It’s late but too early for the witching hour. I’m playing a Rachmaninoff CD as I sip an Austalian red wine called The Big Kahuna. The wine has just enough of a raw edge to compliment the Snickers bar I’m munching.
I can smell my home made chicken soup simmering in the kitchen. I know; it’s the long hot summer in the desert, but the nights are coming with a bit of a chill now, and soup is quick and easy fuel for writing.
Charles Sutton, the ghost in my novels, seems to whisper thoughts straight into my mind. My fingers barely keep up. In the light of morning, I may trade parts of this strange reality for something less weird, but maybe I won’t.
In reviewing the first of my two books for the sake of continuity, wherein Sutton struggled with intermittent bouts of insanity, I came across this:
“Floating on the waves in the sunlight, I heard the haunting strains of a piano flowing from the open windows of a little white building on the shore. It was Palermo, Sicily. I followed the music and entered a large, white room to see a young man playing a grand piano in time to a recording.
The only furniture was a crude wooden table, a chair and the piano. There were windows on three sides, all open to the sight and smell of the sea. One brilliant mandarin red rose stood majestically in a crystal goblet on the piano. The pianist was playing with his eyes closed, completely absorbed in Rachmaninoff’s Piano Concerto Number 2.
I leaned against a wall, captured by that music. Rachmaninoff portrayed my life in his notes. I wept.
His concerto described the blackest pits of despair and the quiet solace of sunshine above the clouds. It galloped on horseback with exuberant young men through forests of the tallest pines, whispered the bewitching pangs of first love, and cried out the visceral pain of love lost. It twittered with the seductive curiosity of innocence and moaned the tired desperation of old age, until finally, it played my madness in all its suffocating defeat. Then, gently and with great tenderness, it brought me back to the purest clarity of my true self. Rachmaninof saved my soul that summer day in Palermo.” Charles Sutton, ghost, THE SORCERER’S CONFESSION.
When I’m stymied or mentally clogged with the seemingly endless barrage of useless information that is daily life, I listen to the classics, let my imagination loose and float away for a while. When I’m driving, I like country music because I don’t have to think about it. I love rock and roll, Bob Dylan, Pink Floyd, U2, Blue October, and the list goes on when I’m cleaning the house, partying, or wanting a lift.
And finally, there’s the beautiful silence of the early morning hours when even a thought is too loud. The birds are asleep and the only movement comes from the dogs and me, trudging along our little country road under the big stary sky of Southern Nevada.
Shit! The soup is burning…
1st book in the series: THE SORCERER’S CONFESSION: 99c http://www.smashwords.com/view/books/62266
2nd book in the series: THE SORCERER’S PROMISE: 99c http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/69745