Making Music night: the end

It began like such a nice idea.
Stewart came up to me and confessed his life story;he took care of an ill father,he missed an opportunity to teach elementary school,he missed an opportunity to start a family,he had moved from Chicago to Germany and now he had crossed the border to Switzerland and was organizing music night at the Irish pub named after the  Irish American president slain in Texas a few decades ago.
How did stewart survive living in one of the most expensive cities in the world organizing a music night had remained a mystery,he said the pub owner had allowed him to park a caravan at his back yard or perhaps i misunderstood him.
Some people became regulars;the blond German girl who waited tables by day had always sang in English and played guitar,one night she drank too much ,but she got over that and returned to singing the same songs on her guitar,she was not particularly good,she was average,you would not remember her singing afterwards ,then there was the Irish computer guy who worked for a Swiss bank and could sing Irish songs on his guitar and even beat an Irish drum,he improved from hardly heard voice to pretty good ,he had a day job anyway..then there was Joseph,an Algerian telecommunication guy from Paris who dressed more and more “different”leather pants and tight vests,his curls arranged with a thick layer of gel ,playing his emotional songs in French more to himself than to others,he took under his wings a French guy who seemed younger than he was,who played with some intensity adjusting himself to the other guitar players. Occasionally a girl would show up apologizing she was not very good,sometimes she would sound good ,sometimes she would sound like a cat hit by a car,the Irish guy would drink her with his eyes sitting very close,listening intensely,paying close attention but he always went home alone in his separate wrapping,divided from the world through an artificial friendliness..
One night swallowed by the night,ignored by the short rushing waitresses quick to deliver the goods,rushing to fulfill orders,i had had enough. No one was willing to play for me an old tune by cat stevens or Simon and Gurfunkel,they were playing songs that tasted like fast food,Stewart and i had clashed at one point when i confronted him about his lack of ability to tell the truth,unable to commit for coffee,expressing a wish to meet that never evolved as he oozed like toothpaste over every female over 30,his Gracho Marx silver head moving about plotting without a punch line.
One night it just got too much,waiting for a turn,losing any motivation to sing anything,listening to others sing their lame dull wonder bread sliced songs that meant absolutely nothing,showed no originality and the  stale fake friendliness of the employed in swiss banks or computers or unemployed and supported by parents or students passing through on their way to study hall,it just got too young and going no where,everyone seemed set in their own tracks,and i could not relate,stewart and i would avoid eachother till one night he came up to me complaining on the bar to a grey haired banker about lifeand said  ;”can you take your coat off the chair?someone wants to sit down”
I supppse i might have been the problem or maybe it was the atmosphere of rushing waitresses serving food and drinks to young very young people who meant nothing to me and whom i meant nothing to them.
There was something inside me waiting to open up bloom or explode,it was like that line from the poem by Langston Hughes;i was black and i was not Irish ,but i was pale skinned outside,inside my soul Africa played drums of discontent and no European ear  could pick it up. I was the only black woman there and Nina Simon whispered for me to go ,urging me to keep myself black and beautiful and even if i lived to be much older than i was that night it felt like i was about two thousand years old heavy with personal history and no song to carry my burden.My wings were missing feathers,i was stewart and i was the blond waitress and i was Joseph and the meowing teenager and the lustful Irish guy going home to his empty beer mug but i was also at the same time none of those people,i was not even black but Africa urged me to leave the sliced  wonder bread songs ,the separate ego led people and turn to the night who was waiting for me ,black like me embracing me as its own motherless child..

About seagullsea

a seagull flying over the great ocean of life observing.
This entry was posted in a stranger in paradise, depression, environment, fake vs. real, healing, life choices, life lessons, nonconformity, planetary life, story telling, survival, understanding ourselves. Bookmark the permalink.

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