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letra de frank's chair - 2nu

dusk is a very different experience in the pastoral,
unblemished surroundings of the mountains. i truly
believe that there is no such thing as dusk in the
city. think about it. after spending most of your day
within a society whose’ philosophy is “fix the blame,
and not the problem”, you must then navigate your way
home behind the same population using the same
philosophy in their driving. no, there is no such thing
as dusk in the city.

i was sitting on the porch of an old run down cabin in
a rocking chair that squeaked just looking at it. i
could now embrace the deep unspoiled, tranquility of
dusk. every sound was as sharp as broken gl-ss. i could
even hear the steam rise from the hot cup of freshly
brewed coffee i held in my sore, blistered, virgin
hands. the sun was setting on the tall pines that
reached their pointed heads to a deep, azure sky,
dusted with wisps of ash-orange.

i was just about ready to put the light out on the big
cuban i was chewing on when i realized the shadow
working its way toward me wasn’t a shadow at all. i
hadn’t seen a soul in this neck of the woods all week
long. although, it wasn’t all that uncommon to see an
occasional visitor mosey by with a friendly “hi,”
casual wave on their way to the top of the mountain.
however, it was quite uncommon to see a woman dressed
in a long flowing white gown. deep auburn hair, shown
bronze, and gold in the setting sun. her eyes alight
like a fire staring at me from way inside her. like an
animal looking out from the brush. course, i took this
moment about as light heatedly as a coronary. felt the
deafening roar of silence inside me when she said,
“mister, you’re sitting on my chair.”

her sheer smoothness was alien, even intimidating. she
grabbed my hand and led me inside the cabin. we walked
to the large room i called the living room and she
pulled back an ancient rug to reveal a hinged door. the
door led to a spiral staircase and before i knew it, we
stood at the bottom of the staircase facing a remote,
majestic chap in regal looking boots and a double-
humped camel by his side. she called him, frank.

we spent the better half of the next four days
traveling sand dunes and hard winds. on two occasions,
i thought i’d be left behind. however, frank lifted me
on the camel after cooling my parched lips with a
little water that we had left. on the fourth day, we
reached a long, quiet oasis and i dived for rich, deep
water ignoring groups of two-headed lizards and other
-ssorted creatures. within hours, i was awakened by the
woman in the long flowing gown. her index finger
pressed to her lips. we were besieged by a band of arab
raiders. the three of us were captured trying to escape
out the backside of the oasis and held prisoner for, as
near as i could calculate, eight days.

i must have p-ssed out from the lack of food, because i
don’t recall how i got onboard an old freight boat. we
were headed down the thick, brown waters of the wide
river with thick jungle on both sides. it was just her
and i again. somehow, we had escaped. frank, again,
slipping me onboard this stinky ship before he caught a
half dozen arrows in the back. we drifted for days.
most of the time in thick fog and torrential rain. she
and i talked about our past and our futures if we ever
got out of this mess.

well, i ‘d lost all track of time, but one morning i
woke up to the melody of birds and a streak of sunlight
across the window of my room below deck. a note lay
beside my head on the pillow. i stuck it in my shirt
pocket and climbed the stairs, grabbed a tin cup of
coffee, and sat on the bow to read the note. she was
gone, apparently on a small fishing boat p-ssing the
other way. she simply wrote, unfinished business.
you’ll understand.

well, here i am. a few years later. a few years older.
i’m romancing another beautiful dusk in the mountains
on the porch of an old, familiar cabin. there is no
chair this time. it was replaced by a note. she simply
wrote, love is a rare opportunity and when that love is
somehow parted, it’s something deep, down inside that
wants just a reminder, a slice of the memory, a
possession. i thought you might want to know why i came
for frank’s favorite chair. now, you understand. there
is no such thing as dusk in the city.

- 2nu

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