Sunday, January 24, 2010

moons and memory

Saturday night. 

The end of the week for English-speaking countries -- though we insist on putting Sunday at the start of the week, but still call it part of the week-end.  And we wonder why our Mexicans neighbors find us culturally-challenged.

It is one of those Saturday nights that will hang around the nostalgia hall of my memory -- to reappear at some time in the future, usually when least expected and unbidden, triggered by some sound, sight, or scent.  Eager as a four-year old to please with its witty meaning.

The night was simply sybaritic -- sensuous, but in a different part of town from the Hedonists.  And not the night's activities.  The night itself.

I had dinner with a woman I met at a fund-raiser to preserve our laguna.  But it was the night that will be memorable.

Even with a half-moon brightening the sky, we could see stars that are light-shrouded on most nights.  Orion's belt was as big as a lucha libre buckle.

And the air.  Warm, of course.  Melaque air in January is expected to be warm -- a truth as constant as a mother's love.

But tonight's air was different.  A very distinct scent hanging in the air.  From some flower desperately wooing creatures of the night to assist her in propagating her own -- with the promise of perfume.  Her desperation was our joy.

Not the type perfume your Aunt Rose wore: all lavender with sachet packets and crocheted hankies pinned to her bosom with an amber brooch. 

No.  This was a subtle scent.  As if
Sônia Braga had glided past your table minutes before on her way from the dance floor.  The type of scent that reminds you of -- tonight.

Perfume. Stars.  And the sounds of geckos, crickets, and the occasional splash of something vaguely dangerous on the shore of the laguna.

And maybe more.

But undoubtedly a night that will be remembered -- somewhere -- some time.


Anonymous said...

Are you losing your marbles? Scents? Perfume? Memories?

Have you been dipping into your Aunt Tilly's library of romantic novels?

Or were you kidnapped by alien psychiatrists and fed anti-depressants for 72 hours?

A bit of bad beef or an undone potato, to borrow from Dickens?

Get hold of yourself, Man, before it's too late!

A. N. M.

GlorV1 said...

Hmmmmm. Sounds to me like you might have had a nice evening. Hip Hip Hooooooray!!!;D Take care.

Steve Cotton said...

ANM -- I may have read one of your poems too many times.

Gloria -- It was a marvelous evening. Maybe I will never return to Oregon.

Anonymous said...

Oh sure! Drag in some pathetic ad hominem about my poetry!

Remember: Only God can make a tree.

A. N. M.

Steve Cotton said...

ANM -- Do you have that embroidered on the hankie you pin on your bodice?

Anonymous said...

You sadist! Do you want to make me cry?


Steve Cotton said...

ANM -- Only a masochist would say such a thing.