It's Lent, even or especially for all hopeless sinners in the house. No fingers pointing, though some hands are raised. What is the sound of one hand clapping? Why did Li Po embrace the full moon in the river of his mortality? Where can one find the heart of silence and might this be the same spot where darkness simmers? All these preludes bring us to the kalfou, the crossroads; so let's throw the bones and see which camino de destino we're heading for. Legba nan baye, ouvrie barie la pou nou.
These March days float in a sound vacuum, a welcome respite after the salvos of soca. Some, like me, are still shell-shocked, unable to hear themselves think. But maybe that was all part of the plan–make enough noise and you can't think anyway. Yet slowly the susurrus of the hills creeps through my open door, though I haven't picked up the birdsong as yet, only the drift of lone hawks riding the exhalations of the Northern Range.
In this simmer-down season, the eye of the storm blinking, whispers reach across time, spread themselves, wrapping my sore head in melody; voices occasionally raised over rhythm, yet without the abrasive shouts which so recently passed as song. Dousman, dousman monche, the music infiltrates the silences, leaving spaces of luxuriance.
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