daydream believer

No one’s singing; Miles Davis is playing so lead vocals are given to a brass trumpet.  The recording, though not the best quality, authentically crackles because, well, they didn’t have the ability to doctor anything up back then.  I’m trying to focus and read, get ready for an upcoming exam, but my mind isn’t here.  My mind’s back there. Sometimes I get lost in my day dreams.  Like this one.  I’d be sitting in a restaurant – I’m not sure what color it would be, I’ve only ever seen it in shades of black and white – one where you could picture Humphrey Bogart hanging out.  I’d sit there and smoke a cigarette out of one of those long ridiculous tube-contraptions, only this wouldn’t be ridiculous, it would be cool and classy.  Maybe I’d wear a hat, not a small one, a big one, with a feather in it. I’d sit by the window and watch the people walk by.  A waiter would come over, it’s a half past five at this point, and ask if I’d like something to drink.  I'd ask for a gin martini, dry and a little dirty, 3 olives.  He'd nod, because I would have been here before more than a few times, around the same time, ordering the same thing.

I think daydreams are funny.  I mean, why does my mind to choose to go the places it does? It doesn't take much, either, to tip into a thousand different directions.  I don't even like cigarettes, but for some reason, Miles Davis puts that in my head, as clear as a lot of memories that are up there.  I thought about it the other day, about memory that is - how strong is it going to be?  When I stood in my kitchen the other watching the snow fall, gently and with serenity, like a thousand tiny ships headed for the shore, the clouds shifting slowly as if tiptoeing not wanting to wake up the sun, the street dark but with a wintery blue glow, anticipating its visitors, I wondered what that image would look like in my mind.  Would I remember the cold that reverberated off the glass window?  The heat from the coils of the radiator warming legs as I leaned against it, my elbows on the windowsill? I wondered when I'd think about it.  Maybe the next time it snowed, or in 6 months when everything was silent in just the same way, but I'm back at home?  Or maybe never.

So I suppose that's the beauty of daydreams, and the small memories, the ones that have no significant purpose.  You never know when they're coming or where you'll go.  It's like a chance to get lost without consequence, a chance to drift off, take the scenic route.  A little transposition of night into day, dreams without sleep.