[NetBehaviour] Crepuscular interlude of B and L

Simon Mclennan mclennanfilm at gmail.com
Wed Jan 25 00:03:42 CET 2023


What had happened then?

B hitched her skirts up and took off her boots then crossed her legs across
the saddle and picked her teeth with her dagger.

Well, replied L, you see we'd been in New York City for a few weeks by
then, and that evening we happened to be having a drink and talking things
over in this small club down town, five spot? Something like that, and
there was this group had taken the stage and started to play free jazz.  It
was Don Pullen on the piano, an upright, and Don Cherry on small trumpet
and probably Billy Higgins on the drums - can't recall the bass player -
also Ornette on violin and trumpet and alto.
They blew resolutely across the heads and faces of the noisy crowd - there
was drinking, and talking and shouting in the dim lit smoky atmosphere.
It was really something that night.  Sort of unexpected, and it surprised
everyone not least the players themselves.
The chatter died down and we all sat or stood, rivited and entranced by the
appeal of the whirling and syncopated music - screeches and wails as well
as finely articulated and mellow passages that shone with beauty.  Time
stopped I think, even waiters forgot their orders and bar flies their
drinks for a moment.

Then a couple of days after that I left Manhattan on a steamer bound for
Alaska, and forgot all about the episode in the club. Five weeks in the
Arctic frozen wastes will do that.

Yes, I bet, remarked B.

Leo dismounted and patted his small, grey pony.  They were at the edge of
the canyon now - below a remarkable vista - rivers, hills, pines and above
the big cumulus clouds and the glittering navy blue sky with Venus and a
half moon.

B folded a sheet of paper into a dart and let it fall gently into the void
at their feet, it slipped out and circled  in spirals and eddies, away and
was soon lost in the crepuscular and darkly glowing air of the desert.

A coyote wailed his lonely song somewhere and a guitar strummed very softly
- maybe a cowboy or a vagrant in the scrub was feeling blue and wanted to
tell the prairies of his sad travails, his weary journey, the small things
that had come to pass, all the wrong turns etc.  And now only the dry
grass, the moon and two figures standing with their horses on the
escarpment in the dusk of now, which is the only now that ever was or ever
will be in the light of the world. The good and holy world which is there
to see if you look through your dark and curling lashes hard enough, at
least on a warm night with no memories or desires to withhold.
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