd..."
i've been thinking about this a lot, between boxes of old documents, boxes of books and suitcases loaded with clothes, since i got this phone call from my mother. the same old story i've been hearing for 20 years, the sea will rise and wash away the coast. now that i 've moved to this beautiful new apartment... well, i keep having images in my mind of the water coming up to the 5th floor loaded with garbage and cockroaches and swimming rats and getting in through the kitchen, because it's open to the outside. but i won't see that because i'll be at work, in the black tower, and i'll watch everything from the top. maybe i should take my mother's advice and pack and go to her house in the mountains tomorrow. or go to my sister's house in the upland. maybe i could get crazy and eat, drink, smoke, fuck as much as i want because the world will end. maybe i could buy everything i want on credit and spend my last days listening PJ bootlegs i've been saving for, drinking ice vodka and eating chocolate. thinking about it, if the world ended, i wouldn't have to spend money on a wardrobe, wouldn't have to give half my savings to the government as income tax, and wouldn't have to worry about the gas company bothering me and the fact that the winter is coming and i don't have gas at home. i wouldn't have to worry that i'm getting older and that i'll never be loved again. but i'll probably just go on as if thursday was a day like any other. choose to believe in that other medium, the guy who told the american government the location of Saddam Hussein's hideaway (and who is now sueing Washington for the US$25 million reward), at least he said the world will end only in 2012. then i would have time to have my band. my perfect companion would have time to arrive in my life. i could buy the new PJ album and go to a PJ show one more time. but... now i realize, what am i saying? everyday is the end of the world for someone... many days almost were the end of my world, only depending on a step more on the street, by the window sill, one more pill, one fine cut on the wrist. and my world has ended many more times before, at every lie, every disappointment, every injustice, every humilliation, every act of lack of love. it really doesn't matter. whatever.
i've been thinking about this a lot, between boxes of old documents, boxes of books and suitcases loaded with clothes, since i got this phone call from my mother. the same old story i've been hearing for 20 years, the sea will rise and wash away the coast. now that i 've moved to this beautiful new apartment... well, i keep having images in my mind of the water coming up to the 5th floor loaded with garbage and cockroaches and swimming rats and getting in through the kitchen, because it's open to the outside. but i won't see that because i'll be at work, in the black tower, and i'll watch everything from the top. maybe i should take my mother's advice and pack and go to her house in the mountains tomorrow. or go to my sister's house in the upland. maybe i could get crazy and eat, drink, smoke, fuck as much as i want because the world will end. maybe i could buy everything i want on credit and spend my last days listening PJ bootlegs i've been saving for, drinking ice vodka and eating chocolate. thinking about it, if the world ended, i wouldn't have to spend money on a wardrobe, wouldn't have to give half my savings to the government as income tax, and wouldn't have to worry about the gas company bothering me and the fact that the winter is coming and i don't have gas at home. i wouldn't have to worry that i'm getting older and that i'll never be loved again. but i'll probably just go on as if thursday was a day like any other. choose to believe in that other medium, the guy who told the american government the location of Saddam Hussein's hideaway (and who is now sueing Washington for the US$25 million reward), at least he said the world will end only in 2012. then i would have time to have my band. my perfect companion would have time to arrive in my life. i could buy the new PJ album and go to a PJ show one more time. but... now i realize, what am i saying? everyday is the end of the world for someone... many days almost were the end of my world, only depending on a step more on the street, by the window sill, one more pill, one fine cut on the wrist. and my world has ended many more times before, at every lie, every disappointment, every injustice, every humilliation, every act of lack of love. it really doesn't matter. whatever.
Wednesday, March 15, 2006
untitled (change)
untitled (change) (by deav)
Rio, Mar 2006
(just lyrics)
"walk the same path..."
for the last time
next time no matter if it's wet or dry
i'll be gone
moving ahead
on another path
strange
when it comes to change
it's the same things
yet nothing is the same...
throw stale memories away
find memories lost in clutter long ago
sometimes to realize
there's no reason to make them stay
pack a lighter pack
though it's not light enough
to carry on my back
unpack to a bigger space
how long until it becomes
and again ceases to be my place?
* * *
Rio, Mar 2006
(just lyrics)
"walk the same path..."
for the last time
next time no matter if it's wet or dry
i'll be gone
moving ahead
on another path
strange
when it comes to change
it's the same things
yet nothing is the same...
throw stale memories away
find memories lost in clutter long ago
sometimes to realize
there's no reason to make them stay
pack a lighter pack
though it's not light enough
to carry on my back
unpack to a bigger space
how long until it becomes
and again ceases to be my place?
* * *
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