"If a picture is worth a thousand words, a song is worth a million."

(Anon.)

Πέμπτη, 22 Αυγούστου 2013

Moon



to George


They're walking in a narrow city alley, hand-in-hand. The alley is dark and the area dodgy but they don't seem to care; not even to notice. The moon, a huge bright ball, is hanging above their heads. It is the August full moon, the most glorious among the silver masks of the Goddess, a moon revered by all men alike, old men and young, common men and artists, lonesome men and lovers, prudent men and vagabonds.

He is holding an ice-cream. She, a cigarette. As they're walking, they realise that they're being followed by cats. White cats and black cats, big cats and little kittens, an army of fur and paws and tails.

The cats are now walking past them. They decide to follow the cats through the alley, into the magical night.

The moon, a huge bright ball, is hanging above their heads. The smoke of the cigarette, a faint silver thread, separates the dream from reality.

The moon, a huge bright ball.

He stretches his arm up to the sky, towards the moon. He opens his hand and takes the moon off the sky and throws it  to her. She, startled, lets the moon bounce up and down the alley and they run after it.

Soon the alley leads moon and humans to an opening. The cats are nowhere to be seen. Instead, there are wagons, gypsy wagons,full of colour; there is the smell of cotton candy and the sound of wineglass clinking.

The moon finally stops in front of the feet of a dark-haired, kohl-eyed, moustache-bearing young man. He is holding violin and bow, the latter standing ready over the strings, faintly touching them. He looks at the moon and then at the couple. He nods, his eyes still fixed on them.

A little child, no older than a toddler, appears from nowhere and tries to catch the moon. The moon is too big for his little arms, but soon more children gather and help the little one carry the moon nearby.

As the children start playing, throwing the moon to each other – after all, the moon is nothing more than a huge, bright ball-, the bow starts going up and down on the violin strings.


A fast, masterful, whimsical melody fills the air. Men start dancing, feet are going up and down, skirts are ruffling and twirling like woven jellyfish. The air is torn by the vivid melody and the laughing anarchy of the dancers. The moon is bouncing up and down in the hands of the children. Only the cats are still nowhere to be seen.

And they, hand-in-hand, are looking.

It could be a dream or magic. It could be a nightly illusion or a cleft in reality. It could just be the cats' fault. Or a kind of lunacy.
But it could also be a fantasy, a fairy tale, or an I-love-you.




(The following day all wagons and men had disappeared. There was nothing left but the traces of cat paws on the ground.)