Reprise

In music, a reprise (pron.: /rəˈpriːz/ rə-PREEZ; from French)^[1] is the repetition or reiteration of the opening material later in a composition as occurs in the recapitulation of sonata form, though—originally in the 18th century—was simply any repeated section, such as is indicated by beginning and ending repeat signs. 


 
<sup>Recapitulation...now that was funny.
But as he started walking towards the Burnet train station wondering about a bus, or a taxi, or which thumb to hold up while hitch-hiking he discovered that sometimes lightning does strike twice.

Wait.

Again it was hard to hear, but he had her voice tattooed in his mind.

I thought I was going to let you go ride alone he said...tracing his steps back to her.  Again.  A move he had mastered.

I know.  And you did.  And I will.  But I wanted a hug.

A hug?

A hug.

He stepped  into her, invaded her space and extended his arms, parallel to each other.  She molded into him.

Envelope.

She was caught up against him but he heard her say what?

He felt her like a frailty; his thumb was against her spine and he gently moved it up and down.  She smelled like an afternoon of sun and clouds, slight smoke from the train and a lotion he couldn't quite describe.

He tensed his arms gently, signaling a release.  They unfolded.

What did you say?

He kind of smiled.  I said "envelope"  It's dumb I know but when I think of you I think of enveloping you...but I end up thinking of the word envelope.  That stupid "e" on the end is stuck in my head.

She smiled, and against the day it was something he would remember the most.

Well...goodbye.

See you.

He watched her, knowing that she knew he was watching her.  At the stairs to the train she turned and waved.  He raised his arm, hand open.  Empty.

It was the same way he felt in her departure...</sup>             

 

 
 

Flyin' Solo on The Hill Country Flyer

                                                                                                I

It came as a simple request.  Like most things from her they appeared initially simple…but turned convincingly complex.

This was one of those times.

I’d like to ride a train, she said. It was April, it was the start of a spring and the Hill Country was in full bloom. 

I’ve got some ideas, was all he offered.

                                                                                                II

The Hill Country Flyer covers about 2 hours worth of Texas roadside…winding its way from Cedar Park up to Burnet…a small town with an actual gunfight show to please those who deign to travel to this little part of the Hill Country.  

Skirting the Balcones Canyonlands refuge, the train travels into Texas at a time when the sky and the ground are dueling colors…the broad brush strokes of blue drawing your eyes to a heaven while below bluebonnets mirror the sky.  Some fields have winecups, their purple hats atop green tendrils showcasing the difference between Spring in Texas…and every other season.

The train was built in 1916 when that primary mode of transportation was pervasive; bought second hand by the Squaw Creek Coal Company of Indiana, it was one of the last ones of its kind.  And now it was the primary source of transport known as the Hill Country Flyer.

A first class seat was $45.00.

He could afford that…would gladly have paid more, and was thrilled when her eyes lit up as they wandered up to the steel giant.

You got us first class? She was pulling him along, going past the locomotive engine, stopping once to peer between the wheels, and then immediately up again.

I did.  I figured it was how you normally traveled.

Ha!  Don’t I wish.

Well today it’s true.  For 2 hours at least.

She turned to him at that second.  Thank you.  For 2 hours at least.

The car was actually a Pullman Lounge, dating back to the early 70s…its name was City of Chicago.  Seating was plentiful (he had actually called to see when the train was at its ebb on passengers) and they had the car almost to themselves.  Wide bright windows unbroken by frames or joints showcased the train station…the views were limitless.

So I think you made a good choice.

Thank you.  You may disagree with me later…you may quarrel with your memory and scold yourself for accepting this trip.

Her eyes narrowed a little bit, and the usual arms folded across her chest.  Why?

He shook his head.  Not now…let’s sit, let’s listen to the whistle.  We have some time together…infinitely way too short but at least some.  So please, I’m going to shut up and watch you watch Texas

.

That seemed to satisfy her and she picked out a seat where she could command the view.  He didn’t sit next to her…he sat opposite.  Which prompted a question.

Why are you over there?

So I can see you.

You can see me if you sit next to me.

I want to see all of you.

Oh.  All right.

The whistle exploded and with the herky-jerk of a start the train slowly started moving…tendrils of black smoke blossomed outside of them and people at the station waved smiling at the departed.  He noticed she waved back, smiling as well.  He didn’t wave.  But he had a slight smile while watching her, forehead almost pressed to the glass, eyes bringing in the colors and the views.

                                                                     III

The trip was cathartic…it blended both the connection to a much simpler time…with the way the Hill Country has looked for years.  The movement of the train, the horn during crossings, felt very visceral.  It was truly riding, truly traveling.  It was comfort.  It was convenience.

The only thing that could resemble the view of the far-reaching horizons of gorgeous wind-swept flowers was the way she looked in the afternoon light, streaming in through the glass windows…almost like a stained-glass, almost religious.

She studied the terrain, making comments and laughing at some of his replies…it was like stepping back in time…but knowing you could always return back to the beginning.

After some time, she turned away from the window.

I think I know what’s behind those eyes.

He turned to her.  Yeah?  What exactly?

She looked down and had her hands in her lap.  It reminded him of somebody in church.

You want more.  You want to know more.

He shifted a little bit and watched the blur of colors behind her.

I don’t necessarily want more…I guess I just want fewer bricks between us.

If I let out one secret I’ve got to let them all out. Her voice was almost a whisper.  But she continued…I can’t tell you what is in here because if I let it out I have to acknowledge it.  It’s alive.  It’s living.  Breathing.

He didn’t respond to this…she had never looked up during her sentence.  And she kept her head down continuing….It’s breathing…wait, I already said that.  And for it to disappear I’d have to kill it. And I don’t want that.  I’d rather keep it in its cage.

He nodded a little bit.  He didn’t really know what to say to this.

You keep a cage, I reference bricks…there are a lot of things between us he finally offered.

I don’t think there is that much…but I guess so.

I feel like there is…I sense the areas and the times when you disappear from view.  And I guess I hate that.

She looked up at him.  I thought you didn’t hate anything about me?

You’re right. 

The colors of the afternoon were shifting a bit…more flashbulbs of light, of reflections, they shadowed her face, kept her eyes darker than usual.

What’s worth more she started…hearing no or hopefully assuming yes?

Well that’s kind of my point…I don’t hear a lot of yes now.

 

She nodded some more.  Okay.  But you just have to know there are parts…there will always be parts, that nobody will ever own.

I don’t want to own them.  I just want to be connected to them.

Well I’d say you’re connected…

I’d say I’m not…I’d say that what you own is like a piece of crystal…a flute—

A flute?  Like the music one?

Like the champagne one.

Oh.  Good.

That you own this flute…this glass…and you can fill it with whatever you want.  Maybe it’s water, maybe it’s champagne, maybe it’s me.  You can spill it out whenever you want…you can turn it upside down.

Are you non-alcoholic?

He laughed at that…no…I’m very toxic.  I’d like to say I’m like absinthe.  Forbidden and very potent.  Which is why I think you don’t let me occupy these things you own.

I thought you just wanted to be connected.

Well I used a cup metaphor so I need to fill it…just one of those damn physics issues with liquid and properties.

Okay.

A silence settled in, the tracks clacking along, the car moving gently in a rhythm.

I think I’m going to get off in Burnet and maybe just hang around there. He said it casually.

Her face registered for just a second, head tilting. Why?

Because you wanted to ride a train.  You didn’t say I want to ride a train with you…you just wanted to ride.

I think you’re being a little over-reactive.

No…honestly, I want you to ride alone.  I want you to enjoy this.

I am enjoying it.

I know…the part of you that is enjoying it is being here…the part of you not is being distracted.  I don’t want that…I just wanted to be alone with you for awhile…and I got my wish.  And you’ve now got yours.

It wasn’t awkward…it was just the two of them. 

Wait.  You bought us round trip first class tickets—

Just one round trip.

So you knew you wouldn’t be coming back with me before all of this?

I did.

And that’s why you said I would scold myself for coming?

Partially.

Why only partially?

Because you’ve shared a little bit…and I feel like you’d do that only if you wanted to…not, you know, unwillingly.

So…you’re just going to send me back to Cedar Park all alone?

You’ll be safe in your cage.

You’re an ass.

She turned sideways and went back to looking outside.

At Burnet they looked at each other briefly, she was in her seat, he was standing above her.

He reached out to her…not in a handshake, but more like a palm up gesture.  She put hers down on top.

Enjoy the train.

I will.

He moved down the car to the connector section where the doors opened up.  He waited until it stopped and then he got out.  He didn’t need to look back…he knew she wouldn’t be looking.

At the Edge where the Quiet meets some Dissonance

There are no quiet corners here...too many people...too many lights, too many cars, taxis, trucks, buses and an occasional stalwart individual who pedals two lovers in the back of a bike...

There are no shadow places where one can hide, despite the overwhelming amount of corners, despite the vast amount of buildings and fences and dead-ends...there are no edges of a shadow where one can lurk, waiting for just the right moment.

There are no easy crossings, too many cars colliding down an avenue...too many cars turning against the signal...greens, reds...somebody is always moving, somebody is always coming or going.

There is no pause in an evening...there is no shelter from the wind.  There is a trace of rain or snowfall on each and every inch...there is a dark gray clump leftover without notice.

There are brush-bys, glances, slight blows...barely touched, barely grazed.

There are the bespectacled...the hat-wearers...the scarves, the purses...colors, grays and colors muted.  A hundred thousand...maybe more...swarming...

Lovers.  Soloists.  Alone.  Crowded.  Groups.  Packs.

A single shadow against the light of some neon.

The surge of strangers...the chaos of a crowd...the heat of a humanity...pulsating and streaming like bloodflow down an avenue.  Warming.

A million people on their own way...each with a fear...each with a hope...each with a pencil written note in their mind of a love...maybe unsent, maybe unseen...maybe undelivered.

Notes littering the streets carried by cold ugly rain and cold ugly wind...colors of trash and tiny tin sparks...aluminum...paper...bottles emptied.  The stench of something inescapable...never too far from it, never close enough to enjoy.

I walk and shuffle...I collect and fold...I remember...I glance upwards at a stale moon and I think of how it means nothing but dead empty lightbulbs...not enough to cast a shadow, cast a wit, cast a care.

A siren pierces an unusual quiet...and then I remember...I get it.

New York City is my mind...and you and your eyes are the millions who walk through it, drive angry through it, make love in the rainy evening of it and drift through it anonymously except for the glimpses that I catch and recognize you among the million things in my mind.

Hurtling Through a Night

There is something very soulful, very throw-back, very nostalgic to the whistle and the thunder of a train at night...particularly if it is just far enough away so that you can just barely hear it.  

Just barely allow it to slice into the darkening air...

there are so very few noises anymore that have stayed so constant in the dark...mostly they are from nature; a thunderstorm, cicadas, the howl of a wolf. 

But most other noises have evolved...we don't hear the elevated subways clacking through the city at night, we don't hear the clop of a horse's hooves on brick.  

But the train sounds the same, its soulful wail eerily constant.

As a child I remember hearing the far-away trains bringing cotton to the central valley where my grandparents lived...alone in a bed at night I could hear them calling out...pitch black sky, pitch-perfect horn interrupting the quiet evening.

Occasionally I will step out into my current backyard and I'm able to hear the trains running through Gainesville, long freight trains carrying covered and exposed cargo.  I'm amazed at the clarion call when I hear it...I have to be outside in order to do so, I can't hear it from inside.

It is a saddening sound to me.  A sound like a departure, a sound like a passing through.  It is a sound that is a warning...it is a sound that pushes caution.  It is a sound that must be as loud as possible due to the danger it conveys...due to the destructive nature of it...these steel tons of iron and metal on two cold rails...black and menacing.  The train is a satellite in my evening, passing quickly through, maybe burning hotly but it comes and it passes.  It is a glancing blow to my night, a disruption to my dreams.  It is far too heavy for me to stop, far too powerful for me to do anything but merely step aside as it passes.

But at least I have a warning, at least I have the mournful wail of that impending steel barreling down.

Unlike you...when a thought of you comes hurtling through the night, exploding in my veins and passing through me and disappearing back into the night...with nary a sound, nary a slightly meaningful gesture that could prepare me to do something...warn me to do something…caution me…if even to just step aside as it passes.

And so it starts....

It's supposed to rain today, rain all weekend...

And as I walked through the inter-webs I found a blog that was really quite interesting...a title called "Irresistible Tendencies"...and in it the the author described 3 things to appreciate the rain...

The first was to jump in rain-puddles...to stomp, press, skip, dash...I never was a big stomper...I do remember as a cadet in the heat of NC being sprayed with a firehose during the heat of high summer...we were in our fatigue bottoms and tee-shirts...they sprayed the hose straight up so it was like a torrential rain.  I remember the female cadets singing...well singing "Singing in the Rain".  I came from an all-male college and was now in a pack of fellow cadets in wet-tee shirts.  I remember that moment...and it made me very appreciative of the "rain".

The second item was to Kiss the Rain...really focusing on Billie Myers' song "Kiss the Rain"...she's actually got some pretty good lyrics...although I actually like the music a tad better...

The third item was to kiss IN the rain...

And the author writes about how it is very cold, and very wet and most people don't look good soaking wet...it's a very good point...

But I don't think any of that would apply...I like to think that in a downpour, in a gray and pre-Spring rain, that I wouldn't really notice the outside air...

That the mere heat inside would be shared, perhaps in a lock, perhaps in a taste but most definitely in a kiss.

And as I glimpse out the window, I see it's starting...let's see what today brings.

Heart of Darkness

“It seems to me I am trying to tell you a dream--making a vain attempt, because no relation of a dream can convey the dream-sensation, that commingling of absurdity, surprise, and bewilderment in a tremor of struggling revolt, that notion of being captured by the incredible which is of the very essence of dreams...No, it is impossible; it is impossible to convey the life-sensation of any given epoch of one's existence--that which makes its truth, its meaning--its subtle and penetrating essence. It is impossible. We live, as we dream-alone...” --Joseph Conrad, "Heart of Darkness"


The traveling is draining...I remember city names when I depart because the name is on an airport sign. People, shapes, colors all blend...a great grayness.  

I rarely sleep well, rarely sleep good.  I drift unmoored.  Nighttime isn't so much a comfort as it is a beginning that allows me to take sips of a liquid that might hasten a dream.  But that doesn't work so much.  It doesn't work well.  It doesn't work good.

I try...really try like putting my back into it trying...to slip into a stance where you might be, where I might find you.  I want to come back...I want to return.  It may seem that while I am out here that the only place I would find you is in my sleep, in a dream.

I may catch glimpses...I might catch whispers.  I might think I see you and I think I might hear you.
But when I awake it is a return to that alone-place.  It is a place I know I think fairly well.

And I think if I did catch you lurking I wouldn't be able to describe it.  I wouldn't be able to convey it.  It is like a drowning man seeing an arm reaching out to him...the person on the other side is in a very different place and thus cannot imagine my feelings.

But I don't think I dream alone.

I don't think I'm completely empty.

I think you may have a perspective.  I think you may have a Polaroid stamped someplace that is furled and maybe yellowed but it is still an image.  

And maybe you took it in a sleep, when you were sleeping well, when you were sleeping good.

And maybe you fall asleep rather easily when I am away...maybe you can let the embers die in a collapse of an evening and warmly and fuzzily drift...moored securely to the dock of your day.

Maybe your day is filled with everything except me.  No reminders, no markings.  No pictures, per se.  No presence.  Left to your own devices...memories, ephemeral.  Ghosts and creakings in the attic.  

But maybe when you let go of the oars and you allow yourself to drift free, to become unmoored...you enter waters unknown...and maybe look for things known.

And maybe, just then, at that small distant point you stumble upon a thought of me, a stubbed-toe of me...a spilled glass of me, a smudge.  An error.  A crumpled paper thrown towards trash that misses...a mistake in your day...a broken pencil, a missed call.  Things that don't go right, things that might go wrong.  And in that instant it is when you are at your most open, your most exposed...and you allow yourself that intersection with me, adrift, alighting in your mind as if you had suddenly dreamed about something you had never thought you might dream about...

And we find ourselves as equals...unable to reach, unable to touch, but definitely able to see.  And to see we are not alone.

Nothing Rhymes

It can be the color of the start of a golden day, it can be the color of the October moon…it is the color of a winter’s fire, it is the last color of an ember.

It is the color of honey, it is the color of the horizon on a flight at 35,000 feet sometime around dusk…if you’re heading west.

It is between the angry red and the mellow yellow.  It is associated with the unconventional, amusement…like cut flowers. It is associated with danger, aroma, taste…Autumn.  

The beauty of a  tree on fire with its leaves in full death-bloom.  Fleetingly fast…before changing to simple browns and falling.

Turbulent blues offset the fineness of the color, the straight contrast.  It is heat against cold.  It is day versus night.  It is a beginning…the color of something starting, alighting, catching flames…it is the color of smoldering.

It is van Gogh in a letter to his brother:   "searching for oppositions of blue with orange, of red with green, of yellow with violet, searching for broken colours and neutral colours to harmonize the brutality of extremes, trying to make the colours intense, and not a harmony of greys.

Monet’s painting, Impression, Sunrise coined an entire art movement.

It is a difficult color, it is sometimes maddening.  The sun only stays in that mood for just a bit, usually earliest in the morning.  The moon?  Only in certain times, and only for a bit. 

You have to capture it, remember it…try to keep it in your mind’s eye.

Broken colors…I like that…they imply disrupting…upsetting the normal…uneven keels…slippery slopes…some danger perhaps…willingly going along anyways.

Starting a day with a hint of it…finding a blue evening with just a touch of it…

 I like to think that you are like that…stunningly stark against the grays of everyone else…enough to inspire your own art movement.

Cold. Dark.  Gray.

Warm. Orange. You.

Farm to Market

Turn it up she exclaimed...jerking like an electrical charge was pulsating through her from the car seat, her left arm extending to the radio knob while she shifted and started nodding at the music growing in the speakers.

He glanced over at her, watching the sharp definitions of her profile, streaming in the wind as the convertible hurtled down the narrow road.  Her lips were mouthing the words (she didn't sing out loud to him...at least not yet...and he had never sung out loud to her and never would...he enjoyed her company too much).  He wondered briefly how her voice sounded...in a song, not a sentence.  He had heard her voice many times, memorized it like a braille word, could almost feel it...could almost touch it.  He could conjure it up like playing back a voice mail.  It was, almost, but not quite a song.

Now Al Green?

He could sing...and he was floating his words out over the warm Texas air, the afternoon heat roiling but cool in the convertible...

Spending my day
Thinking 'bout you girl being here with you

They were on Farm to Market 2483...the road that paralleled Salado Creek out of town and then crossed it continuing westward while the creek petered out down south.

Do you think all his songs sound the same, or at least similar?  He asked.

Hush...I'm still listening.  She was serious.

He laughed a tiny bit.  He leaned back and listened to the music, the rhythmic bass and the nice brass.  There was enough of a high note that when he looked at her she had to grimace a little bit to mouth the tougher parts...damn, she was getting into the song.

The sun shimmered and the creek was a stain of blue and silvery nickels...the music faded and she reached over to turn the knob.

Now.  What?  She had turned in the seat to face him.  He could tell the song was still in her ears because her hands beat a tiny drum on her leg.

I'll wait until the song is over, he said.

It's over.

No, you're remembering it.

She smiled.  It's been a long time since I heard it...so, I'd forgotten that I missed it.

I know exactly what you mean.

Being near with you, can't explain myself
I feel like I do, though it hurt me so 

I was wondering if you felt like his songs were the same...if they sounded the same to you.
 
She turned back to look at the road.  They were crossing the creek and she looked back as it faded past them.

I've been on this road a hundred times...and each time it's different.

Well of course it is...it's the first time I've been on it with you.

I don't mean it like that...I just notice different things...each time. 

Well what you'll notice is me this time.  

She smiled, shaking her head.  

That's why his songs still sound different to me...even though he uses similar sounding background music...it's his words...it's his unique way of saying things.

I noticed he likes the words Sho Nuff.

She laughed.  Yes!  Exactly.

Sho nuff  he intoned.

It sounds better when he sings it.

Figures.

The quiet descended slightly, and he welcomed it...he could hear her humming just a little...

I like that about the radio she started.

Like what?

I like that songs come up unplanned...you don't know what you'll hear next. You can't rewind and replay.  It just comes and goes.

It definitely can change your mood...spontaneously.

Right?  Exactly.

Well...just so you're aware he said, you are like my favorite song...that I haven't heard in many years...each time I see you.

She turned in her seat towards him.

So where's my rewind button?

At that he laughed.

That's the thing...each time I see you it's a different song.  And I don't get to hit rewind.  It just comes and goes.

I like that.

I like it even better.

In his rearview mirror he could see the slight cloud of dust raised in their wake...a hazy view of where they had come from and it was like a contrail of mustard and gray.  In front of him was shimmering blacktop and Texas, from left to right limit.  And a blueness that loomed large over them and was windswept and cloudless.  But there was not another soul that was out there, not another car, not even a plane.  

What are you thinking about she said...she had scooted over and was nearer to him.

I was just thinking about how it feels like we are the only two people in the world right now.

She glanced at the road ahead, and looked behind them.

I think you're right.

The car pushed forward into the afternoon.

I think I like the fact that you compared me to a song...

Oh yeah?  he answered

A song doesn't have to be heard...it can be played in a snippet.  It can even just be a note, or a few bars of music.  And in that small moment you feel the entire mood even if it's just a short amount of time.

I think that sounds right...I sense the whole of you just seeing you...I know your voice, your touch.  I know what's been said, what's been left unsaid...just by seeing you when I first see you.

Really?  That's how you feel each time you see me?

He turned to look at her:  sho nuff.

She smiled that whip-smart smile and her eyes narrowed and he could tell she was happy with his words.

He forgot about the rest of the afternoon as he reminisced upon it later...but he remembered the song, and the music and he remembered the moment she had gotten into the car, sat in the seat, turned to him and returned his stare.

He remembered that moment.

And he knew he'd likely never forget, driving down the Farm to Market Road.