Then the flux changes and night’s lost in remembering become renewed in faces and hands. Edinburgh was a dream again. The auld stone city radiating is its cold calm and people people people. The forgotten ones. Those that had influenced a life and merried (tarried?) its course gently for six years.
There’s so much of that city I miss here in Holland. The folk music. Ringing in old men’s voices as the pub – aged, oak trimmed, whisky-perfumed – rejoinders in choruses of longing, of freedom, of hills and trampled heather. It’s not romance, it’s dying to the dream, and glinting at each other we draught in again and again between swigs of earthy ale: man’s dreams, his desolation, loneliness and peace.
Amidst the golden oldies the player stops and asks a group of women of one of them has a song. They nonchalently point to a friend who with a deeply rich voice pipes up with this gem. Turns out she’s in a band, having a pint, contributing to the entertainment:
I’m with Joe, himself about to become a Dad, and the lyrics Your fingers, and toes, eyes and your thoughts/All mingle with mine”. Touching stuff. (song begins at 1:11)
“We believe in something unusual” choruses the song and as I look at the strange, artistic, bright hearted beings I’ve come to know in the city it seems a thought to tie us together. Unusuality in a dream. I forgot I knew how to laugh so much.
Returning to Holland has been easy, life here really is exceptionally good. Gig invitations, prospects of new work and jobs and a freedom sweeping in at the sides. Self-determination and asking the best direction from the wind. That powerful thing. It has a care and knows where it’s going. At least for now.