Gestation

As of tomorrow, it will have been nine months since I arrived in Raleigh, a gestation period, of sorts, which has given birth to a flood of memories. One such memory that came about today was of probably one of the largest thunderstorms that I've experienced in recent time. For some reason, proper thunderstorms didn't come about that often in New York City, much to my chagrin. I'm not sure why that was, but I'm guessing that it had something to do with being so close to the ocean. In Minneapolis, though, that was a different story. No oceans to interfere with Mother Nature; just lakes, streams, and the mighty Mississippi. I loved how in Minneapolis as a storm was approaching, the sky would develop from towering whitish-gray clouds to absolute black within minutes. Everything would become very still and then the first crack of thunder would come about. Glorious and ever so powerful.

This last storm occurred back in May when I first arrived in Raleigh. I was on the second floor of the Velvet Cloak Inn thinking that I wanted to go out and about on the town. It was late in the afternoon, and there didn't seem to be a whole lot going on in town, but a plan was to be made regardless. I was, after all, still on vacation, and one can spend only so much time in one's hotel room, as one might already know. On the second floor of the Velvet Cloak, there's a large, glass enclosed patio and pool area which I often spent my spare time visiting. Cigarettes were smoked, thoughts were formulated, plans were made, all in the confines of this patio area. There were palm trees and hyacinths randomly placed about the patio, and on this particular day there were dozens of white chairs neatly set up for what I imagined was going to be a wedding ceremony. I remember thinking that the white chairs reminded me of the orderly lines of Arlington Cemetery's tombstones. It wasn't so much of a morbid thought, more of a visual connection.

I went out to the patio and noticed that the sky had become considerably darker. I went to the cemetery of chairs and sat down in the front row, fourth chair from the right. I imagined that somebody's Grandmother would probably be sitting there the next day. The wind started whipping the tree's branches about, and suddenly what had moments ago been very still was crackling with ferocious energy; the kind that only Mother Nature can create. For moments, I thought of retreating to my hotel room, but decided that I wanted to witness the fury that was presented to me. The rain came down in silver sheets, periodically changing direction like undulating schools of fish.

As I sat there pondering the universe at large, suddenly a woman came out to the patio. Obviously I was in a public area, but at first I felt as if my boundaries had been invaded. It was me and the storm and suddenly there was someone interloping on my moment with Madre Tierra. She approached me and asked for a light. Once she spoke, for some reason I dropped all of my defenses and felt okay with welcoming her into my world. She told me that she actually worked at the hotel, but she was living there, as well. Apparently there were several others who lived and worked in the hotel, which I found absolutely fascinating. She smoked her cigarette, said goodbye, and made her way back to her room. I never saw her again.

I thought of this woman the other day as I drove past the hotel with a friend. I told him and our other companions that I had once been a guest of the hotel. He told me that the hotel had been closed due to fire code violations, which spawned a certain level of sadness as I thought about the woman who lived and worked at the hotel. Where did she and the others go? It was as if somebody had wiped out some sort of thriving refugee camp. Did these people find another hotel where they could live and work? Did they all go together, or did they disperse throughout the city, state or perhaps even country? My thoughts are with them.