Dearest Muse,
Funky and full of attitude, oak-aged pinot noir gifts my palate with a kiss that bursts with currants. In a shaded space, the familiar exotic rhythms of Morocco and Spain meet in Nathaniel’s naturally understated guitar.
At the heart of a very introspective soul, gem-quality melodies showcase his mood—the candle on the corner table dances with his song. The magic in his fingers makes me long. This hermoso Gitano with shoulder-length brown curls, Serbian profile, and Buddha posture offers a safe place for dreams to soak.
Suffused with the ring of my ancestral land, I air the wine. The empty streetcar rushes through downtown. I take small sips and savor pickled memories with sweet, dry apricot taste.
Blood calls. A Gypsy caravan, my heart, responds to the beat of Michael’s cajón and Nathaniel’s feverish chords. The hand strums. Its fingers tap on the wood of an instrument with high resonance. The wrist moves seamlessly from arpeggios to alzapuas. The percussive sound of the Flamenco guitar draws in lost souls strolling back and forth on the sidewalk.
Bright, dry, and austere, the projected sounds disappear almost instantly, allowing fast rhythmic play. Each note has percussive eyes and fumbling fingers. They undress me in the dark of an empty bar, holding me breathless against the wall.
The mesmerizing cry of legends travels underground from Asturias all the way to the Sonoran Desert and crawls up my feet. The prelude is a three-movement song where Andalusia’s intricate melodies and abrupt passionate passages make me weep.
Flamenco is a seasoned lover that mimics guitar techniques. Alternating thumb and fingers, savory notes wet the lips and weaken the knees.
The clap, clap, clap, para, para, dum, clap, para, para, dum, clap duru dam, diddle, didle, don, didle, didle, dan fill my heart with the hot summer breeze—the old red building across the street winks.
On the pavement, lights appear and disappear. Vehicles rush. And I pause, seatback, unplug, relax, let a sip of burgundy-red wash my throat, and flood my thighs.
Aware, I breathe in melodies and beats, savor purple-rich pinot noir hints, your lips—waves crash on the sands of our warm bay. The gossamer wings of your embrace play hide and seek.
Thinking of you, dearest Muse, I scribble under the spell of the Moorish guitar. I am so glad that no one joined me tonight.
Mariel Masque – Copyright 2014
All Rights Reserved
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