Tuesday, October 21, 2008

Quiet Night at with Lonely Hearts

I couldn't deal with staying home any longer. The economy has been keeping me in doors but I decided it was finally time to take a trip to the Lonely Hearts. I hadn't been in almost a week which is a long time in my apartment with my dog. So I packed up my current crochet project and headed down the cool Korean streets.

The wind blows but not cool enough, the Koreans stare. Two children are playing at ten in the evening, the young girl who is standing smacks the face of the boy in the stroller. "I go" shout the mothers as they separate the children. The waning moon shines down in the glitter park as I walk through on my way to Lonely Hearts.

The bar is quiet and I'm the only one there.

"I saw them, I saw them" exclaims H.

"Was it good?"

"It was so good I pissed my pants." He plays a video of the concert on his phone, showing me exactly where he lost control of all bodily function for the beauty of a second in music.

He relates his story.

"I'm on the subway platform, and smoking, and then my friend says 'lool' and there they are. My cigarette it just burns to like here and then I run over and hug them and they signed my bag."

I pull out my crochet as the story goes on. Red red red bleeding all over the bar, a scarf of red for a night of blue, and lonely fingers weaving idle roads in the lonely hearts club.

H plays a tune from the show. I call out a band. H finds the band and pulls it up. We toss to each other back and forth, bands, and words, names, meanings half hidden behind our desire to fill the quiet with someone who can mean more then we mean.

A writer walks into the bar and orders a beer. "First time I've been alone in two weeks and I come here." H pours him a drink and we continue our musical serenade to each other.

"She keeps bees." I say.

"St. Vincent." He returns.


"Los Campesinos."

We go back and forth. The writer pulls out his black notebook and writes in in with a felt tip pen, pressure on paper and letters bleeding through. My crochet drapes the bar, my hands in motion and mind out of touch.

"First time I've been along in two weeks." says the writer.

"It's just a different kinds of loneliness." I say while the music fills the webs of silence weaving over us.

1 comment:

John C said...

I smell VtM experience all through this. Excellent storytelling. Night animals strung by a small hook in blood.