An Evil Beast To Wrestle

I am here to jot down the little bits and pieces left over from an unexpected trip across the sea. Thoughts written on scraps of unexpected paper. The blurred sight of an unexpected Dutch and English landscapes outside unexpected train windows. The sweet taste of an unexpected glass of Pimm's. The low sound of unexpected voices singing of all things bright and beautiful, all creatures great and small.

This is what it's like across the sea: There are egrets perched on covered speedboats next to rusted old junks in the Herengracht. There are bathtubs used as drinking troughs in fields next to the tracks between towns called Meols and Moreton. There is a strong wind blowing sharply over cobblestones. England in February is the perfect shade of gray for funerals. Right now there is ice on the water in the northern Atlantic.

I thought I'd come home from this unexpected trip and stop viewing the world through these purple prose-colored glasses. I had it in mind to do a fashion show, stage pictures of myself in the orange and black plaid cape purchased on a narrow street in Amsterdam. The bright pink dress that will see me through spring. (Because jeezum pete the internet is full enough of wistful musings and not enough photos of tired-looking people wearing vintage things they recently bought in shops.) To live brightly, joyously, wisely.

But jet lag is an evil beast to wrestle. And so instead of wrestling my arms through fabric, I fall back on words, and music, and we put on records: dozens and dozens of records hauled across the granite floors and well-traveled carpet of airports, over slate paths and gravel driveways in the northwest of England. One after another, the needle looping, when there is nothing left in my brain to loop but words: little poetic bits and pieces left over from an unexpected trip across the sea.

© Zan McQuade. All rights reserved.