estelle

"I have been one acquainted with the night..." - Robert Frost

The city is another world at night...workers ending long days, lovers walking home, old men staggering out of bars, lights brighter as last call is announced...
A small child runs laughing and skipping past in a game of tag with her parents trailing behind. Chinese men stand at attention at every street corner, a box with sandwiches, beer and gum in front of them ready for the late night wanderers- truly, they provide a service to the city. Where would the late night drunks be without a little cheap food when no one but the kebab places remain open? There are more prostitutes than before the crisis hit. They huddle together in the lonely night, while watching for customers, wearing their stilettos and eyeliner like a uniform. Tonight many of them wear wigs- at least one is a cross dresser, perhaps more.

The hum of the street cleaners and the smell of water and bleach assault my nose as I watch men pull down the garage-like security doors over their bars and pizza places. They take the rubbish out- the rubbish collectors are on their way. Sol has more public works going on, and there is a wall around the plaza, blocking it from view. Then I hear it...soft, clean, beautiful. A lone female guitarist is flawlessly playing a surprisingly lovely amplified acoustic guitar. She begins to sing- modern folk with perhaps a Celtic twist. Her voice is nothing special, she misses notes- but it has its charm. I sit on the cement ledge of a kiosk. There is a woman beside me, she looks at me and smiles. Our eyes meet and I return the smile with a warmth that surprises me. Together we watch the remaining world walk by as we listen to the concert.

Perhaps it is the emptiness of the night which draws me- the bareness of it all, as if the underside of our lives was exposed and is still. It's quiet. Everything is clearer at night, perhaps because there is less confusion. The characters at night seem stronger as well, as if they were all caricatures of those we see by day.

We clap as she finishes a song. She looks up and gives us a half smile. A few passers by give money, but not enough. It is nearly 2 in the morning on a Wednesday night. Thoughts of being entertained have long been drowned by those still out.
She plays for herself, there is a kind of moodiness to her, then she loses herself once again in the guitar.

I suddenly remember what I'd forgotten, a simple thought that makes it all worth while: How lovely life is...even when it seems that all is ugly, beauty in its purest form may be found.

Here, midst the day's rubbish, street cleaners, drunks, prostitutes and homeless sleeping in their cardboard dens, I found rapture, if only for a moment.