Author: uberbudgie





There was a place I used to frequent in

high school; sort of an exercise trail in

a wooded area that had a stream. I'd

cut class and go there to sit under a

bridge and write bad poetry and do little

pen and ink scribblings of various

surrealistic subjects rather frequently.



I dreamed for some reason that I was

under this bridge, writing my poetry,

with an antique Yamaha 12 string guitar

(that once belonged to my mother but

was lost), next to me in a hard shell

case. (I haven't written any poetry

under this bridge since I was still in

my teens; for that matter, I gave up

playing guitar when I was about

sixteen, which was when the twelve

string disappeared, and haven't had

an inclination to go back).



As like in those days, I had a little

pixie-looking basket made of twigs

and decorated with moss green yarn

and foreign coins, with a little black

scarf furoshiki holding all of my purse

things inside of it, sturdy black heeled

grannie boots, my little plum-lined

cape, and all the rest in very textured

deep black. (I haven't had that cape

since I was 18!)



By the coloring of the leaves on the

trees and various greenery, it must

have been late February or early

March. Everything was really

green, like rainforest dreams of

what I'd call Heaven.



So, anyhow, I was under the

bridge being soothed by the noise

of the pidgeons roosting under the

eves and the water, writing and

drawing when this person who

looked oddly like a high school best

friend walks up and picks up the

guitar.



He says: "Long time; we all look

different now."



Then he starts to play a song

that I wrote after I gave up the guitar,

that only some ex room mates saw

the lyrics to when I was about 19

or so, something that I've never

really let anyone else see. Gets

all the subtle tones right and

everything, then goes into this

really incredible interlude.



I was shocked. It looked like my

dear friend M, but wasn't. Somehow,

he seemed familiar -- eerily familiar.

He goes into a series of songs I have

written lyrics for, then does some

really interesting arrangements of a

couple of BauHaus pieces, and then

continues with a bunch of short poems

I'd never though to put into any form of

arrangement, I'd only written them as

spoken word.



I've stopped with my pen at this point,

and am just staring, mesmerized. He

continues to play a bunch of songs

I've never heard before that have really

complex fretwork and a solemn, almost

neoclassical sound, throws in a few

Cure songs I'd never heard on an

accoustic guitar (but always thought

would go better with more of a minimalist

presentation).



During the music, I was very lightly

crying, not sobbing, but my eyes

were watering down my cheeks.

I was thinking of everything that I've

given up the past four years as "an

adult", and how pretty everything

was at the moment. How much I have

been too concerned with everything

that I forget most of the time just to

live in the moment. The long distance

I keep between myself and most everyone

else....



Then he hands the guitar back, kind of sits

on his haunches in front of me and looks

back at me smiling.



He turns into this librarian I just used to

_love_ as a child, (she worked at a

school I went to and while all of the other

kids in my class were afraid of her -- I

thought she was simply the most fantastic

granny-lady), dressed in an immaculate blue

suit, walks away without saying a word,

just smiling all the time back at me through

her thick glasses.



I can't explain it, but I felt so very loved at

that moment.

February

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