Noise And Blue Light, Apr 29 04
But wait, there's more...
Noise and Blue Light
It's getting late. The dishes are done, the boys are asleep, and I have just returned from the front porch. I am inspired by a combination of exhaustion (I've had 6 hours of sleep in the past two days, no big change for those who know my sleep patterns...I'd sleep all damned day, if someone would just let me, but it never happens) and wonder.
I can hear the city from here. It's not The City, that wonderful mecca of industrial-strength light and magic some 70 miles away; that's an entirely different high for me, one that beggars the work of any manmade chemical. No, this is just MY city, the place I was born, the world I love so dearly.
The gentle susurrus of constant traffic, overheard snippets of others' lives, and the odd siren en route to someone else's tragedy is like some type of musique concrete to me. Simply put, I live for that sound, whether it's atop a porch roof in Wilmington, DE or just hanging around the City of Elms.
It sounds condescending, but it's times like these that I feel for those who have lost their sense of wonder, who spend every day removed from the kind of small steady thrill that having a readily available (and perfectly legal) source of magic provides. When I was young, we spent a few weeks each summer in a small town in PA, just outside of Harrisburg. It was all I could do to strain for any source of sound (sound being my main source of sensory input; I've been progressively more myopic since I was seven)...sometimes there'd be a strangely constant run of freight trains about 300 feet away, through the woods, but other times I had to wait until morning, when the odd Amish hansom would make its way through the neighborhood. Despite my growing inability to sense it, that blue light just before dawn still takes me back there, to the cool concrete slab of a front porch, to the still, stifling hot air of August, the growing dread that each day brought me closer to another school year...good times, even when they were idle. Especially then, since my maternal grandmother was somewhat allergic to boredom (apparently its congenital, along with the occasional depressive/hypermelodramatic tendencies that have spilled down Crick and Watson's stepladder, too). My most vivid memories, my best stories, my turning points, tend to start or end in that blue light, whether it's a tale of youthful debauchery or the last time I visited the hospital solarium in December of 1992.
Not that it's more than a third over, but my life has been driven by that vigil for human sound, that watch in the twilight. I know it's just lack of sleep catching up with me, but I have to wax a bit philosophical and more than a little maudlin. I often thought my last breath would be drawn in the hour before dawn, since it was always such a powerful time in my life. That halfway point, that vacant rest stop on the highway between last night and this morning, is a kind of home for me even now. It's when I start the day, now that I have responsibilities, but even when I'm spent, as I am now, I am reassured by knowing that the space between days is still there.
Well, if you didn't think I was tired before, I suppose that just cemented it. I am Guthrie, and it's well past pillow time. See you all tomorrow or so; I'll try to update after the Mighty Purple CD release show tomorrow night, but no promise have I made.
...and to all, a good night.
Noise and Blue Light
It's getting late. The dishes are done, the boys are asleep, and I have just returned from the front porch. I am inspired by a combination of exhaustion (I've had 6 hours of sleep in the past two days, no big change for those who know my sleep patterns...I'd sleep all damned day, if someone would just let me, but it never happens) and wonder.
I can hear the city from here. It's not The City, that wonderful mecca of industrial-strength light and magic some 70 miles away; that's an entirely different high for me, one that beggars the work of any manmade chemical. No, this is just MY city, the place I was born, the world I love so dearly.
The gentle susurrus of constant traffic, overheard snippets of others' lives, and the odd siren en route to someone else's tragedy is like some type of musique concrete to me. Simply put, I live for that sound, whether it's atop a porch roof in Wilmington, DE or just hanging around the City of Elms.
It sounds condescending, but it's times like these that I feel for those who have lost their sense of wonder, who spend every day removed from the kind of small steady thrill that having a readily available (and perfectly legal) source of magic provides. When I was young, we spent a few weeks each summer in a small town in PA, just outside of Harrisburg. It was all I could do to strain for any source of sound (sound being my main source of sensory input; I've been progressively more myopic since I was seven)...sometimes there'd be a strangely constant run of freight trains about 300 feet away, through the woods, but other times I had to wait until morning, when the odd Amish hansom would make its way through the neighborhood. Despite my growing inability to sense it, that blue light just before dawn still takes me back there, to the cool concrete slab of a front porch, to the still, stifling hot air of August, the growing dread that each day brought me closer to another school year...good times, even when they were idle. Especially then, since my maternal grandmother was somewhat allergic to boredom (apparently its congenital, along with the occasional depressive/hypermelodramatic tendencies that have spilled down Crick and Watson's stepladder, too). My most vivid memories, my best stories, my turning points, tend to start or end in that blue light, whether it's a tale of youthful debauchery or the last time I visited the hospital solarium in December of 1992.
Not that it's more than a third over, but my life has been driven by that vigil for human sound, that watch in the twilight. I know it's just lack of sleep catching up with me, but I have to wax a bit philosophical and more than a little maudlin. I often thought my last breath would be drawn in the hour before dawn, since it was always such a powerful time in my life. That halfway point, that vacant rest stop on the highway between last night and this morning, is a kind of home for me even now. It's when I start the day, now that I have responsibilities, but even when I'm spent, as I am now, I am reassured by knowing that the space between days is still there.
Well, if you didn't think I was tired before, I suppose that just cemented it. I am Guthrie, and it's well past pillow time. See you all tomorrow or so; I'll try to update after the Mighty Purple CD release show tomorrow night, but no promise have I made.
...and to all, a good night.
posted by Thom Guthrie, Bassist and Adventurer at 11:01 PM
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