Welcome to Sunday morning in Seminole Texas. I am sitting upright in bed in a hunchbacked manner. I have now corrected this manner, to my spine’s delight.
I have neglected my writings for a few days now and feel a bit out of touch with my own psyche. This also reminds me that I have neglected my book for about eight months. I shall get back to it soon. The scene which broils constantly in my mind is of Shambal and our hero at a table in the café at the corner of Broadway and some street in the lower 100s in New York City. Quatuor Pour La Fin Du Temps is playing throughout the café. The sound system is not seen. The music emanates from everywhere.
Ah! Ambient noise! (Beautiful in this case, however)
As if our two protagansts were on stage and watched by a silent but attentive audience, their table is lighted. The remainder of the café is dark and no serving staff is seen. Regardless, a steaming cup of coffee each sits before them. Shambal, of course, pines for a beer. This is not Praha, our hero reminds him.
Though not the only portion of the scene which is in my mind (though others have actually escaped my mind at the moment, but will likely resurface), the first three parts of the Messiaen piece will cycle again and again as our hero explains to Shambal the futility the wandering piano line inspires (especially in Part Two). Shambal will consider this in his dullard manner, but come up with an analogy for their plight in the seemingly deserted New York City.
What I haven’t exactly plotted out in my head is Shambal’s demise. Earlier in the book, he was absorbed by a rock. I haven’t decided if this portion is a hallucination by our hero or an actual happening. Well, most of the book could be seen either way, actually.
So, as the Sunday morning in Seminole gropes for me, I relent and walk from creativity to fruitless activity once again.
Tere hommikust!
