having a moment
Life is made up of moments. Warm, mad, sane, moments providing the life
affirming link across all that is dross and gray and creeping and in
between. Here are some of them.
There are those moments of slide, expressed so well on screen, where the
main character becomes the calm centre in the middle of some crazy action
scene. Incongruous music plays in the background, and the camera begins to
tilt as if the character is holding their balance on a stormy sea.
Sometimes there will be a busy moment in the kitchen with only me and mad ,
deaf, mexican, tragic, crackhead Juan, to hold the fort. We will both be
running about the kitchen , shouting , having minor gas explosions,
throwing plates, pans, food… , while
out front the band will be adlibbing with cymbols, trombone, banjo and
more, to 'When the Saints Come Marching In' The music adds a cartoon like
character to our manic machinations and though I feel sick when the first
huge order comes in, I can almost step outside myself and watch the madness
unfold, relax into the flow and feel the time frames slow down and speed up
again.
At home, lying in the hammock, sun streaming through the window , I can
hear through the Beta Band plugged into my ears, my room mates having some
ridiculous argument about religion and politics. The swaying of the
hammock detaches me from anything solid or the idea that any argument can be
solid, so that filtered through music and sun and swaying, their raised
voices become comical and lose their meaning and waves of serenity wash
over me. The moment is sublime.
In Mexico, again in a hammock, watching two girls side by side on a swing ,
framed by the blue ocean, the green palms and a red umbrella. It is the
white chickens beside the red barrow in the rain.
In New York there is little silence. People like to comment on things. They
like to make their opinions known. Even seemingly private conversations
are held with an audience in mind. So a moment of silent, nonverbal
communication is a welcome surprise. Against the backdrop of constant
verbosity and craziness, a piece of insignificant quietitude is a panacea.
All that happened was: on a bus a girl caught me looking at the long,
curling , painted toe and fingernails of another passenger and we
exchanged a look which expressed everything.
Then there is the communication on the Williamsburg Bridge, where again
everything is expressed in one brief moment of eye contact. You are on your
bike struggling up the hill when your path crosses that of someone flying
down the other way and in that second, you speak together of both the
burning lungs and muscles of the climb and sweet relief of decent and you
understand each other perfectly.
affirming link across all that is dross and gray and creeping and in
between. Here are some of them.
There are those moments of slide, expressed so well on screen, where the
main character becomes the calm centre in the middle of some crazy action
scene. Incongruous music plays in the background, and the camera begins to
tilt as if the character is holding their balance on a stormy sea.
Sometimes there will be a busy moment in the kitchen with only me and mad ,
deaf, mexican, tragic, crackhead Juan, to hold the fort. We will both be
running about the kitchen , shouting , having minor gas explosions,
throwing plates, pans, food… , while
out front the band will be adlibbing with cymbols, trombone, banjo and
more, to 'When the Saints Come Marching In' The music adds a cartoon like
character to our manic machinations and though I feel sick when the first
huge order comes in, I can almost step outside myself and watch the madness
unfold, relax into the flow and feel the time frames slow down and speed up
again.
At home, lying in the hammock, sun streaming through the window , I can
hear through the Beta Band plugged into my ears, my room mates having some
ridiculous argument about religion and politics. The swaying of the
hammock detaches me from anything solid or the idea that any argument can be
solid, so that filtered through music and sun and swaying, their raised
voices become comical and lose their meaning and waves of serenity wash
over me. The moment is sublime.
In Mexico, again in a hammock, watching two girls side by side on a swing ,
framed by the blue ocean, the green palms and a red umbrella. It is the
white chickens beside the red barrow in the rain.
In New York there is little silence. People like to comment on things. They
like to make their opinions known. Even seemingly private conversations
are held with an audience in mind. So a moment of silent, nonverbal
communication is a welcome surprise. Against the backdrop of constant
verbosity and craziness, a piece of insignificant quietitude is a panacea.
All that happened was: on a bus a girl caught me looking at the long,
curling , painted toe and fingernails of another passenger and we
exchanged a look which expressed everything.
Then there is the communication on the Williamsburg Bridge, where again
everything is expressed in one brief moment of eye contact. You are on your
bike struggling up the hill when your path crosses that of someone flying
down the other way and in that second, you speak together of both the
burning lungs and muscles of the climb and sweet relief of decent and you
understand each other perfectly.