Vertigo : Or, The Feeling of Falling
We pull in, spot Mick standing beside his car, and are lucky enough to find parking nearby. The buzz of the arcade rings in the background as people bustle to and from the little shops on the harbor, takeaways and ice cream stands and souvenir shops beside the B&B’s, historic hotels and immutable pubs. The flow of holidayers is constant, bustling, bursting. Beneath it all is the clang of the harbor as the wind whips the sails and the boats rock back and forth, anchored in place. Our hair whips around our faces and we greet each other with hopeful expectation.
It seems comical that we are here, in a dried out, relentless sort of way. That we three be standing here, tossed so far out of rhythm [normalcy, standard] that we now meet here, in this parking lot: so stripped of our creature comforts as to be searching for a genuine spark in the midst of such inanity. It seems that what was once there is now so indescribably lost, lost with the chaotic disorder of Mick’s house, lost with the last notes of song that was our two souls rising together in the flames, striving to ascend, to aspire, to rise above and leave behind.
And now, one pang of loss which resonates all the more deeply: the slender beauty of the neck, the warm glow of the enchantingly thin rosewood body, the laughing magic of the moon. The aged scent that filled the room upon being taken out of the box, the spirit that danced at his fingertips whilst being played. The love that flickered between us, the vision that we shared. Now gone. The heart twists, the soul guts. The heart guts, the soul twists, the brain retracts in horror.
We weren’t immediately aware of what had been done, the meaning of the sacrifice that had been made. How one brash step made in a moment of weakness could cast us so far out. Realization happens suddenly, wrenching the mind out of rhythmic illusion and harshly into reality. A cold splash of water. The sudden feeling of falling. One guitar for another guitar. The wrong tool for the right tool, or so it seemed at the time. A mathematical calculation presenting an impulsive solution, fueled by the physics of desire. Interference from others creates conflict in the sphere of self, muddying the water, loosening the grip, leading back again to loss. History repeats itself, a different sequence but casting the same shadow, swallowing us whole.
So here we are, standing in the parking lot of the suicide resort. Searching for redemption. Holding off our despair. A family of five walks past us one by one and into the arcade. Then two teenage parents pushing a buggy pass by, where the small child holds an ice cream cone that’s dripping steadily down his arm. He doesn’t mind. He seems to enjoy it all the more for the mess. Mick shuffles through the pile of instrument cases in the back of his 90’s blue Volkswagon, a choice selection from his expansive trove of vintage instruments. We wait to see what will happen.
We are here to see a 1950’s Gretsch guitar, a black rimmed sunburst. The hope and expectation is tangible, a tight ball of anticipation that gathers and glimmers in the air around us as Mick slides the case onto the roof of the car and opens it up. At the first glance of the guitar I can feel the anticipation vanish, instantly, quiet as a corpse. I see it in his face: the dimming glow in his eyes as his heart falls through his chest and into his sinking stomach. There is no promise of music from this instrument. It has passed through too many hands, it has seen too many years. Too much has been altered. There is no enticing whisper, no call, no echo of magic at all. It is silent. Silent as a shoebox. Useless as they come.
So we look politely at his other novelties and then move on our way, back to the car. Our motions are brushed with sadness, surrounded by silence. The realization of loss in a life bound by time and circumstance. Physical objects have the power to carry within them the essence of the heart; they can act as catalysts for the manifestation of the soul. Yet all things that are held will eventually be lost. We can only determine that each loss may serve to draw us closer again to the realization of our purpose. Or is that just the hopeful musing of an overactive ego? Do all things come full circle, is it just a matter of time?
As we make the slow drive home, it’s apparent that these are the final days of summer. The bustling streets have in them the bittersweet feeling of ending. It is the last weekend before school starts; both the beginning and the end. The seasons continue their rotation, summer falling once again to autumn’s allure.
So once again it’s back home for us, back to the cold kettle to fill with water to make a cup of tea, back to the cold hearth to make a spark that we may sit again beside the fire. To warm our bodies in an effort to stave off the darkness of night.
