Just a Friday
Friday, around noon. What luxury, what liberty not to work, to stroll around unhurriedly, to look into people's faces, joining the lucky bunch of non-working floaters. Space elongates, time expands, life quickens the pace to a springy trot. Hands in the pockets, casual whistle. This is what things are really like, if you know how to look.
Rain, that notorious teaser, decides to join the party with a smile, and we all scamper into the catacombs of the metro. A paso doble of umbrellas, a mozart-light dispersal of water drops, wet traces with the imprint of the soles' souls on the stone steps and escalators -- and a song drifting closer on the underground winds of the subway.
The voice is strong, sinewy, it carries well through the hollow space underneath the ground, and it has an edge, just a hint, of tearing, bursting at the seams. He's in the middle section between two platforms at Lionel-Groulx station; his guitar, powered by a small amp, resonates among the whizzing trains and vapory breaths of rain-surprised noon travellers. In passing to the far ends of the platform, they stop and listen for a moment, casting openly curious looks at the singer, their eyes hiding glimmers of nostalgia, wistfulness, a dismantled memory coming alive, a faint silhouette of self-awareness, perhaps?
The singer rocks back and forth with short, powerful motions bent lightly over the guitar in his arms. He doesn't look anyone straight in the face but, in this public space, he's squeezing his heart into the shrill strings sliding under his fingertips. The frayed blue and green tartan cloth on the floor next to him is resignedly empty, with only a few small coins glittering here and there. What is it, what kind of instinctive, overflowing, bird-like urge makes him do this? And what exactly happens there, between him and the passers-by, what delicate filigree undefined by money, demand and supply is magically wrought?
The train whisks into the station, the doors clang open, the human cargo is loaded quickly and efficiently (although it is the neutral noon hour), the doors behind them shut, the train on its scheduled way, and in less than a minute, the station is wide empty. Only the black-clad figure of the singer remains, sharpened against the orange platform tiles, singing Billy Joel's "The Piano Man" at the top of his voice.
Rain, that notorious teaser, decides to join the party with a smile, and we all scamper into the catacombs of the metro. A paso doble of umbrellas, a mozart-light dispersal of water drops, wet traces with the imprint of the soles' souls on the stone steps and escalators -- and a song drifting closer on the underground winds of the subway.
The voice is strong, sinewy, it carries well through the hollow space underneath the ground, and it has an edge, just a hint, of tearing, bursting at the seams. He's in the middle section between two platforms at Lionel-Groulx station; his guitar, powered by a small amp, resonates among the whizzing trains and vapory breaths of rain-surprised noon travellers. In passing to the far ends of the platform, they stop and listen for a moment, casting openly curious looks at the singer, their eyes hiding glimmers of nostalgia, wistfulness, a dismantled memory coming alive, a faint silhouette of self-awareness, perhaps?
The singer rocks back and forth with short, powerful motions bent lightly over the guitar in his arms. He doesn't look anyone straight in the face but, in this public space, he's squeezing his heart into the shrill strings sliding under his fingertips. The frayed blue and green tartan cloth on the floor next to him is resignedly empty, with only a few small coins glittering here and there. What is it, what kind of instinctive, overflowing, bird-like urge makes him do this? And what exactly happens there, between him and the passers-by, what delicate filigree undefined by money, demand and supply is magically wrought?
The train whisks into the station, the doors clang open, the human cargo is loaded quickly and efficiently (although it is the neutral noon hour), the doors behind them shut, the train on its scheduled way, and in less than a minute, the station is wide empty. Only the black-clad figure of the singer remains, sharpened against the orange platform tiles, singing Billy Joel's "The Piano Man" at the top of his voice.
posted by Tijana | 1:14 AM
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