It's raining. No savage storm this, but a gentle falling of
water from clouds pierced by the late afternoon sun. It gilds the world in in
soft golds, warm oranges and delicate pinks. It is the kind of early autumn day
where childhood is not so very long ago and adults laugh as easily as the small
children do, stomping gleefully together through puddles in the rain.
She walks barefoot, long red dress trailing in the water,
creating ripples and eddies as she passes by. Her strides are slow, meandering
and with an easy kind of grace. Her umbrella rests against her shoulder, the
silvery metal cool against her skin. The fingers of her left hand hang
artlessly by her side, relaxed. Occasionally she reaches out to catch a
raindrop or two, to savor the feeling of the warm droplets tapping against her
palm.
A group of women walk ahead of her. They are far enough that
the falling rain has softened the edges of their outlines. Umbrellas catch the
broken sunlight along their metal tines and bounce it back out into the ambient
water, creating brief rainbows on the walls of the buildings that line the
streets. The rainbows dance as the women
chatter and laugh, jostling their umbrellas against each other. The red clad
lady smiles to hear their laughter. She enjoys the chance to witness their
friendship, strangers though they are to her.
Though she enjoys the sight of such camaraderie, she is
content in her solitude. Her life abounds with social events, tea times and
meetings, play dates and parties. The dress she wears is not uncommon fare for
her wardrobe and she doesn't mind if the delicate cascade of crimson chiffon
gets water stained today. In the humid beauty of the rain-washed street she
finds peace. In the feeling of rough, wet pavement against her feet she finds strength.
In the sharing this moment with a street full of strangers she finds a sense of
community. In no hurry to get to her destination, she wanders through the rain.
A thunderous noise crashes against my ears, breaking the
slowly unfolding ponderings of my imagination. I drop my gaze from the painting
and a cacophony of sound returns to my awareness. Rumbling drums roar an
ominous cry of power through a room seemingly too small to hold it. Tearing
chords scream from the amplifier. The sound reverberates over my nerve endings
causing me to shiver in response. A solid base line crawls into my bone marrow,
echoes in my heartbeat.
The last remnants of my quiet musings dissolve as the
wailing cry of an adamantine voice rings out above the din in a defiant chorus.
The words are the war cry of an angry soul done with giving way. “They will not
force us!” they are simple words given power by their singer. His posture,
tendons standing ridged along his shoulders, fingers strangling the base of the
microphone stand, embraces those words as he rips them from his throat and
throws them, assailing the impassive walls with each line. I wouldn’t need words
to understand the intent of this music, with the brash conversation of
discordant notes between bass guitar and electric all vying with the thundering
drums that attempt to devour them both and above it all the deep chested anthem
the shatters the air.
As the music crescendos, tsunami-like waves beating against
my skin, the painting of the red-clad woman catches my gaze. A haunting, oddly
painful, sense of peace rises up my spine, envelopes my lungs, chokes me as the
beat of my heart continues to thrum in time with the pied-piper rhythm of the
snare drum. For a moment the dissonance of the two conflicting feelings steals
my breath, closes my throat. Tears spring to my eyes. I close my eyes, rub at
them with my fingertips, cold skin against flushed lids, but my mind’s eye
holds an afterimage of the picture. The silent, internal war scatters my
thoughts till I think they must just shatter and fall, leaving me empty, but I
receive a sudden reprieve as the guitarist stumbles and the music clatters to a
halt.
Good natured ribbing ensues amongst the musicians. The other
spectator in the room smiles at me briefly, a shared moment of “aren’t they
silly?” I run fingers, slightly trembling through my hair and collect myself. I
look at the picture once again. Whatever temporary muse had caught me is gone
and though it still is a pretty picture, it holds no power now. I shake the lingering
spell from me with a toss of my head and return my attention to the room as the
musicians pick their next song and start up again.
