Tuesday, September 15

Move Yr Ear Closer To The Brass

IF THERE IS no love, then I shall make my own romance. I am perfectly capable of making up romance out of thin air, out of the humdrum of my life. Ah, but life is so humdrum! If I find romance in the minutiae of my day-to-day then you might forgive me, please; don’t call the police, I’ll be fine.
The most romantic thing in my life at the moment is a trumpet.
I had forgotten the familiar trumpet, for it had not turned up in a week or so. For fresh air & cigarettes, I keep my windows open at all times, closing them at night when I get into bed, but opening them again upon arising. I estimate it is my country upbringing that so drives me to crave fresh air. In the evening I sit on the sofa and through the open window I hear the sound of a trumpet. Brass; sawtooth waves; the most similar to the human voice; Nina Simone sung like a trumpet played. I hear a trumpet playing, but it is simple, although the notes are perfectly formed, I pick out recitals of the major and pentatonic scales. It is simple stuff, but I adore hearing it. The neighbourhood does not invite the trumpet, but the sound is welcomed immediately, and down below the fallen yellow leaves gather to form whispering crowds beneath the balcony from where the tune comes. All across this postcode the trumpet can be heard. Alone and bold, the instrument is beautiful, haunting, trembling; alone and bold, the instrument warms me against the autumnal breeze.
It is not as though I am searching for romance yet it finds me! Only this morning I was walking to work – the bleaching sunshine, September & blue, upon it all – when I saw a sight that captured my attention and caused me to smile as I hurried to be on time. It was up Middlesex St. where a rattle shook me from my thoughts. On the opposite pavement a father rode a scooter, and behind him was his daughter on a scooter, too. He led the way, his big body upon this tiny metal frame, unnatural, bobbling over the stony imperfections. She glided more elegantly, weighing less. She was a precious little thing, on her father’s trail, hot on his heels, moving in & out of the shade, dodging pedestrians. She was dressed neatly in a pleated skirt, navy blazer and straw hat. I looked, smiling & satisfied; it was eight-twenty.
Remembering the date, I noticed that I had been in my new flat for two months. How quickly it has passed. I woke up with a headful of nightmares. At the instant I awoke they reminded themselves to me and it was all I could do to not cry! How silly to cry over nightmares; they had been horrific, not in their content but in their meaning. What good had the nightmares done me? Nothing. I could not stand them and wished they would leave me alone. Truly they ruined me for the rest of the day; but if someone were to ask—‘What’s wrong?’ I could not tell them. As the day went on, first I saw the girl on her scooter, and then I heard the trumpet. They were my romance against the nightmare.

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