Purple Moonlight Pages
Instead of counting sheep, on those nights when I can't fall into an immediate deep and perfect sleep, my mind traces over old thoughts, ancient thoughts, thoughts I had back when I was a kid. Such was the case last night when I heard the far away sound of a train whistle blowing. It went off three times, in the wee hours, confirming it was real and not an auditory hallucination. Right away I thought back to the night I laid in bed, back in my childhood home, thinking of the abandoned hotel that sat next to the railroad tracks.
That night I went over the architecture and what I had seen through the dusty windows that day. How it stood exactly six windows wide and went back 16 windows. I counted and recounted them imagining who could have been at those windows "through the ages". I pictured men and women dress in 1920's dress clothes checking in, climbing the stairs, flicking on a light and taking in the sight of the town across the tracks. I went on to picture people from every era since then, staring out of windows from all sides of the hotel, taking in the sunrise on the east side, bothered by the neon and noise coming from the cafe across the street and staring out when the train passed at dusk to the west. My eyes stretched as far as they could that day wishing they could go around corners, up stairs, behind walls, into every room. I ached to explore the building. I wanted to know it, hear it speak and have it tell me all it's stories.
Last night I thought of how I am still correct in assuming that the hotel was once a very smartly decorated and efficient place, neat and organized. When it stood abandoned, the furniture inside was simple, clean lines, leather cushions, no signs of kitsch or garish vulgarity just stoic white walls, serious, dark stained wood trim and an art deco front desk. Handsome. It was just dusty, I thought, not gone, not broken. It stood year after year until the early 90's when for no reason it was bulldozed. There was nothing in the paper to commemorate or explain it's destruction. I mourned.
After I finished this lullaby of memories I realized I have always had a fascination with motels and hotels since I was a tiny kid. I have always liked them and enjoyed being in them. Was it already in the works, over thirty five years ago? I wondered if this time I am living now was already written decades ago. Then I drifted off to sleep with the word disproportionate on my tongue, referring to the amount of time spent riding trains, years that have passed since the hotel was torn down... Time has passed and created an imbalance. My life is no longer one third train rides or equal distance from when the hotel stood near the tracks.
I woke up early and craving something. It took all day to discover that all I needed was to watch Pull My Daisy. Each time I think of Robert Frank's Pull My Daisy I get all warm and fuzzy inside. What a collection of talent and creativity that came together for the 28 minute movie. On melancholic days, like today, when the heavy morning fog lingers past 8am and it seems that time creeps like pea soup on an old tablecloth, I could watch Pull My Daisy over and over and find something new each time. I find it incredibly edifying and it inspires other worldly thoughts.
That night I went over the architecture and what I had seen through the dusty windows that day. How it stood exactly six windows wide and went back 16 windows. I counted and recounted them imagining who could have been at those windows "through the ages". I pictured men and women dress in 1920's dress clothes checking in, climbing the stairs, flicking on a light and taking in the sight of the town across the tracks. I went on to picture people from every era since then, staring out of windows from all sides of the hotel, taking in the sunrise on the east side, bothered by the neon and noise coming from the cafe across the street and staring out when the train passed at dusk to the west. My eyes stretched as far as they could that day wishing they could go around corners, up stairs, behind walls, into every room. I ached to explore the building. I wanted to know it, hear it speak and have it tell me all it's stories.
Last night I thought of how I am still correct in assuming that the hotel was once a very smartly decorated and efficient place, neat and organized. When it stood abandoned, the furniture inside was simple, clean lines, leather cushions, no signs of kitsch or garish vulgarity just stoic white walls, serious, dark stained wood trim and an art deco front desk. Handsome. It was just dusty, I thought, not gone, not broken. It stood year after year until the early 90's when for no reason it was bulldozed. There was nothing in the paper to commemorate or explain it's destruction. I mourned.
After I finished this lullaby of memories I realized I have always had a fascination with motels and hotels since I was a tiny kid. I have always liked them and enjoyed being in them. Was it already in the works, over thirty five years ago? I wondered if this time I am living now was already written decades ago. Then I drifted off to sleep with the word disproportionate on my tongue, referring to the amount of time spent riding trains, years that have passed since the hotel was torn down... Time has passed and created an imbalance. My life is no longer one third train rides or equal distance from when the hotel stood near the tracks.
I woke up early and craving something. It took all day to discover that all I needed was to watch Pull My Daisy. Each time I think of Robert Frank's Pull My Daisy I get all warm and fuzzy inside. What a collection of talent and creativity that came together for the 28 minute movie. On melancholic days, like today, when the heavy morning fog lingers past 8am and it seems that time creeps like pea soup on an old tablecloth, I could watch Pull My Daisy over and over and find something new each time. I find it incredibly edifying and it inspires other worldly thoughts.
Labels: Del Rio
