Les Fleurs de Lune (CH.1)

This is an excerpt from a novel I’m writing / working on. 


In a little cafe, I sometimes sit and watch the rain play and the lazy birds lay on the oak tree branches. The morning, cold and fresh. The walk to the cafe isn’t too far. Five minutes, and it is always quiet in the mornings. The people hide, afraid to go out in the rain – or maybe it’s too early. But why are they afraid? The grass is never greener after the rain; the birds never prettier. The pavement to the cafe is uneven and old. If you’re not careful you can lose your footing. While walking, if you look to your left, there is a park. There is an awning on an old community theater, the homeless gather there under the rain. They look sad and forlorn, rundown like a car that needed replacement parts – but the owner couldn’t afford any. I feel sorry for them during the rain. They have no-where to go but there, under the awning – looking forlorn. During spring, the park blooms in bright pastel. Yellow, red, blue, white, pink, purple – flowers. It is quite the sight, people come from all over to view this little park. But for now, they sit in their homes and pray for the sun.



The origin of the word lunatic is interesting. People went mad because of the moon. The moon is quite beautiful, mysterious – I can fully understand the mad on a full moon, moonlit night – with the moonlight delicately bouncing off the eaves of buildings – or smiling in the puddles of morning rain that has not yet evaporated. I think I’m a lunatic. I see a young lady in the park sometimes. She comes with the rain and leaves with it. She sits on the bench and watches the flowers sway. It rains in spring and she has become my moon; the source of my madness. I feel my mind unhinging, missing gears, tick out of tune – when I see her there, non-descript on her park bench. You can see her from the old cafe. The secret is, I only come here to watch her on rainy mornings. The cafe itself isn’t much. She is secretly enacting Chekov’s play, “The Seagull”, on me every rainy morning. I am the seagull, she the one that must ruin me. But it is fine, I don’t mind being ruined by the moon. But, soon, my mind is right. I will look at my newspaper, drink my black coffee – before I know it, the rain has gone and so has she. She disappears like the moon when morning comes. Never can the two co-exist. And so my madness is gone. Madness and sanity cannot co-exist, for madness is a touch of the fantastic and sanity the mundane. Madness is the only true individual. The sane, well as the gospel says: there is nothing new under the sun. There is only the new under the moon we can thus presume. But during these spring mornings, where the rain covers the sky and you cannot see the sun, with the flowers swaying in the soft pattering of the rain and looking very bright under the grey sky – I can only think that these are flowers of insanity and she the conductor of it all. Rain and spring are magical times.


A Lucidium-Intervallum, as it is called in the law: a short period where the mad become sane and the law recognises their acts. This is a terrible time. Mine lasts from the time she leaves, till the time she next arrives with the rain. Hers is a joyful madness.




But, enough about her. It is time for the sun now. Days are dull. The clock opposite me, in this old cafe, ticks and tide the time. My coffee is grown old and it has reached that stage where all that is left is the bitter dregs – the good has gone. Opposite me, sits a man and a woman. They are old, like my coffee. Why do they interest me? There is nothing else, they are commonplace like the day. They are both drinking. Hemingway said in ‘Garden of Eden’ to drink with the wind: these are fastidious adherents as the wind is a light breeze, yet they are drinking the hardest of drinks. A Jameson Whisky and a Craft Gin for the lady it seems. They are now arguing. About? It doesn’t matter. It always comes down to money. Like my coffee, they have reached the dregs of their life – nothing left to argue, they did not do anything to give them joy during their life it seems. I have overstayed; I leave.  




Soft sunlight strums the people like a player strums his guitar, slowly, softly. This person here, a sharp C. She there, is definately an A. That man, a solid B. I don’t really know music; but the sunlight softly strums. Shiny pearls from the shop awnings; a fresh after-rain smell still lingers in the air. Spring, spring, spring. The cannot ruin spring. Why the seasons see fit to change from the beauty of spring always baffles me.






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