Window like a Funnel on a Little House on the Hill

Barbados, February 2009

My window leads to one thousand flickering lights who vacillate like little fireflies on the verge of summer. The music comes up, from beach bars through the dark prairies full of sleeping monkeys and gloomy streets with weak light posts, to my retreat. The longing for the city whispers again to my solitude. The longing for my previous life comes galloping like a stampede through the glassless windows, invisibly breaching the mosquito nets and carelessly stabbing my pupils with one hundred neon daggers of excess. I sit on top of the island like some sort of ghostly control tower; and the Caribbean charges against the hotels and the rocks as young girls bounce in the distance from white rum, to rum rum, to laughter, to beauty dance, to explosion and to freedom. From my hermitage, I cynically grin at my reputation of party animal. Then I take a look at my naked body in the mirror, at that I grin again. I wonder over and over what do all those insignificant windows hide in them; and again, I come to a conclusion of some tragic, trivial or romantic scene, for the shuffle seems to draw its results towards those states more often than to any others.

Many things have been mine. I have tried to posses experiences like precious stones, and all that is really left is a perception, certainly affected by all those nights, dives and scents, but no touch from them I have tonight.It is three twenty two in the morning and a very eloquent cello sings lazily in the arms of some dead French man. I am trapped between the crepuscular silence and a broken bone. I ran away, through hallways of dust, through massive stands of dour judgments, through unconsciousness, through bitter words of wisdom, and through a long road of gravel and contempt. I ran away to art. Then in art I found all the same deception condensed into ancient maroon stalactites with serpentines of black humor vaguely surrounding some of them. I found, in art, the spitting essence of the human condition. But I do feel restless, for I forget these primal truths at times. I hesitate. At this time of night, when the brutal lawn mower sleeps like a child, it all seems clear. This cosmic silence is sung by jazz crickets, whose scale sounds so infinite now for my meager human ears. And all the spiders respect my solitude like no brilliant man ever has before. And all concepts are entwined in mere acceptance. As the day comes though, and an insolent sun comes barking at the choir of creatures of the night, I again hesitate.