Postulate and Shadows: Halloween Collaboration - October 26th, 2014 Meet Up

Claire De Lune (Intro) - @Takatsu

 "Clair De Lune" (Intro) by Takatsu

It wasn't until two or three in the morning when I realized I couldn't sleep. Not that it actually took that long to realize, but I didn't bother looking at the clock. I figured it was better to close my eyes and pretend to catch shut-eye: perhaps it would accumulate into a limited percentage of real rest - at least a sort of fixed growth or ROI.

Insomnia wasn't exactly my thing. It was different tonight - though the occasional murmurs of the cars and hoarse drunken men outside my window and the hisses of the humidifier and the hum of the dilapidated fridge and the ticks inside my cell phone were just as typical - it was rather like something unbecoming was gnawing at my foot under the covers: that tingly sensation when you had walked your legs just to the point before exhaustive paralysis, so that it was half-numb, half-restless. Whatever it was called. But I hadn't walked all that much during the day. I vaguely recall a gathering at an office space downtown with writers over card games and shaky handheld photos and a few beers, and grabbing groceries from the mart across the street on the way home. Then I bought an old Debussy CD from a thrift store I passed by.

It was a dusty copy in a jewel case. The plastic was not very carefully sheared off as though someone had used a garden hedge trimmer. On the cover Walter Gieseking's round clean-shaven face had stared inquisitively at me. Somehow he was speaking to me, maybe telling me how long it took to polish the shine of his forehead. I pretended to browse through the shop but at some point I had to decide between Debussy and a worn copy of Leaves of Grass. In the end, I took Gieseking and his polished forehead home. I thought nothing about it at the time and left the dusty CD in its dusty plastic bag and promptly forgot about it.

 

The news earlier in the morning had reminded me of the red moon eclipse. It would happen at about this time - between two and three - at the same time I was in bed staring at a blue-black-ish ceiling. I hadn't been planning on seeing it, but now that I thought about it, the idea occurred to me that listening to Debussy while watching the eclipse would not be an unpleasant idea. So it was at two or three in the morning I got up.

I usually kept a night light on in the bathroom, just so I could find my way there if I needed to. But tonight, it was pitch black. It was either dead or I had forgotten to turn it on. All that was left was a glowing syrupy ooze through the blinds like a leaking faucet. I nearly tripped over the humidifier.

 

The apartment I slept in was a small one, just enough for a bachelor. I had no room to take home a girl or throw a party. Nothing of that sort. In fact, my kitchen was devoid of any kind of alcohol. The last time someone had been over must have been over two years ago. She was drunk and the trains had already been shut down at the time. I couldn’t quite remember why we were drinking together - either our friends had already left or we had left our friends when things became too rowdy. But there she was, sitting in my apartment, hair dishevelled, her shirt falling off one shoulder, staring into blank space. Then she told me how her uncle died, and then how her pet dog died and how she missed playing the piano but couldn't afford to buy one. Her make up ran down her face like a black-and-white horror film. I stripped my mattress of my old sheets and put her to bed in fresh ones. Then I slept on the floor. When I woke up the next morning, she was gone. My bed was a twin-sized one, which, despite the term, was not intended for two people. Perhaps it wasn't big enough for her to stay. I hadn't heard from her since.

 

I turned on my computer and threw on Debussy before I opened the blinds. While the light gushed in, Gieseking played. The music itself no doubt made for some fascinating effect on the viscous ink that made up the darkness of my room. As if the notes had come alive, dancing in pirouette, nearly visible in painterly strokes and borne aloft all around me. Devouring everything. There was something unique about listening to old tracks from old things. And on my screen, even the picture of our group of writers from last night looked on like an artifact from a history textbook. It had happened? I couldn't begin to tell what was real or what wasn't. Not that it mattered. Debussy seemed to have that kind of effect.

But outside, it was hardly as tantalizing. Outside were the usual perennial stalwart lamp posts, dull and grey that bled their usual mustard haze with their usual silence, entirely unaware of the Debussy  suite playing in my room. They could use a cleaning, I was certain. I don't know why I thought I could have seen the moon then.

I ended up stepping outside eventually. The night air was biting - fresh, but biting. Like dipping into a cold lake on a Monday morning. There was no one around. Neither was there a breeze. All was dead still. And cold. But not silent. From my window, I could pick out traces of Debussy seeping through the cracks. I hadn't imagined it would be loud enough to permeate. I had no jacket.

I looked up and there was no moon. I couldn't see it at least. But to me, from my frame of reference, there was no moon. Just the pale yellowy light and the shadows beneath my feet.

Then I thought about the girl who had stayed over in my apartment. I wondered where she was now and what she was doing. I wanted to see her again. Maybe go for another drink. Maybe she could play some Debussy for me. Maybe she could see the red moon tonight.

 

Gieseking had only just begun weaving the delicate piano artistry of Debussy's "Clair De Lune" when I returned. Then I realized there was something wrong with the picture. I had uploaded it hours ago and even then I thought nothing of it. In fact, I hadn't cast it another glance. It was just a picture, capturing a moment in time, flattened and digitized into pixels and imitations of the three-dimensional plane. I couldn't tell now whether it had appeared while I was listening to Debussy outside or if it had always been there.

I called up one of the writers who had been there. He was surely still penning poems in a notebook by candlelight.

"Do you see what I see?"

He sounded half asleep. Maybe there was no candlelight tonight. "No, I can't see the moon from here."

"Neither can I. But the shadow in the picture."

"What's that awful music?"

"Debussy, "Clair De Lune"."

"Really? Sounds like wailing to me."

"Might be the receiver."

He paused. "I see the shadow." He said.

"Good."

 

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"Clair De Lune" composed by Claude Debussy, played by pianist, Walter Gieseking

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This is an intro short story, and a part of a collaborative exercise based on an ambiguous Halloween scenario the meet up members decided on, with which writers are free to interpret and write their own conclusions or versions of. Stay tuned for more stories.