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Rafters
Blake E. Hamilton | | | | | |
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This is the place where I sat as a child, staring longingly at lost
vestiges of lives lived on the brink of pure ecstasy and madness. The
books are painted like rafters, stuck in my parents' old wooden chest.
The volumes are thumbed down to a neatly pleated gold which overflow with
a dust so grainy that it beads on the coarse ridges of my fingers.
But none of that is important really. What I remember most about
my days as a youth and as a derelict are thoughts of longing and
the way these thoughts stained everything a sky blue-blue with
innocence, a ripe desire of wondrous elation. The elation-a book,
a torrid sun, and sounds from the radio. Singing, a note, a grand
stage lit like summer pavement, drags me along a cowpath, littered
with gravel and trees that hang over our heads with a maternal
care.
*****
"Simon", he said, reassessing himself, "why do you guess all the
time? Wondering what you're doing and why? It's not important.
Learn that and you'll be a better man."
I often thought personal revelations coming from my friend Brian
were unfounded and only ways for him to show off his burgeoning
philosophical calling. "P'shaw, just shutup." I said. That's
what I always often repeated, more as a way to turn the
conversation in a completely new direction. It never really
worked.
"I hate this place you know," I said with an unconvincing amount
of vigor. I continued to play with a book of matches that I had
found on the floor.
"No you don't, don't allow tedium to overtake you. Live a little,
uh, some people can't handle boredom, but, I can, but other people
can't, so just...". He trailed off, obviously realizing the inane
course he had set his speech.
I retorted with a rather caustic declaration.
"Whatever."
I looked up above at the supports up in the cavernous ceiling.
What a place. It's nothing but a run down food shop that's had
about a thousand different names, but as the summer descended upon
us that particular May, it was going by "The Blank Envelope".
Quite a shanty, I always thought, but it attracted its own
repertoire of eccentric usuals. The tables were old and
decrepit-the wood looked incredibly aged and unable to handle the
weight of a coffee cup, much less a piping hot entre.
Brian was fiddling about with his notebook and pen, drawing something or
writing down an incorrigible amount of rubbish that I often openly spoke
out against. Art, I had made my mind up, was an insignificant portrayal
of the human spirit. Whatever that meant.
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