Newport

My mind is filled with stuff. Here I am to employ this dumping ground again. Newport 1960, a riot happened after thousands of intoxicated youth and the police clashed and the jazz festival was cut short. The final set belonged to Muddy Waters and his band. Langston Hughes, a poet as well as being part of the board members for the festival wrote a piece and handed it over for the band to play. Muddy Waters was reportedly too tired to sing and had his pianist Otis Spain to do the performance instead. “What’s gonna happen to my music?”. How legendary the performance has become, how many people are still thinking of this incident and find it relevant now, I do not know except that I know it is relevant to me although it is a very niche topic that I think few people have even heard of it in this city thousands of miles away from Newport.

Just two days ago I was in a bar working my nightshift again suffering from a series of mildly traumatic incidents who accumulated to become a cloud in my mind which feels impossible to lift up. Not until I finally have to move my pen - to type on my keyboard again which brought about this piece I’m currently writing. To be honest, I thought hell was being set loose when people are so drunk that most of them forgot what happened the next day and they are tolerate it. Unfortunately I was too sober to witness it all and all the sad scenes have been replaying in my head ever since. I do have a lot of love to give but not when I was infatuated with sadness and frustrations. 

The sound of the broken glass has shattered out to every corner of the room when it happened. When it did, it was the briefest moment when all went silent, followed by weird cheers and laughters in an attempt to lift the mood back up. It was not the only time it had happened - it is a recurring loop just when people got way too drunk and had their spatial awareness numbed so that they might knock over things without them being aware of it the moment before, it’s doomed to happen again. The bartender smiled and said “it’s quite alright” as the clumsy customer delivered out his or her apology. As the bartender went back to the kitchen when her dust pan filled with shattered glasses and put them into the dust bin, she would expressed her anger and frustration towards what had happened once again and forgot about it the next with an increasing alcohol consumption as the night progressed on. Things were so intense I choose not to write about the most intense of it all yet (including some drunken terrible singing at around 3 am which was so loud that it could be heard outside with the heavy door closed. I do feel bad for the neighbours). I do not write about it because it is painful and tiring just to think about again what had happened (but even so the sad scenes has been running in my mind over and over again). I have a very different idea of what a party is compared to some people around me. I do not have a band which I could write to and have them resonate and to perform it with be right after. Nothing has been cut short though at times I wish it to be.