Billie Holliday On Sunday Mornings
Henry Miller played the piano on Sunday mornings. His parents would lie in bed, awake, and would knock on the wall. That was the signal. Still in his pajamas and dressing gown, young Henry sat down in front of the old family piano, cracked his fingers and forgot everybody and everything surrounding him. He put all his fantastic genius and vitality in the notes and he was able to let them fly, just like he would be able to give words wings as an adult and a writer. Hitting the piano pedals with bare feet, he was perfectly at peace with the world. Somewhere at the back of his mind, he knew what was to come; he knew his wouldn’t be an easy life, he knew that his genius would single him out from the rest of the people, that is gift would be a blessing as well as a burden. That’s why he praised his Sunday mornings spent at the piano so much and that’s why he decided to remember them in his Tropic Of Capricorn.
I am thinking of Henry Miller while listening to Billie Holliday this morning. I often listen to her when I’m home and I need to chill. I listen to a lot of jazz stuff when I need to chill. Needless to say, I listened to nothing but jazz in the weeks following my trip to Saskatchewan.
It should have been a perfectly ordinary period but I felt restless. I was restless when I was at university to see my students and work on my books, I was restless when I got home at night. I would pace up in down in my almost empty apartment, a glass of whisky in my hand, the TV on with the sound down, jazz coming out of my stereo. Something had seen the light of day, deep down inside me, and was feeding on my anxiety. I couldn’t help being jealous of Gwendolyn’s father; my wife and kid had moved to L.A. two years before, and, even if we had never talked about the possibility, I was reasonably sure he didn’t want to live with me. I was reasonably sure he seldom thought of me, too. Therefore, once I got back to Saskatchewan, I resolved to phone him once a week and try to play a more active role in his life. I knew I was not good at it and I had never been, but I would do my best and learn. During our awkward calls, he listened politely and answered all my questions; I could picture his curly blond hair, his chubby hand holding the phone, his freckled face bearing a slightly embarrassed expression, his glasses. He was only eight, and yet he understood. I’ll rephrase it. He was only eight, that’s why he understood. After the things that have happened to me, I must have learned this at least.
Even though I would have never admitted it, I thought of Linda more that I ought to have. She was not extraordinary like her children and she wasn’t extraordinarily beautiful either, but I had the feeling we had clicked during the few moments we had spent together. I found myself wondering what could have possibly made her ex husband decide to leave such a loving family. That guy had thrown his luck away. And so had I, if truth was to be told. But I preferred not to muse on that.
I should have accepted that hardly anything had happened to me during my stay in Saskatchewan but I couldn’t. I felt it had been something important and, as absurd as it may sound, I knew there was more to come. I had started having my recurrent dream (the one I wrote to you about) where my left eyebrow turned indigo out of a sudden. And I couldn’t find an answer to my dilemma: had Gwen dreamed our encountered that night, too? Was that the reason why she had wanted to meet me? She wanted to quit school and she wanted to move to Portland because she wanted to live with her daddy: she may have thought I could be a means of achieving both her goals. This might have been perfectly reasonable. But why had she acted so rudely the day we had first met then? Why had she changed her attitude all of a sudden? The more I thought about it, the more I convinced myself it couldn’t be because of the dream. But I couldn’t find any other explanation. Maybe I lacked the necessary information.
During the day I often found myself googling indigo children. I read many interesting websites, according to which indigo children were a new generation of incredibly gifted warriors whose task was to guide humankind through these dark times until a new, better era begins. I can’t say I believed what I read, but I found it quite fascinating. One day Natalie, my PhD student, caught me as I was surfing the net for information about indigo children. I knew she had a deep interest in poetry, just like me. And I suspected she secretly wrote poems, just like me. When she saw the website I was reading she asked if I liked their poetry and I replied that I had no idea some of those kids would be able to write poems too. As I was saying this I felt as if a piece of the jigsaw was clicking into place. But I had no time to linger on this odd sensation because I heard a soft knock on the door of my office. A good-looking young man opened the door and asked:
Mr.Eyebrow do you have a minute? My name is David Sourcil. I guess you’ve met my wife and kids.
Unavailable
I haven’t had time to write my blog lately. I have been very busy. In my twenties and thirties I often had the feeling I was caught up in a web made up of office hours, classes, taxis, trains, books I had to read or write, students whose name I should have remembered, things I had promised my son I would do and never did.
As an astronomer I should have spent my time looking at the sky, hanging between the earth and the stars; my daily life kept me firmly anchored to the ground instead. I could not complain: what I had was what I had chosen for myself. I had always wanted to become a scholar and I had been clever and lucky enough to become one. Granted, I had to work hard. Granted, I slept no more than five, six hours per night. Granted, I spent more time with my students than with my family. But I had known it from the beginning and my wife had known it, too: we were both trying to do our best, hoping it would be enough.
I used to take a lot of planes at that time and I remember enjoying the sensation of being isolated from the rest of the world. My cell phone was switched off, my laptop was switched off, I was unavailable. My thoughts would slowly unroll like little locks of smoke, the deadened sounds of lazy conversations would help them widen.
As I was fastening my seat belt, that late afternoon, my thoughts were all centered around Gwendolyn and her mother. I had got up at dawn and I was tired, but I knew my ideas were extremely clear. I massaged my eyelids with my fingertips. I laid my head on the headrest.
Linda was an incredible woman. She was skinny and you couldn’t call her beautiful- yet. I couldn’t help thinking she was sexy in her own, awkward way. Jett had taken after her having brown hair and almond shaped hazel eyes. As Devi and I entered the diner, that morning, he was watching a Youtube video on his laptop. Linda was making coffee and Gwendolyn was playing with their dog. Ben hadn’t showed up yet.
Linda was very friendly, offered us a mug of much needed coffee and coconuts biscuits. Ben had told her everything about us and our short visit, and she was glad to have the chance to meet us in person. She knew Devi was an artist who was intensely interested in indigo art, so she had asked Jett to bring his laptop so that he could surf the net and help her locate all indigo children in the West of Canada. It seemed a very nice offer and Devi was not able to decline it: of course she knew as well as I did that this was a clever way of excluding her from the conversation I was going to have with Gwendolyn and he mother. Linda could be as friendly as determined in getting what she wanted ( I should have remembered it in the future but of course I didn’t!)
Gwendolyn was very quiet: it was very early and she probably wasn’t a morning person. I noticed that she was wearing a bandanna which covered her hair, forehead and eyebrows. She was looking at me and I couldn’t interpret the expression on her face.
-I apologise for arranging an appointment so early in the morning, Linda said. – But Gwen feels she has been very rude to you yesterday and she wanted to tell you she’s sorry about that.
- Oh, that’s very nice of you Gwendolyn, I replied addressing the kid directly. Gwendolyn’s sounded like a lame excuse. Apologising for being rude is something a twelve-year-old would never do, let alone a twelve-year-old as cheeky as the blond indigo child sitting in front of me.
Linda seemed to echo my thoughts: – She did take me by surprise, you know. That’s not what this young lady would normally do, so I must admit I was very curious to meet you and I agreed to contact your Indian friend and to arrange this meeting. So, Gwen, what is it that you wanted to tell Mr. Eyebrow?
-You can call me Indigo.
- I’m sorry I was rude yesterday. You know, I was playing basketball and you and your friend arrived and interrupted me and I hate being interrupted.
- You’d better stop acting like a spoiled princess, young lady! Linda’s eyes moved from her child to me. -So, Indigo, what brings you to Saskatchewan?
-He’s an astronomer, mom.
- Really? I thought you were a painter or an art scholar!
- No, I’m no art expert at all. Devi is. We went to Kinvarra’s Todepp exhibit and her mother told us about your children.
-She did? Wow!
I knew what she meant. Mrs. Todepp was jealous of Gwen’s and Jett’s talent which was so much greater than her daughter’s. We both chuckled. I liked her.
Gwen seemed impatient now. -Mr.Eyebrow is on sabbatical mom. That’s why he’s been travelling. He normally lives in Portland and since he’s such a great scholar I was wondering if…
-NO! Linda didn’t let her finish. -I know what you’re gonna say and the answer is no. Just forget it!
- But MOM! Dad lives there! I could go and live with him…
-NO! Linda was inflexible in her decision. I asked for an explanation. Apparently, Gwen’s father lived in Portland. We both worked at the same university but for another department. Gwen had been dreaming about living with her dad since he had left for Portland, a year and a half before. She wanted to move to Portland and to quit school to have private tuition. She couldn’t bear being surrounded by slower kids any longer. So she had thought that her father could have been her tutor for English while I could have given her maths and science class. While her mother was explaining all this to me she had been biting her lip. She looked flushed with anger and yet she was trying to control herself and to appear reasonable, in the hope I would say yes and convince her mother hers was a good idea. But of course I didn’t.
- I’m very sorry Gwendolyn but I can’t help you. As you said, I’m on sabbatical, but that doesn’t mean I’m on vacation. I’m pretty busy right now. I’m working on two books right now, then, in spring, I will be attending quite a few seminars. I couldn’t find the time to be your tutor even if I wanted to. I’m really sorry.
Gwen went to the back-garden without a word. But I couldn’t help noticing her look as she was leaving. She was mutely accusing me: why was I letting her down after we had met in such a singular way during the night?
Had I really seen accusation in her eyes or was it just my imagination?
Saskatchewan At Dawn
Can dreams interfere with our life? When the consciousness that we are dreaming intrudes in our oneiric life we seem to be able to control our dreams, but can we do the opposite? Art seems to provide a postive answer to this question. Art is the utmost expression of the power of control and the disruptive force of instinct at the same time.
This much was clear even to a man of science like me, an astronomy professor trained to approach things rationally. I kept repeating to myself my meeting with Gwendolyn in the dream could not be correlated to the phone call I had just received. My thoughts were racing and I decided to take a quick shower. I had no time to shave. In big contrast to my restless state of mind, Saskatchewan was waking up slowly, flooded by a ghostly light. It would be another cloudy and rainy day. I put my luggage in the truck of the car and took a minute to take a good, last look at the Canadian skyline. In the late afternoon I would fly back home.
Devi greeted me coldly as she got into the car. She had arranged to meet Gwendolyn, Jett and their mother Linda at the diner before the kids had to go to school. Even though I was driving I could tell she was looking at me suspiciously. Things between me and her had radically changed over the last few hours. Since we had been at Kinvarra’s exhibit, she had taken all the decisions and I had followed her like I had been her sidekick. She had shared her knowledge of indigo children with me when she had felt like it. I knew there were things she hadn’t told me. And now it was the other way round. She wanted to know why Gwendolyn had decided to see me out of the blue, she wanted to know what had happened, but she didn’t dare to ask.
Of course, if she had asked I wouldn’t have told her. I had learned not to trust the woman completely. She certainly had an aim in mind regarding indigo children and she wouldn’t share it with me, so I really didn’t know what to think of her. One thing was for sure, she could be very manipulative. Besides, what could I have told her? That I had met Gwendolyn in my dreams and she had met me in hers? Was that the reason why we were driving to the diner? I simply could not believe it.
Anyway, I was a few minutes away from the truth.
I’d love to thank everybody who’s been reading my story so far: I wasn’t expecting to have such nice comments and someone even devoted a post to my blog. I hope you’ll keep reading it and tell me what you think about it (please feel free to tell me if you think I should have acted differently).
A Vivid Dream
I was jogging in a desert neighbourhood. It was night and I didn’t know where I was nor where I was going, but, strangely enough, that didn’t seem to bother me that much. I would go as long as my feet kept going. The harsh sound my trainers produced on the iced pavement made me feel less alone. It was like I know there was someone there, in tat part of the world, a kindred soul.
As soon as this thought hit me, I realized where I was. The diner was still quite far from me but I could see it. I couldn’t tell whether the lights were on or off, though, so I sped up. As I got close enough, I noticed that someone had dimmed the lights and was moving inside the diner: I could see a shadow stretching on the pavement outside the window. I went inside.
Gwendolyn put a cup of hot tea on one of the tables and sit down with a magazine in her hand. She barely took notice of my presence and greeted me with affected coldness. It was obvious it was her and her arrogant behaviour proved the girl sitting in front of me was the same I had met the previous afternoon, yet she looked different. Her hair was much fairer than I could remember, almost albino. Every single hair of her body, her eyebrows and her eyelashes were almost white. And she was not trying to hide her beauty anymore, she didn’t seem to care about concealing her femininity, still in its unripe state, any longer. She was wearing a long black skirt and a purple red blouse. Le rouge et le noir, I couldn’t help thinking. Death and Passion, Order and Chaos.
I couldn’t explain how the idea came to me, or what gave me the certainty that it was correct, but all of a sudden I felt I was there to see right through Gwendolyn’s soul: an angel-haired child whose feelings could be dangerously deep. Absorbed as I was in my thoughts, I hadn’t noticed Gwendolyn staring at me until she exclaimed You, as if she meant to say You, of all people! I instinctively looked down at my clothes and realized I was wearing an indigo shirt. Very strange. I never owned an indigo shirt, I’ve always thought grey, brown and black would be more appropriate in the academic world. And, if black and red represented Gwendolyn’s soul, what would indigo say about me? I couldn’t think of a possible answer, because the girl added I’ve never thought you could be… She sounded genuinely shocked and as I raised my eyes I saw her pointing at something above my left eye.
The phone rang and woke me up. According to the alarm clock it was six am. I lazily picked the phone up. It was Devi, she said Gwendolyn had contacted her to ask if she could meet us at the diner before she went to school. She had expressly asked to talk to me.
Old New Beginnings
Waking up in a new brand year gives me the same pleasure as starting writing on an immaculate page. It used to scare me when I was a teenager and I thought life offered a myriad possibilities and they would be all mine had I just reached for them. Then, as time passed and I started thinking jazz and its desperate notes would match my life much better than rock’n'roll or heavy metal, I gradually lost my faith in the possibility of change and felt very disillusioned about brand new years: I knew that they would be very much like the previous ones, that I would be very much like my previous year self.After my meeting with Gwendolyn, though, I started perceiving the unpredictability of life again. Changes may not happen on January the first, but no matter how comfortable in our daily life we are, they do happen and we have to deal with them. And more often than not, we will not know how to do it, but we’ll find out we possess qualities we never suspected. That’s the beauty of life, I guess. We are only half explored universes; hopefully something happens that makes us realise our full potential.That luckily happened to me. Gwendolyn Sourcil happened to me.
When Devi and I entered the diner, a fair-haired waitress wearing too much make up welcomed us and brought us coffee. We asked to meet uncle Ben. The man arrived bringing a smell of fried meat with him. I immediately liked him, he was very friendly and seemed keen to answer our questions about Jett and Gwendolyn. Granted, their works could probably attract customers, but the man probably genuinely enjoyed meeting new people like us. Besides, Devi was using all her charm which meant no man on earth would be unfriendly to her.
When we had finished our first cup of coffee (not the best one I had tasted in my life but coffee was not what had brought us there) uncle Ben took us to the small corner of the diner where Gwendolyn and Jett’s paintings were displayed. Jett’s works were quite varied, they ranged from fantasy landscapes to portraits of powerful warriors. The subject of his paintings were not that original, but the style was nonetheless remarkable. He was only fifteen after all. Gwendolyn’s works seemed to belong to two completely different phases. The older ones were very much like Jett’s, even though she recurred to much harsher brush strokes. Then something must have happened and she had dedicated her art to angels only. To one angel only I should say. As a matter of fact all the works represented a beautiful, sad angel whose vermilion lips were parted in disdain. I had the impression I had seen that angel face before but I couldn’t remember when.
Meanwhile, a skinny teenager had come to our side, Jett. He politely asked us how we were after introducing himself. I said I really liked his works, especially those representing medieval warriors. Devi told Ben the boy was adorably shy, then, with the apparently careless expression I had recently seen so many times, she asked if it was possible to meet Gwendolyn too.
Ben took us to the back-garden and there was Gwendolyn, practising free throw shooting. I was surprised not to be impressed by her appearance. While everything about Kinvarra was extraordinary, Gwendolyn seemed a perfectly normal twelve-year-old blondie wearing a baseball cap, a worn-out sweater and a pair of jeans. As she drew nearer she pulled her cap so down over her eyes one could barely catch a glimpse of them. Her forehead and eyebrows could not be seen. In spite of this, I noticed that she was very beautiful but she was doing whatever she could to look ordinary and unpleasant. It looked as if she had tried and only partially succeeded in rubbing off that special glow that distinguished indigo children and that Kinvarra so much emphasized.
Devi’s charm had no effect on Gwendolyn whatsoever and she barely took notice of my presence. I was very disappointed and I could feel my Indian friend’s frustration as well. As we were driving back, she would say Gwendolyn was the least cooperative child ever.
I thought that was the end of it and that I would never meet Gwendolyn again. But I was wrong, I was about to meet her very soon, in my sleep.
