From Dreamland to Dreamland
Monsoon Midmornings
By Michael Martin
The Intricacies Of Matt’s Universe
From Dreamland To Dreamland
It’s getting dark out. She unceremoniously woke me up with a call. Which incidentally woke me up from a dream. Where I had been having a very pleasant conversation. With her. I suppose you are asking yourself now why I seem disappointed? Well I am frankly. In the dream, we were under the cover of blankets, and we’re facing each other while our cheeks were scrunched against our pillows. Mother earth was gently weeping outside, and the air-conditioning system, although antiquated had kept its droning to a tolerable level. The old geezer finally got its hint.
We were at home. Our home. Had neither the trappings of the rich and famous, but the gentle welcoming aura of a domicile. Where you’d know people in love with each other lived. There was a small den downstairs filled wall to wall with books. You’d find Hemingway, Dostoevsky, Maupassant, King, Rice and you’d even find Sheldon, Deveraux or Virgil and Homer if you knew where to look. It had a small coffee table in the middle stacked with magazines, Time, Newsweek, Cosmopolitan and what not. There were throw pillows strewn around. If you didn’t know the couple, you would think it was haphazard, not the controlled chaos that they loved.
One side of the living room had been converted into shelf space, holding cd’s from The Pretenders to Dawson’s Creek OST. It also housed their movie collection that of course included Shrek, much to the male’s disdain. There were frames around, from old movie posters to representations of Renoir and Van Gogh. Curiously there was a poster of a goat as well. In one countertop, there were three frames. One housed the first article the man had published and the other, a copy of the first book the woman had published. The middle one was a photograph of them. They were sitting in some harbor front, with Kirin Ichiban on the table, the man seemingly ruffling his hair and the woman on the verge of laughing. They were stylish in their low key, off hand manners.
The kitchen was stacked yet orderly. They had a full sized one complete with an oven good enough for a whole damned turkey although they rarely cooked. They enjoyed spending time with each other and had fun cooking, but it was too intense because of the wait and usually ended up making out on the counter top that they forgot about what they were cooking. Nobody likes munching on burnt meat anyway, so they had foregone it a long time ago. They still do make out in the kitchen while they boil water for the fun of it. The kettle whistled endlessly like an eternal siren while they laughed and kissed.
There were three bedrooms upstairs of which only one was in use. They had no offspring yet, as they were enjoying each other to the fullest. There was time for a family. They were both young. The time now was for each other. For kissing in the rain. For walking on beaches while the sun set. For meeting in provinces after their itineraries have been met, each of them driving like madmen to the rendezvous point or for connecting flights before they went back home together. For midnight burger or ice cream runs. For browsing for books and scented candles and other trappings they fancy.
They never spent a waking day without speaking and never ended it without. They made time, found time and/or bent time. However much they loved their work, they knew when to drop everything and run. To each other’s arms.
It was the end of a long day. The bedroom was still bathed in a dim glow from his bedside lamp. The thick curtains were absorbing much of the light, and he liked it this way. With her face turned towards him in this kind of light she was a goddess. Well she was, in any light. He smiles, knowing that wherever she is, it would be what he called home. She purrs, almost claimed entirely by sleep and snuggles closer to him, her knowing hands embracing him. His mobile phone rings suddenly, and he reaches for it, wondering what the hell could be wrong for someone to call him in this ungodly hour. He picks up the line croaks a hello and gets confused when he hears her voice on the other side of the line. He looks at her again, and she gets swallowed in a swirl of colors.
She talks again and I’m finally awake. “Matt. I’m sorry. Were you sleeping?”
By Michael Martin
The Intricacies Of Matt’s Universe
From Dreamland To Dreamland
It’s getting dark out. She unceremoniously woke me up with a call. Which incidentally woke me up from a dream. Where I had been having a very pleasant conversation. With her. I suppose you are asking yourself now why I seem disappointed? Well I am frankly. In the dream, we were under the cover of blankets, and we’re facing each other while our cheeks were scrunched against our pillows. Mother earth was gently weeping outside, and the air-conditioning system, although antiquated had kept its droning to a tolerable level. The old geezer finally got its hint.
We were at home. Our home. Had neither the trappings of the rich and famous, but the gentle welcoming aura of a domicile. Where you’d know people in love with each other lived. There was a small den downstairs filled wall to wall with books. You’d find Hemingway, Dostoevsky, Maupassant, King, Rice and you’d even find Sheldon, Deveraux or Virgil and Homer if you knew where to look. It had a small coffee table in the middle stacked with magazines, Time, Newsweek, Cosmopolitan and what not. There were throw pillows strewn around. If you didn’t know the couple, you would think it was haphazard, not the controlled chaos that they loved.
One side of the living room had been converted into shelf space, holding cd’s from The Pretenders to Dawson’s Creek OST. It also housed their movie collection that of course included Shrek, much to the male’s disdain. There were frames around, from old movie posters to representations of Renoir and Van Gogh. Curiously there was a poster of a goat as well. In one countertop, there were three frames. One housed the first article the man had published and the other, a copy of the first book the woman had published. The middle one was a photograph of them. They were sitting in some harbor front, with Kirin Ichiban on the table, the man seemingly ruffling his hair and the woman on the verge of laughing. They were stylish in their low key, off hand manners.
The kitchen was stacked yet orderly. They had a full sized one complete with an oven good enough for a whole damned turkey although they rarely cooked. They enjoyed spending time with each other and had fun cooking, but it was too intense because of the wait and usually ended up making out on the counter top that they forgot about what they were cooking. Nobody likes munching on burnt meat anyway, so they had foregone it a long time ago. They still do make out in the kitchen while they boil water for the fun of it. The kettle whistled endlessly like an eternal siren while they laughed and kissed.
There were three bedrooms upstairs of which only one was in use. They had no offspring yet, as they were enjoying each other to the fullest. There was time for a family. They were both young. The time now was for each other. For kissing in the rain. For walking on beaches while the sun set. For meeting in provinces after their itineraries have been met, each of them driving like madmen to the rendezvous point or for connecting flights before they went back home together. For midnight burger or ice cream runs. For browsing for books and scented candles and other trappings they fancy.
They never spent a waking day without speaking and never ended it without. They made time, found time and/or bent time. However much they loved their work, they knew when to drop everything and run. To each other’s arms.
It was the end of a long day. The bedroom was still bathed in a dim glow from his bedside lamp. The thick curtains were absorbing much of the light, and he liked it this way. With her face turned towards him in this kind of light she was a goddess. Well she was, in any light. He smiles, knowing that wherever she is, it would be what he called home. She purrs, almost claimed entirely by sleep and snuggles closer to him, her knowing hands embracing him. His mobile phone rings suddenly, and he reaches for it, wondering what the hell could be wrong for someone to call him in this ungodly hour. He picks up the line croaks a hello and gets confused when he hears her voice on the other side of the line. He looks at her again, and she gets swallowed in a swirl of colors.
She talks again and I’m finally awake. “Matt. I’m sorry. Were you sleeping?”
posted by Michael Martin at 11:52 PM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home