Dean at Home: The Pandemic Blog

Market Day in Edinburgh Alexander strummed a weathered mandolin with a slotted headstock as he leaned back in his chair in his stall at the market. It was tuned like a bouzouki and now that was all that he could play. His fingers had become accustomed to the neck, the muscles had remapped the shapes of chords. He no longer thought in the land of six strings. He let me strum a while. A French family ambled by and he called out a, “Bonjour!” And continued on in fluent French that surprised the mother and made her pleased. After a brief feint, she returned and purchased one of the big leather lined bags hanging off a hook attached to the pop up tent. I spent two years busking in France, he explains to me. Learned the language. When the French come by they are so surprised to find someone who understands that it is almost unfair, they always buy something. He smiles a kind gentle smile. A man pulls an antler from a box and asks, “How much?” They arrange the price and Alexander asks if it i

When Dreams are Like Memories Sometimes the things that are painful become pleasure and it is through time and repetition  that a different kind of serenity appears  like a mirage in the distance.  Is it something truly there?  A UFO,  an animal in the underbrush,  a shape passing under the surface of the water.  Sometimes pain is a substitute for love.  Life is a great thresher laying waste and carving furrows in the dry soil.  I want to press my hands on the brown grasses and bless them.  There is a dance for water,  there is a dance for healing,  there is a dance that evokes the voices of the dead,  and there is a dance performed on the upturned blades of knives about the joy of living.  The sky is a confectioner’s delight,  a barista’s gift,  a sketch of an ocean.  After a long day,  the evening is short and reduced to removing one’s socks and a dream.  I remember a booth,  cigarette smoke,  gin,  and it was as if all the world was viewed though a pane of glass.  There is a voice 

Emerald Green Thought A thought was an emerald green hummingbird  that crossed my path and followed my gait  for a moment or two.  Red breasted.  I was thinking of royalty today.  I was thinking about a telephone call I needed to make.  I was choosing dates from a calendar two months from now.  Coming home,  I count the deer I pass and shout a little hello.  I think buck bodies are more rectangular.  The idea left as fleetingly as a furtive handshake.  And class and caste.  An Audi station wagon speeds unnecessarily fast  on a small meadow road,  it looks nearly at a loss of control.  A freshly paved stretch of asphalt is a river of pleasure.  There is tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow.  There is the ruby-throated hummingbird, and then it is gone.