Luna Lunar

Luna Cafe:

A low hum from the refrigerator is barely audible above the chatter of men discussing the potential of the college nationals. Thankfully the high drone of the coffee grinder interrupts their conversation. The barista speaks to a regular-- she has a baby. The baby has just turned two, but is very verbal. He and his mother play Rockem' Sockem' Robots-- the light clamour of the plastic men colliding with each other, the rigid bottom of the boxing ring scraping against the rough wooden table. Electronic music plays softly-- I can recognize the vocalist from Animal Collective, it must be Panda Bear featured on Daft Punk's "Doin' it Right"-- this song sends me back 5 years in time to when my friend, Emily, and I would lay upside-down on her couch listening to Animal Collective records instead of doing biology. We'd express our romantic dreams of boys and one day escaping the trivialities of the Lyceum program at New Hanover High.

The toddler to my left gently taps the plastic coins of a Connect Four game-- they rattle against the others inside the narrow, vertical slots. His mother nears the door and calls his name, "William. Say goodbye to everyone." I can hear his feet reluctantly part from the Connect Four game-- his gait is still slightly unsteady. The bottoms of his shoes must be fabric, the way they scrape against the concrete floor-- softly, just barely lifting off the ground.

A gaggle of hipster girls have entered the cafe-- I can tell because their deep voices discuss gardening and their trendy Instagram feeds. St. Vincent now plays over the speakers, winding its way through the conversations of two middle-aged women and the milk steamer. There is a clear sense of space within the soundscape here. The sound moves slowly, allowing it time to be absorbed into the old wooden tables and leather furniture before reaching my ears. There is something much more personal and intimate to this coffee shop than other large chains--an unspoken understanding of low volume, intellectual dialogues between close friends as opposed to yelling over the constant high-pitched scream of the milk steamer, grinders, blenders, and underlying drone of all the electronic appliances that create the caffeinated beverages too hot to taste how metallic and thoughtless the entire process was,


Beach at Night

I can hear the friction of the sand as my head sinks deeper into the dunes. For a moment I forget to breath as I strain to hear anything but the waves crashing on the shore. Then, above the constant roar of the surf, a single cricket chirps-- it is behind me, sheltered from the wind by the dunes. It sings slowly, indicating the chill of the breeze. A chorus of crickets can be heard in the distance, but only between the intervals of the cricket nearby, I assume he stands watch at the periphery of the bird sanctuary. A brave soul. The breeze is coming off the land-- I can tell because it passes through the tall grass of the dunes behind me before passing over my face to reach the warm of the ocean, moving my hair over my ears to muffle the sound momentarily. His chest rises and falls with the breeze as though this steady air comes from his own lungs. His sighs are extended, burdened, pensive. I am torturing him. Or maybe he is just preoccupied. I want to hear his heart beat above all, but I remain paralyzed by the sound of the water swiftly moving over the sand, with an occasional heavy-handed slap, compacting the grains into a harder surface. The water recoils, retreating back over shells, stones, bits of debris, every impact a whisper as though it whispers "I'll be back soon, don't go anywhere." I can hear the steady, deep, ominous drum of the waves stirring from the belly of the ocean, then a lingering silence as they curve just before crashing, again, onto their own selves, then greeting the sand once more. An ongoing, joyous reunion of sand and water. The wind rustles the thin fabric of my pants, reminiscent of a steady breeze moving a flag-- the sound of the fabric tightening as the wind forces the fibers of the cloth to stretch, suddenly, to its limits. The land has cooled much quicker than the ocean, causing the air pressure to force the wind toward the water only to be warmed by the surface of the sea, rising again into the atmosphere, cooled by the upper regions of the troposphere, weighing it back down to carry the sand across my eyelashes. I can hear the intricacies of these natural processes, the movement of the planet's organs displacing the air molecules only slightly, to create a symphony of friction, impact, momentum, propulsion.