The After Carnival

 

The After Carnival

The lights were still on, but the machinery mimicked the insides of houses at that moment: ground down to a halt, the gears in off position. Shadows in human forms moved the air in front of café's yet to open. The idea of lights–this time bright white–contrasted with the solid shapes of humans yet to enter into that waking space. A person pauses in an entrance with a hood over her head, a shadow looking toward the light. Her hands grab onto the shape of an ivory umbrella which was to be set up outside,

Moments before, a bulldog had been bathing his head in a pool of light from another open door. The rest of him had been hunched over in the dark, concentrating on his first poo of the day. I assume his owner was waiting to collect it–although the protagonist of the scene was the dog...the human only a hazy sketch in the background.

Even people waiting on the side of the road seemed painted into the morning–already anticipating it in the dimensions of a bus almost arriving.

Everything had that feeling of an orchestra warming up before a concert: better yet, that moment of silence between the warm up and when the first note of a performance begins. Yes, we were all anticipating our first notes, those of us on the street.

The wooden Beefeater stalls were silent and the wet road was empty from carnival goes. The goers were now workers–street cleaners, bus drivers on their first run, people opening bakeries...

And then there was me, my jacket and a towel bunched up in my hands, rushing to a 6:00 yoga class. The-morning-to-be opened in awe to me. How much the perspective changed without people in it, or maybe because the world had yet to be populated by the doings of people...forms flashing and mixing into daylight.

It didn't matter that in the end the yoga class didn't take place. I felt fascinated walking through a world I thought I knew. It had become an impressionist painting: different strokes depending on what the light revealed.

The already balmy air accompanied me home...

Photo: Armiche Bolaños Quesada

Text: Kristen Mastromarchi