The piper at the gates of dawn
2002 01 04
|
etc
no date
2024 +
2025
entries
home
In life there are moments. A piece of time that captures all that is good, lovely, and profound. These moments can heal a soul, elate, and encapsulate some Zen-like, inexplicable sense of perfection. They are perfect.
In all my life I've experienced only three or four such moments, but all that comes to mind at the moment, is one.
Having my own money and time to spend, I went to visit the place of my birth when I was 19 years old. There is nothing remarkable about this trip; outside of my surly frame of mind and one foggy morning.
At too-damned-early o'clock, before anyone else had risen for the day, I got up and went out onto my aunt's front porch. I stood, with my arms folded across the porch railing, looking around at sights that had been part of my life - albeit intermittently - since the day I was born.
It was a gorgeous fog, rich and blanketing, but not at all choking, and not at all chilled. It was easy to imagine, in a fog like that, that I was the only person awake and alive in the world.
Everything was so preciously still and silent, but slipping up on me unnoticed at first, came what is still one of the most gorgeous sounds on this planet; to me, at least, at that time. It's sad that it's so dischordant and uncomfortable to some, particularly when it's done improperly.
Plaintively and lovely, it came slipping through the mists. Somewhere, somewhere out there sharing my morning with me, a piper played his homage.