Of course, it has to do with light. Our trap is ending. The rumors have been exaggerated. Soon we can see again.
That year it was cold. As Pennsylvania Decembers are supposed to be. A friend visited. Shelter from the Noir.
On solstice I drove her back to the Chinatown bus. Through the cold. In the shortest day of the year.
Took two Ma-1 flight jackets along with a turtleneck sweater bought ten years back in another blue back winter
on Rue Saint Andre des Arts.
My intentions were to head home, passed my past ... the Inquirer Building, once home to a magazine for which I wrote and photographed features. All elsewhere, for Philadelphia was a city I barely knew. But, there, beside the seat were her gloves & I parked quickly. Doubting the wind on Christmas would be any kinder.
Since I was parked. And in need of soup and warm light ... to sit within, cat in the remaining sun.
Chinatown was perfect. To find gifts of tea and balm. A cup or two placed beneath the tree.
Next to the coming year's journal.
So a walk through the streets with both flight jackets, mine from my journeys, fading to orange with ultraviolet light ... and a purple one, larger with attitude, its emergency lining burning like flame.
And of course the scarf, from early training as a kid at NYU bought on St. Mark's Place ...
along with a WWII pea coat for nine bucks and change.
For walking New York's Village streets, thinking about all the stories
... in every doorway ... the drama in every railroad flat and bar. The stories are still there.
Screen plays without film. Rough notes from when people wrote letters to friends.
In the end, we come to rest. Imperfect from accidental bruises, setting slightly askew, framed in momentary sets, acquiring the space allowed for those seconds.
As the light glows or leaves, on cold days, without so much as a parting kiss.
There, not so much trapped but captured: Appears our reflection. As part of the story. Only soup to warm us.
So finally, warmed by life and flight jackets, a visit, to my Chinatown Doctor, sleeping fitfully
in his window. Dreaming about sleep. With fine advice on tea, tea cups
and fragrant balms to ease those accidental bruises.
To set aside la debre. Disregarding the nonsense. On that cold nite there was a sliver moon.
Yes, and only the soup to warm us.
Solstice and all the other material on this website and medias was created by H.Scott Heist including all photographs, text, & concepts and are his property with all rights reserved.
Splinter Cottage, Every Day is a Short Story, and the View from Splinter Cottage are trade marks of H. Scott Heist being in use for many years. Their rights are reserved. (scene 4, no budget for cast.)
¬© H. Scott Heist 09 all rights reserved.
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