Rapi Nui, the Purple in the Haze

This is not an article about how far an airless soccer ball can wrap around your head, or how often you should check your TV recorder phone. It is a brief tickle about building little houses, of which we all most desperately do, and do, and do.

As children, and especially around the age of seventeen, as in America, we are on a journey for the ultimate house, and thinking it is one we must build out of wood, while all the houses are inside. I can remember the unforgettable moment of that first little house, one that would be suspended in animation like purple haze in the snow.

We all have them, some more than others and many only trying to figure out what they are, and building more on top of them like locust overwhelming a field of view. My experience was the simple attachment of two things, like two giant statues in time; one was a song, and the other, a kiss.

As a sophomore in High School wanting more, and certainly soft, I met my first love. Her name was Debbie Jones, and it was December 1972. The radio was playing the current hit song which had been number one on the charts for four weeks. It was called, “Me and Mrs. Jones. The song was evidently written about a relationship with a married woman by the inclination of the title, but a song that would forever haunt me for years to come, as I associated the song with the experience I was having.

It almost seemed silly, however, only the song is required to return to that moment in time, one that seems long ago, and one that seems sacred, that was attempting to build that first house, a bridge that was like plugging in a fan. I don’t remember how many bridges were built, as Miss Jones and I only had a brief relationship amidst the educational monopoly, but the sound of the song takes me to the street in front of her wood house.

These moments fade with time, some disappearing into the water on the surface, but they seem to always be there, popping up when you least expect them. This particular event is not the first; I have another stranger one, where a book and a song became forever bonded. It was one of the first books I had ever read as a child about the strange fish, the coelacanth, and the song by Paul McCartney called “Yesterday”. If one appears, the other is always there, bridging the two in time.

I must have been around 9 or 10 years old, which would have been around 1965 or 66, and when hearing the song, I can immediately go to the exact moment in time, and literally be present in the living room of my home, hearing the song, while the book absorbs my soul.

The spiritualness rests not with the picture, or motion of time, yet pictures are used to instill the memory, hiding the essence of the experience. These can clutter the mantle, leaving you on Sunset Bolivar, a place so high, you can’t find yourself, and the snowdrift becomes a prison.

Drown and floating, leads to a useless life, a drug with no name. Instead of being aware of the Bermuda lilies, you become one, trapped in your own pyramid, another great story to move onto the sea. This is the Delta, the Dreamer who never builds, instead, may wander adrift forever, aligning the bolts for the “other” observers.

Then, the Rapi Nui drips off the two outside edges, forever gone with the wind. Over time, traffic comes and goes, and the scorpion is unable to swim, and now the virgin is riding the ram as Europa, headed out to sea, unafraid, even to drop the beast into her pants.

In this tickle of the bottom side of the pan, the fire is set to cook your soup, and the creation of the cloven hoof with horns, the sniffing snout ready to trample anyone in its path. If you feel the Speedy Gonzales is tough enough, you may see the subtle shades of relief set forth from Ridgemont High, and feel the foundation that holds up the last ship, our planet Earth, two towers in the mist.

Protractions: http://www.ebookopen.com/bara/zodiac.htm