Late Afternoon Coconut Quique

February 18, 2019

Even though it is the plain of uneventfulness, I trace out a line of flight in a daydream. Even though I am daydreaming, I dream of plain things. Let me arbitrarily start from the last fifteen seconds of Is It Now? The unintelligible message corrupted and weakened by power line noise is good enough to set me off packing. In a moment I will remember what the packing is for. Before I do, suppose I am going just out of town but not too far, nothing special there. So I take out a necklace with large colorful transparent beads to examine the environment outside. I remember spending an afternoon out in the country, gathering daisies and making flower wreaths, then traded them for the wonderful necklace with a girl I met who also came to play on the same meadow. The beads are beautiful and useful. You can place each of them successively before one of your eyes and squint the other, rotate the bead a little, and observe the air, the clouds, and the sky. To Filter is to transform. Brown and blue. Some information is lost, but what remains comes clearer – if it’s a clear day. Today is not the best day, hazy and fuzzy. The clouds exhibit a tint of yellow, the air is lazy, doesn’t want to stir, perhaps mildly polluted even. But I can hear it humming a tune of warmth whichever bead I choose to observe it through. That’s good enough for an outing. I spend the next nine minutes loiter around the room to pack. All I need is to stuff some snacks into my bag. But to do so with my footsteps and body movements synchronized to the lethargic Dub bass takes time.

The yellow tint on the clouds could be a reflection from the mild pollution, or it gently warns of a dissolving sun. In the latter case, it should rightly arouse a sense of urgency. I Come Alive into the Climatic Phase No. 1 and get myself on the road. There doesn’t seem to be much going on outside on the late Saturday afternoon, except the smell I expect of grass dust thrown up by running feet that permeates the air out in the country. Here along the road, everything seems standing still, including the air. But as I slowly drive past them, a chorus of coconut fairies forms out of slightly condensed air, and they sing in different pitches as I turn around bends of various curvatures.

Isn’t it nice enough. Perhaps I could go on like this and never reach the end. One of the coconut fairies seems to understand my heart and decides to stay in my company. I abandon the car on the roadside to let her catch up. Now that I’m on foot, perpetually propelled by the buoyant bass, the surrounding is even quieter. She flaps her white transparent wings with finer and finer veins, flying before my eyes, scratching my ears, playing the game of Time to Find Me. The aimlessness of me and my surrounding melt into each other to form a milky flow, almost distinguishable, drifting near and far. The concentrated perception activates me, and I start telling the coconut an Alternate Desk Mix of the same story. That day the air had a similar thickness. Although it was a weekday, I came upon the listless plain and breathed in the amorphous drowsiness. My chin propped in my palms, I closed my eyes to let the light-footed percussions sway my heartbeat. Imperceptibly, an asynchronous metal sequence is superimposed onto the existing rhythm. The offbeat sound flowed harmoniously together with the main stream as if a mere effect of viscosity. But it actually came from outside my earphones, outside my windows, independently. An aged Arab worker was working on the roof, building something. The sound of metal work thus weaved into the music temporarily, leaving me fascinated. I forgot what I was doing, and just listened and observed. At noon, he stopped to take a lunch break in the shade, away from the heat of work and the scorching sun. He sat against the wall under my window, took his time to enjoy a pita sandwich, slowly peeled a tangerine, savored every piece down to the cells, and lastly produced a cigarette from his pocket, for the peace of the soul, for the moment of an unoccupied mind, before everything comes back. Upon hearing the story, the coconut fairy gathers the milky flow around her. The airy aimlessness suddenly draws near, revealing its freckles that indicate continuous transformation, condensation, until it’s compressed into a tiny blob of shiny energy/mass. Sweeping the coconut along, it soars and vanishes into the setting sun, leaving a faint distant cry that quickly dissipates.

The chilly evening wind of My Super 20 rises, softly announcing the arrival of a sundown. The coolness thins the air and clears away memories. As if nothing had happened, I keep moving forward until a trace of fatigue comes into the center of consciousness. Here I sit down by a Silent Pool, watching the bright reflection of the moon being disturbed every now and then. This is the lullaby of the night, the secret Signals of the dark. I turn to my right side and put my hand under my ear, then I want to fall asleep. I shall go back if I don’t want to catch a cold. But I will stay here a bit longer