wailing

strange trippy sounds woke me up. Jeanne said that I muttered something about Mira but I'm not sure whether I was worried that my phone went off in her room or whether she actually cried.
It was silent in her room. I opened the door to the flight of stairs outside our apartment. A wailing voice filled the space with murky creepy echoes, sounding surreal and not from this world. Shuddering I listened like under a spell, trying to collect my terrified mind, all splattered on the staircase floor. I hurried back to Jeanne, 'do you hear this' I asked her breathlessly, and we cocked our ears, listening to that ghostly voice, unsure of where it came from. 'Listen!' I whispered, 'it's in English!' It almost seemed as if it was coming from the outside. The street looked pale and grey and empty though.
And it seemed absurd that it should be in English and that someone was actually going on a wailing rant without pause, after midnight.
It stopped suddenly. I felt as if in a slow motioned bad dream to wake from seemed impossible. When it kicked back in, now coming from a different direction, I felt how it sent a chill down my spine, lamenting, penetrating walls and doors and floors effortlessly, filling every corner of this God forsaken house.

Then the actual drama unfolded before our ears. We heard steps, unsure if from the flat above or below, things being moved around noisily, thrown against walls and loud thumps, rumbling - scary sounds, intersected by that same voice, shrieks and cries.
Jeanne cuddled back into her downs but I couldn't sleep. Everything was so gray and spooky. Went back to the door, listened, realized that it came from below where our cranky, unfriendly, drug dealing neighbor lives. Involved in what seemed a relentless and desperate battle in a strange language that I didn't recognize.
Like a shadow I scurried back to our room. We both didn't know what to do. What to do?
I think the police came later, knocking hard and brutally against her door. We shuddered.

The stairs were so gray, dark and vast. Murmuring of forgotten tragedies and tales of ordinary madness. The War, - the little private wars. Blood on the steps and lynch mobs hunting a young mother and her children in 1945. The old lady, now dead, from downstairs vegetating alone, the then young couple from 0303 being the only ones to take care of her about 30 years ago.
The young angry woman who seems to be between worlds. So many worlds. Too many worlds - a gray shadow living amongst us, day in day out. A gray insignificance who was rising to existential expression in these murky minutes, filling the house with all the unspoken tragedy with the wailing voice of a night shadow.


In the morning I read Persepolis when suddenly Noir Desire flowed into the kitchen from Jeanne's room, filling the space with strange magic, almost as if from yet another world. Tying knots, connecting dots, waving the wailing ghosts of last night into a strange carpet of unknown depths and melancholic delights.
life : lyrical.