Thursday, June 07, 2007

Analect 2.110x



6 June 2007. Pale blue sky, one small white cloud far to the south. The man with smokes, standing next to his polished black Porsche, unfolding a newspaper on the roof. Morning rituals. Evening, too. The four of us, walking alongside Reed Commons. Two penny whistles, a concertina, and Diana's voice. Earlier: her twirling motions, unending--singing along with everything. "I can make up words..." Chesty voice, belting them out, but understated, too. Not so much tentative as in her own world. The holy fool? But why her alone? Why not the friend alongside, holding the mandolin--or, later, an Irish flute, at the side of her narrow mouth. We reconvene--it's just past dark, making our way across the lawn to a long rolling hillside where everyone is gathered. Small figures down below, hidden in the distance--red lamps attached to their arms. Then, all of a sudden, a first narrow trail rockets into the sky, bursting into a streaming canopy of yellow-gold. "Ahhhhhhhhh...," the response from the crowd--primal, even--as if around some ancient fire...

Irish songs, played in the night...

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