Song Effusive Episode 10 – Molybdomancy By Pythian Whispers
By Cherie Rae Cobbs
The dust is what I think of first, for it bled into every pore.
The amber light, the trapped heat of deserted buildings, industrial equipment piles, chaotic clusters of tumbleweed, insipid trash, the wind caressing the tops of skinny trees and the somber shadows cast in the orchard by endless, orderly rows all set to a serenade of some distant, wild animal.
We were a collective of sorts (especially at night) just castaways tucked into a sprawling ranch house that could eat you whole without regret. The place was thick with energies, it was a series of well-appointed secret-keeping bedrooms, winding hallways full of right angles, brute heavy doors and locks of all kinds. There were a surplus of exterior doors, maybe 14 all told and nothing typical about them either. There were doors with thicker outer doors and rusted metal bars that would moan and swing without reason all day and night.
But we found comfort there. We found routine. We had a splendid sort of sanctuary at the end of the day once exhausted from idea, experiments, collaboration and music.
At this –my favorite time–we all sought something in the middle of that lonesome border house, community or a little conversation.
So we find solace and calm at a table as heavy as any I’d ever known. I would scrape together a meal for us there, our sweet little restless family.
And in that way we were fleeting. The “we” that set our group apart from our everyday. You were mine, I was yours, a gentle domesticity blooms from nothing at all.
One would pour wine, another would dim the lights, the wind hushed into darkened corners, light heady music lulls us into drink and our spirits create wavelengths that tie us to the night.
Energy exchanges, we laugh full-throated or slip in comments that could be missed under our breath. I don’t remember the stories now and I barely recall the food.
I remember your faces lit by a lone candle and I know that room. I feel the closeness of a passerby at the kitchen sink or a tilt of a smile on your lip…still.
You have been listening to Pythian Whispers and this is the Song Effusive podcast.