The Blues are Brewin'
Friday. My usual friends r all occupied, doing their own things and this is getting more often lately. My hubs will be over at his friend's place for beer and bbq, on an unseasonably cold, possibly wet night. To think last week I was so ready to go shop for sandals and Summer. As a gesture, I'm invited as well. The want to doll up, yet for a backyard bbq excuse for beering, with too many guys I'm not crushing on, is not as arousing as it sounds. *Chuckle*
Friday afternoon blues, I love them. My mind will just freely wander, latching on a memory and I get visuals and sounds, music to my ears that I do not know I retained, so vividly and fondly.
And atm, I had a flashback of one of those very muggy night, the lucid calm before the typhoon. It's often a Saturday night, when you can think of 2 million things to do instead of home, maybe just wasting away in a manga shop without a care of the monsoon and the dark pools of waters swarming the streets and subway.
And I would be in my tiny room, consciously telling myself 'I'm bored!', Air conditioner blasting and humming on the very top of my head as I would gaze out my window, head lazing on sill, studying the highrise just opposite our exact identical one. No blinds, everybody invites my eyes into their living room of them doing nth. Then I heard a snap, as if... it's just the AC stopped its tune. Black out.
The whole glittering 40+ floors of hundreds of home would go dark, pitch dark. and silent. Mom put in batteries in her cassette player and Billie Holiday belted on as Mom magically whipped up some candles and lights. I would go bolt every window shut, double-checking. Bro would, in 3 sec, set up the majong table. My dad closed his book without bookmarking, a book he's usu read too many times, I can hear him feeling his klutzy way to the kitchen to make some tea in dark and to bring us all our beverages and snacks. Without many words, and I have no idea why, our family of 4 will start playing majong, in candlelight to Miss Billie. We could hear the rain and the approaching monsoon tearing, cutting through all the other layers of sound. The majong tiles clashed and clanked in the foreground at the end of every game, Miss Holiday's soulful words sometimes riding on top. The rain and wind a constant. We would talk for hours, on nth and everything. We all saw the tinkling lights coming back in our neighboring flats. We would let the candles burn out and end our game on their fate, call our takeouts, eat it at the majong table like we had been starving for days and nth has been this delicious. Ever.
This may be the most beautiful piece of sound poetry I've known.
Friday afternoon blues, I love them. My mind will just freely wander, latching on a memory and I get visuals and sounds, music to my ears that I do not know I retained, so vividly and fondly.
And atm, I had a flashback of one of those very muggy night, the lucid calm before the typhoon. It's often a Saturday night, when you can think of 2 million things to do instead of home, maybe just wasting away in a manga shop without a care of the monsoon and the dark pools of waters swarming the streets and subway.
And I would be in my tiny room, consciously telling myself 'I'm bored!', Air conditioner blasting and humming on the very top of my head as I would gaze out my window, head lazing on sill, studying the highrise just opposite our exact identical one. No blinds, everybody invites my eyes into their living room of them doing nth. Then I heard a snap, as if... it's just the AC stopped its tune. Black out.
The whole glittering 40+ floors of hundreds of home would go dark, pitch dark. and silent. Mom put in batteries in her cassette player and Billie Holiday belted on as Mom magically whipped up some candles and lights. I would go bolt every window shut, double-checking. Bro would, in 3 sec, set up the majong table. My dad closed his book without bookmarking, a book he's usu read too many times, I can hear him feeling his klutzy way to the kitchen to make some tea in dark and to bring us all our beverages and snacks. Without many words, and I have no idea why, our family of 4 will start playing majong, in candlelight to Miss Billie. We could hear the rain and the approaching monsoon tearing, cutting through all the other layers of sound. The majong tiles clashed and clanked in the foreground at the end of every game, Miss Holiday's soulful words sometimes riding on top. The rain and wind a constant. We would talk for hours, on nth and everything. We all saw the tinkling lights coming back in our neighboring flats. We would let the candles burn out and end our game on their fate, call our takeouts, eat it at the majong table like we had been starving for days and nth has been this delicious. Ever.
This may be the most beautiful piece of sound poetry I've known.
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