Waking up this morning, I found out it was the afternoon. Leaping out of bed with all the joy of a weekend in front of me, I quickly ran into the hazy wall of an unexpected hangover.
It was there lurking while I was in bed, chasing away the morning with turns and eye-cheating -lids – a blissful Saturday morning with nothing much to do.
This is a change- dear reader. I have spent Saturday mornings cowering in terror at the abyss of empty opportunity in front of me, but not this. I was doing nothing, and happy. I believe this is my favoured state.
So I could have known a hangover was coming but not in the way it followed me out the shower, jumped out at from cupboards, made breakfast confusing, and left me howling in unexpected rage when the internet connection deprived me of the morning’s read of paper.* It was then I suspected something was up.
In full retrieval mode I listlessly clicked at frustrated pages, unable to reply to friends new won joys they had sought to share on the inter-verse, and troubling to find much joy to share of my own. In such situations, Facebook is pointless.
Coffee came to the rescue, but for this I would have to go outside.
The small town where I live is a hubbub of little mysteries. Down the high street they have shaped the trees into lollipop shapes. A gypsy with an accordion and gap-toothed smile slides away soft melodies for any ear or mood, gives you a grin if you give money, gives you a grin if you don’t. There’s a coffee house that sells coffee with every degree of propriety and not a hint of arrogance, but shit – it is good. When a fat cup of joe will do you fine, it is a wrigglesome treat to head to this wonderland filled with machinery, tools, expertise and care to make a delicious organic, Panamian double machiattio with an offer to either have the coffee poured through the foam, or have it dance lightly on top. I opted for the latter. It’s a cruel thrill to dive through winsome foam into a dark, pre-possessing depth of coffee. A two-fingered depth, enough to lift the morning and ladies and gents: we are back on form!
~ o ~
Last night was storytelling and this came accompanied by copious cups of wine. Hence the surprise of hangover, I had no idea I had been drinking, just experiencing a meld of voices and atmospheres that were the next morning to catch up with me. The Mezrab Art Cage was the scene. Pure unadulterated communion with the art. And not by artists, we were sharing experiences and no doubt there were craftsmen and women abounding but it was just a sharing, a sinking in and deeply satisfied grin at comfort and misfortune of ourselves and others. I told a story which will never make the pages of this blog – my Mother pops by occasionally – and it went down quite well.
It is an uncanny privilege to be listened to – I’ve made this comment before – and if you’ve never had it I suggest you seek company or space that gives you room to try. The room moves as you speak, just as you allowed it to when you listened to others. You let go of pre-conceptions of entertainment, and though the mind gargles on about “where the hell is this one going?” you relax into that and let the journey-master storyteller take you where he will.
I do not want to be too absorbed in an uncommon night that happened to delight, but I would say: it displays a great love for own experience, the trials of others and the longing for it all to come good. There was no heroics on show, just people and the power of that makes me question what other stores we set our power by.
Even friendship cannot touch the relaxed immediacy of unknown company. And good grief, if the thing doesn’t happen like clockwork once a month.
*Note the use of morning and paper in this sentence. Meant to give the items a sense of utopia and control we have lost. The paper is not related to a tree, it’s a flickering of photons across a screen and the morning, as revealed is well into the afternoon. The flickering of photons at least unites the paper with computer screen, as in the eye of the beholder, all things end up this way.