A gentle breeze again greets me as I walk from our inn, barefoot across the white sands still wet from the predawn shower, and take my customary morning seat at the edge of the cushionless wooden lounge chairs. A solid wall of low clouds lines the horizon extending high into the sky, and overhead. There will be no visual color this morning. But, there is an abundance of auditory color. So, I lay back and close my eyes. It takes a couple of minutes to adjust to the auricular world.
The strong ocean breath colliding with the palm leaves sings a song indistinguishable from heavy raindrops dancing on Earth. I am reminded of my time in Joshua Tree on a hot August weekend, a dry heat couple of days. The gentle breeze would dance with the silvery leaves of a giant Cottonwood and the absolute silences in the desert were replaced with the sing-song of a babbling brook. A mirage. Were I not resting in the shade of Cottonwood, I would surely have set out to search for the rivulet.
Hello darkness, my old friend
I’ve come to talk with you again
Because a vision softly creeping
Left its seeds while I was sleeping
And the vision that was planted in my brain
Within the sound of silence…
The sun still rose. It always does. Today, it rose without fanfare. A sun obscured by thick skyline clouds. A sun crossing listless over the horizon. A sun devoid of ruddiness eventually emerged over the dissipating clouds dressing those billowy, cottony puffs higher in the sky in bridal white. The surf on the distant reef roared applause while I sulked at missing the bride’s blush…there is always mañana…
Touched the sound of silence…
Back to the choir. A Belizean neophyte, I am ignorant of the local dialects. Birds I do not recognize singing songs as foreign to my ear as the first time I experienced a morning Raga in India. A morning raga is an early morning concert focusing on exuding positivity and happiness making it an ideal way to start a day. The one I saw began at 7 am, a time unheard of in the West but common for the those in the Indian subcontinent. The birds, too, exude positivity and I feel happiness.
Fools, said I, you do not know
Silence like a cancer grows
Hear my words that I might teach you
Take my arms that I might reach you
But my words, like silent raindrops fell
And echoed in the wells of silence…
Sounds, sounds, sounds…The double croak of Heron pries my eyelids open. It is just leaving the water and takes to the air on long, slow wing beats. Its neck is extended. A living arrow before being tucked into the familiar S-shape of the heron/egret families. It searches for better fishing prospects, another pier to hide beneath and stride in staccato stealthy hunt mode for the slow minnow dawdling at the edge of a flash of minnows.
The words of the prophets are written on the subway walls
And tenement halls
And whispered in the sounds of silence…
Engine roars, doppler as boats pass across the sea. Left to right. Right to left. The shrill screech of a circular saw chewing through wood, bones to repair decaying structures. Even paradise is subject to entropy. Or for new construction to accommodate the influx of tourists…paradise invaded. Perhaps, paradise lost. Or, the wail of Monkey.
Monkey won’t leave me in peace. We took monkey for a walk last night to a local restaurant where I fed him a snapper so fresh it was still flapping on my plate. I tried to drown him in alcohol, a bottle of white wine shared with my wife followed by a lovely Amaretto Sour. But the alcohol had more effect on me than Monkey who started chattering when we returned back to our home…
Monkey: Whacha gonna do tomorrow? Wacha gonna do? Wacha gonna do?
Me: I’m going to relax.
Monkey: Wacha gaonna do?
Me: Relax! Relax!! Relax!!!
Eventually, I decided to fall into bed and sleep. It was the only way to shut the bugger up.
To be continued….