It’s the cobblestones that define this place. Of course there’s the waterfront, and the fancy glass buildings on the other side, and the stuff under construction, and this old train wagon, apparently some sort of museum or shelter for the homeless or whatnot, and the old upside-down boat. but it’s the cobblestones that I think of first, when I think of being here.
There’s been buzzes on, cheap white wine drunk right here on the jetty, stones summer warm underneath the seats of our pants, and in one case, burning skin through fishnets.
But the pier’s empty, I watch people walking on a distance, inspecting the harbour bath. I take a drag off my cigarette, happy they’re distanced, I like this sense of privacy. I haven’t even bothered to bring a book for an excuse to be here, luxuriously lazy.
Dusk will be here within long, already the sky is orange towards the west, out over the sea and the factory plants, but there are still the remains of a baking day here in the air, and i’m grateful the temperature’s cooling down.
I lean against the stone bollard, turn the music up a notch, on the trusty mp3-player that’s survived so many falls. Old demos and officially unreleased things, recorded so long ago, with the fluid guitar sound and rough vocals.
And I ponder.
There are certain memories, certain events, that seem to be bathed in sticky sunlight, like syrup on a camera lens. I’m not sure if I’m thinking of anything specific, or just any summer about ten years ago, back when the world simultaneously was innocent and full of drags, making certain days perfect in comparison to all the shit happening. Desperate and alive.
I remember grass, lush grass, not looking to close to see if there are any spiders or beetles, laying down in it, the damp feeling of laying on a thick layer of plants … and hopefully not any cowdung.
There were the car rides, faster and faster, as if trying to break some sonic barrier to travel in time, or just to get away from whatever thoughts haunting you, trying to catch up, but there’s a way to crank it up just a few more miles per hour. And the music was there, the soundtrack of our lives.
Or the shimmering city streets, walking across the squares, and this city is old, summer flirts and afternoon meetups, high on adrenaline and expectations and pure giddyness, and not having to wear a jacket seems wondrous and strange, almost naked in your tshirt and skirt, strangely without pockets, so you have to carry keys and music player in your shoulder bag, making your skirt ride up and men stare. But I don’t hear the comments, my hearing is occupied, the perfect song expressing what’s on my mind.
There’s also the sensation of situations that haven’t yet been, or should have been if you’d gone somewhere else, done something else. Stranded in a squatted house in Southern Europe, off on the west coast attending shows the people at home could only dream and drool about being at – messed up somewhere, much happier somewhere. There’s no way of telling and there’s a sweetness to it, looking at the persons you could have been, a honey sentimentality, because you can only live one life at a time, at least until science progresses or you somehow become adept at astral travelling.
But the core of it is the golden sunshine and the slight sense of sweet loss, like swimming in an amber sea. And the core of it is sitting here on the dirty cobblestones, not in a fancy cafe or in a mansion, but here on the cobblestones in the middle of the city, salt in the air, sun on your skin and lost music in your ears.
(a result on this evening’s challenge at Writer’s Guilt. The challenge was to write some music nerdy stuff, so I wrote about the sensation about listening to some of my favorite stuff, such as the Social D demos mentioned previously in this blog).