The impression one recieves when viewing the house on 58 Lewis Lane is
one of great sadness. The place seems to heave with it, and when the marsh
winds blow through the sturdy columns of the front proch entrance, one can
almost hear it. Almost hear it, as if most of the activity is happening
above or beneath the listener. Phantom cadence, yes, but we on some level
receive the signal and translate it, and it touches us. The salt in the hot
wet air that seems to wrap all it touches in a sheen of moisture, the
chorus of a thousand tiny frogs- we can _feel_these things- and take
comfort in the tangible.
Night grows nigh but we will not have to fear utter darkness this evening, we have a harvest moon to light our way as we move closer to 58 Lewis. Stepping (stepping, yes, reader... do not fear. This time we can learn as much as we like and still live) to the nearest illuminated window, one can detect the smell of old bricks fired before the birth of most people living. Instead of an intrusion upon the natural landscape, the house seems to have earned its right to be considered welcome, and indeed we see vines of wild English ivy making its living up one of the expansive brick chimneys. At its summit perches a whipoorwill bird, silhouetted againt the yellow moon.
Our ears perk at a river of soft sound and we realize this is not related to the unimaginable wealth of wildlife surrounding us, nor a distant shrimp boat at its lonely work in the warm Atlantic. Nor is it a signal from one of those other planes of awareness, above us, below and deep inside us (though, be assured, Reader, they are there).
Back to the window then. Note the indigo blues, deep yellows, oranges and reds of the ornate stained glass. Cast your eyes on the images they make. Sheep in meadows of impossible green graze safely under a pane of pain, the tree of death, hands nailed, beautiful downturned face on the flock. Let your gaze fall ever lower, Reader, to the clear pane below. Closer.
The river of sound is deeper and clearer now and should strike a chord of familiarity deep within. Goldberg Variations. We should not show surprise at this, familiarity surely does not breed contempt. If it does it is of little consequence, for the executor of the notes finds the piece a familar respite.
Look carefully Reader, and let your eyes seek out what they will from the interiors of 58 Lewis.
Astride a simple pine bench Hannibal Lecter MD works the yellowing keys of an ancient upright piano. Dark sleek head bowed, we sense his eyes are closed. He plays by candlelight, and it plays upon his unclothed upper body with a flickering gentleness. The air is comfortable and though modesty bids him to wear a pair of loose cotton pants, the climate of Savannah lends one to less clothing.
Turn away now, Reader. Yes, true, we are in no danger but that should not inspire discourtesy in us. The center of our fascination deserves more, and even as we turn away we know there is sadness within. 58 Lewis knows melancholy, loss, and the passage of time.
But we know something the good Doctor does not. This land is a strange land... a catalyst for blending, where the future's hold is tenuous, and the present lives side by side with the past. The past can come back to haunt you here in beautiful dark Savannah, and Reader, that is not necessarily a bad thing when your past is bound to Clarice Starling.
"Whip-or-willlllll"... easy Reader, we could have expected our feathered observer to call out at least once on such a comely night. Follow its gaze. A comet has streaked the night above the coast, and deep within us in that place of awareness, we know it portends of what was, what is, and will surely be.
Night grows nigh but we will not have to fear utter darkness this evening, we have a harvest moon to light our way as we move closer to 58 Lewis. Stepping (stepping, yes, reader... do not fear. This time we can learn as much as we like and still live) to the nearest illuminated window, one can detect the smell of old bricks fired before the birth of most people living. Instead of an intrusion upon the natural landscape, the house seems to have earned its right to be considered welcome, and indeed we see vines of wild English ivy making its living up one of the expansive brick chimneys. At its summit perches a whipoorwill bird, silhouetted againt the yellow moon.
Our ears perk at a river of soft sound and we realize this is not related to the unimaginable wealth of wildlife surrounding us, nor a distant shrimp boat at its lonely work in the warm Atlantic. Nor is it a signal from one of those other planes of awareness, above us, below and deep inside us (though, be assured, Reader, they are there).
Back to the window then. Note the indigo blues, deep yellows, oranges and reds of the ornate stained glass. Cast your eyes on the images they make. Sheep in meadows of impossible green graze safely under a pane of pain, the tree of death, hands nailed, beautiful downturned face on the flock. Let your gaze fall ever lower, Reader, to the clear pane below. Closer.
The river of sound is deeper and clearer now and should strike a chord of familiarity deep within. Goldberg Variations. We should not show surprise at this, familiarity surely does not breed contempt. If it does it is of little consequence, for the executor of the notes finds the piece a familar respite.
Look carefully Reader, and let your eyes seek out what they will from the interiors of 58 Lewis.
Astride a simple pine bench Hannibal Lecter MD works the yellowing keys of an ancient upright piano. Dark sleek head bowed, we sense his eyes are closed. He plays by candlelight, and it plays upon his unclothed upper body with a flickering gentleness. The air is comfortable and though modesty bids him to wear a pair of loose cotton pants, the climate of Savannah lends one to less clothing.
Turn away now, Reader. Yes, true, we are in no danger but that should not inspire discourtesy in us. The center of our fascination deserves more, and even as we turn away we know there is sadness within. 58 Lewis knows melancholy, loss, and the passage of time.
But we know something the good Doctor does not. This land is a strange land... a catalyst for blending, where the future's hold is tenuous, and the present lives side by side with the past. The past can come back to haunt you here in beautiful dark Savannah, and Reader, that is not necessarily a bad thing when your past is bound to Clarice Starling.
"Whip-or-willlllll"... easy Reader, we could have expected our feathered observer to call out at least once on such a comely night. Follow its gaze. A comet has streaked the night above the coast, and deep within us in that place of awareness, we know it portends of what was, what is, and will surely be.