Echoes Of The Past
In the corner of a room in the old hotel was a mahogany table with a tired old lace over it. Perched on top there was a gramophone player and guests were invited to carefully play tunes of their choice. I say carefully, because the records were fragile black discs of some weight, and each was contained in thin discoloured covers that looked like old parchment. Indeed, you'd be forgiven to think that you'd stumbled on some long forgotten tomb or relic of the past. A time machine instead of the upstairs glass house on the roof of this city dwelling. There were no open windows, no clear glass or fresh air, just a musty old smell, hundreds of well tended potted palms and parlour flowers or ferns, a comfortable battered old red leather armchair and the gramophone. It positively begged to be played.
There was a beautiful hand sewn blanket on the back of the chair. It smacked of old time patience and seemed out of place in a world of fast food, digital delivery and throw away culture. It was chilly in that glass house as it was Autumn outside and the weakened sun was fighting for all it was worth against Winter's approach. I draped the heavy fabric around me, a comfort blanket to keep me warm, and I sat back content to hear my choice of record. There's something gratifying about sifting through old records, being in control, taking your time to choose. Initially there was the sound of the scratchy needle caught in the grooves as the arm bobbed up and down riding the waves of a time gone by disc.
And then, as if she was actually in the room with me came a voice, and I shut my eyes and imagined she was there. An operatic style rendition of an old school American favourite even when she sang it in 1918. I'm drifting, my mind smiling at the nuances and the rolling R's, revelling in the hiss and interference of a non perfect recording; but perfect in it's imperfection nonetheless. Leaves reverberated with the booming sound, a scared tabby cat jumped into my lap pressed into a warmer more secure place seeking solace from the high notes. I stroked it comfortingly but chastised it for alarming me, that beautiful half way feeling between heaven and hell.
Now my eyes were open and I was in that catatonic state cat owners feel when they hear the rhymic purrs of their feline friends. The low rumbles pulsated through my hands as much as the record permeates my spirit. Then I saw it, the apparition on the floor naked in a pool of blood looking me in the eyes, but smiling. Warm, dark chocolate eyes full of compassion and wanting nothing. And he started off at first as a vague ethereal mist, slowly forming into a more solid shape. It was as if the echo of a past would not scare me it knew, if only it took it's time and materialised slowly.
The cat's ear pricked up but it was a sprawled heavy lump in my lap but it's tail twitched erratically. I was too relaxed and seduced by the music to take alarm, and I felt none. It was as if the ghost or fragmentary illusion had as much right to be here as I. He wasn't dead, he was in that limbo state where realization of his end plight was fighting with the chance he could come back if he wished, but it was losing. And the blood seemed as monochrome and lifeless as his will to fight death. So the scene played out, and the record played on and I watched in fascination.
There are some bridges we build in our world to span mighty gaps, or create opportunities to reach people. And there are those that are created to span between worlds, natural formation between the dimensions of time and space. I realized that old gramophone player was such a bridge. In the Bowery, New York City in my hotel is a room with a time machine. It's playing now, the ripples of the music weakening the fabric in time and I'm watching it play out. The tune "Old Folks At Home" is playing evocatively, stirring the change. Bouncing off the glass and echoing down the halls the sounds of yesteryear reach us and become tangible, but who but the cat and I are there to see?
His neck cut, his life force draining away but his smile still at peace with the music and words of his own song; the man keeps eye contact with me. I can't break his and I don't want to, he's made a connection like when two souls lock glances across a crowded party and only have eyes for each other. Not lovers nor friends, but sensing an impossible bond they know would thrive if only they could cover the distance between them to introduce themselves. And I heard the faintest whisper leave his lips saying, "I'm done for." The large knife by his side glints in a ray of sunlight breaking my concentration and our connection.
The record ends, the vision vanishes and I'm filled with regret and remorse for not lending a hand to help. For not stretching out and at least trying to cross the void. But I know in my heart of hearts it would have been impossible. I can neither survive in his time or world as he could in mine, we're corporeal beings that were caught in a spiritual storm. Two kindred souls in the eye of the hurricane created by the time machine and stirring up past events. The songwriter and the poet, disjointed by two separate lives and eras, but each reverberating at just the right tune. The gramophone was the pitchfork helping us attune to each other, the record the focus to help us achieve connection. I know he's gone forever, a Civil War ghost lost in his regrets and dreaming of what was. And I, I'm a ghost in my heart, a modern day guy lost in his thoughts and his dreams of what might be.
As I sit and think of Stephen Collins Foster whose music I used to sing in Primary school to the radio, I remember all the songs he wrote. Some rewritten to mask the tainted words of an era so at odds with itself at a time of great despair. Brother against brother, rights and revolution, realizing things change and need to. And I sit there with the tabby and think of what would happen if I were to put a different record on? But I'm too comfortable and melancholic to try, so I smile to myself and watch the clouds outside race by like my thoughts. Through dusty motes and filthy windows my mind drifts away and I fall to sleep forgetting about the time machine in the corner. And all is at peace once more.
End.
THANK YOU FOR READING.