Annabel Lee
By The Sea........And Other Solitary Places

This morning it rains, it rains heavily.

The sky is gloomy, leaden, my mood melancholy. The wind blows strong, from my balcony I see and feel it cleaving through the trees, lashing them with a sharp cut.

I just woke up. My house is freezing. I get out of bed to light the fireplace. I hope the crackling of the embers combined with the warmth can improve my mood, as dreary as this day.

I sit by the hearth and from my computer, I play "By The Sea... And Other Solitary Places" by Annabel (Lee) (2015).

The distorted images on the cover captured me, bringing back memories of past times and places.

The record starts. Just a few moments, and I struggle to hold back tears.

The ghostly aura of Annabel (Lee) envelops me, the folkish guitar by Richard E, delicately plucked, digs deep inside me.

In a matter of seconds, I find myself wandering far, towards unknown shores. My mind soars distant, almost in a shamanic trance.

Here I am! I am in a remote manor, completely abandoned. I sense in the air the scent of forgotten rooms, of maids that once were, I see the dust accumulated on the furniture, the humidity of the walls, the shadows of those who inhabited (and perhaps still inhabit) this residence, now left to its solitary fate.

I internalize the lyricism of Poe, I hear Annabel's enchanting voice that, like a siren, draws me to herself. The reverberation of Jazz, the poetry of Folk, the drama of Soul, the delicate winds, the soft and spectral piano adorned with cobwebs. I cannot and do not want to resist. I surrender my soul and body to the listening.

Am I dreaming or awake?

I am drifting, I am gently shipwrecking. I want to get lost, to drown in the dark sea and never resurface.

How could this be a dream... Yet it all seems so vivid, but at the same time tragically blurred. I feel I no longer have full control of my sensations and memories...

My reminiscences are blending with distant images and words. I chase unattainable ghosts, evanescent spirits that do not want me to leave this new abode of mine. I see their worn-out garments, the anciently decorated walls, the lavish princely furniture carelessly forgotten.

The souls are still here, their lived life, albeit at times impalpable, still breathes.

In this sweet nightmare, in these obsolete rooms, it is possible to recall Ella Fitzgerald, Billie Holiday, Nina Simone, Sarah Vaughan, and even Beth Gibbons, without forgetting the echoes of classical music from Ravel and Debussy.

Slowly I return to reality.

Unfortunately, the album is over, the magic has faded, and I reconnect again with my body, here in my house, on my armchair, in front of the fireplace.

I feel better, but at the same time, I sense a strange emptiness. I miss those environments, I already wish to return there.

After all, outside it still pours, the wind is relentless, the warmth continues to warm me, and suddenly I hear a voice within me that calls me and says:

“I shall never leave you.”