Montage: Of Night and the City
By Molly Schneider Copyright 1999 One of those nights... One of those nights when the indigo vault of night becomes a reflecting pool of our souls, when the elusive wind breathes promises of heaven in our ears. One of *those* nights. Picture of a man, wearing jeans and a sweatshirt as if they were the robes of nobility, standing on a warehouse roof, eyes closed and face raised into the cool breeze. In his hands he holds a paint-streaked rag; a soft smile plays about his mobile lips. Muscles too often tensed relax in contentment. Tonight, perhaps, he is not thinking of all that he has lost, but of all that he has gained; not of what he lacks, but of what he has. Tenderness lights the heart-shaped face of a woman leaning in the open doorway of a government building as she pauses in her work for a breath of the fresh night air. Inside, behind her, is the message that life is often brutally short; the skies above her hold the reassurance of life's unfailing richness. The stars are hidden by the city's light--but her eyes can see them anyway. Picture of a woman, in shades of blue and gold. "My spine is the baseline," croons the singer over the relentless backbeat that proves his point, the thudding rhythms of the body externalized by the music and re-absorbed by the dancers. A primal worship, this communal celebration of life by the body in dance. The priestess of this temple watches from the shadows, a feral warmth lighting her eyes. Ancient shamans once dressed in animal skins--picture this, then: the divine cloaked in the beast. Something catches her attention; she hurries down the hall to the man pulling on his coat by the back door. She is small and dark, he is tall and pale, but there is something in the way they turn towards each other as they speak... Picture a family, born not of seed, but of blood. The man steps out into the alley alone, back straight as a soldier's. Earlier his voice had crackled, disembodied, from a thousand radio speakers across the city; now, he will walk its streets like a wraith. At a corner he stops to watch the passersby, his eyes curiously intent. A wave of contentment washes over him on the passing wind; he turns his cool face to the heavens with a curiously tender smile. On the roof, the painter's eyes open. He gazes at the city before him with a deep and abiding love before at last he turns to go inside. On a night like this, picture Time, and that which lasts forever. FIN ************************************** See what's free at http://www.aol.com.
