I hope you like it.
"An Inter-Cosmic Tween"
by J. Trot
Taking another sip of wine, I stare deep into the smoldering coals. Outside, the wind whistles lonesome while the cedars crack and pop. A light dusting of snow covers the frozen Earth like confectioners’ sugar. My fire blazes loudly in the cast iron woodstove, with a growl that might seem wild and uncontained if not for centuries of New England smithing tradition.
There is but one thought on my mind.
Is that the toilet running in the other room? No, no I think it’s nothing.
My gaze lengthens and I take another draw of my hearty red. Telluride. Like an onion, months have peeled away to reveal those small days in between myself and that glorious week. It’s that week; that week which moves me forward each day, that week which puts my clothes on each morning, that week that gets me to and from work— that keeps me grounded, that keeps me agreeable in good company. Flames lick up at this thought, reflected in the silver resonator of my banjo, perched still beside the fire.
Seriously, though— I swear I told them to jiggle the freaking handle when they flush. What the Hell? Water doesn’t grow on trees, guys,
come on.Just then, a voice comes to me. It is at once both angelic and lyrical. The vocal embodiment of a woman too lovely to picture. I try to get up to find the source of this music, but I am paralyzed by beauty. Soon, the soft strumming of a Martin guitar joins the melody. Unmistakable next is the twang of a five string banjo, its driving, rhythmic line carrying the unstoppable momentum of a train headed West through the high plateau.
As the days of waiting slowly unravel, so now do soft layers of harmony join in. First mandolin. Next fiddle. My whole body trembles as a bowed bass shakes through the house. I definitely told those guys to keep the music down, my roommate has an important meeting at work tomorrow.
No matter, Inertia has me now. We are moments away from the breach. A baritone voice joins my Angel’s song— and the Earth slips away.
I rocket through space and time. Memories of campfires, of rye whiskey, of faces I’ve known and Tweens I’ve Tween’d pass all around me as I hurtle across the Cosmos. I am on the road I’ve oft traveled. I am on a high mountain pass in Crested Butte. I am alone in a Rico wood. I am in the river I have oft fished. I am in the bathroom I have oft had The Spins in. I am my family, my Telluride family, and they are me.
There is a moment, one moment that brings Earth to my feet. It is a sunset. Darkness surrounds the southern hemisphere of my vision, the equatorial horizon a great halo of warm, white lights that dance in the silhouettes of my fellow passengers. Above this halo rises two great peaks that split the sky into one infinite cobalt “V”. Telluride.
“Bro, get up— you’re spilling your wine all over the place.”
In an instant I fall backwards through time and space and sound, stars screaming through my vision in reverse like luminous tracers shooting into the void of some long forgotten empty battlefield. The sound of strings intensifies as if it were a cosmic orchestra tuning, spun the wrong way on the record of my consciousness. My soul and body collide with one final musical peak— and I am home. The fire crackles wickedly from the amber furnace in front of me.
“No, seriously, dude… go to bed, you got wine all over your pants.”
Yes, put my pants in the laundry… I will. But as I do so, an echo emanates from the darkened chamber of the side-by-side washer/dryer combination unit. It speaks to me in a language only I can understand. In a hushed voice, it cries:
107 Days Till Bluegrass…
Listening to:
Alison Krauss & Union Station - Chocktaw Hayride
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