It was another time in another land, when I was living in a poor, remote village. When darkness fell at the end of a day, there was no light switch to flip on. Instead a couple of smelly kerosene lamps were brought out, their glass chimneys wiped clean and their wicks burned, giving forth a yellowish feeble light.
The night was quiet, only the sound of an occasional breeze rustling in the trees. The air smelled fresh, pleasant to the senses. Only a few bicycle riders and lonely pedestrians disrupted the silence of the dirt country road.
It was a good time to bring a chair and my guitar to the front yard to play a couple of songs, especially when a full moon was soaking the whole countryscape with its mellow, almost tangible luminosity. Thatched roofs, tree tops, shrubs, even the white dust on the ground, all would seem acquiring a certain charm. The stillness of the night would caress the music and carry it far, and invariably a few friends would stop by for company.
It is a different time and place now. Modern fluorescent lamps have replaced primitive, smelly ones. Country lanes have been asphalted with motorbikes roaring day and night. When the evening comes, TVs start spewing out violent American or maudlin Korean movies.
No more place for a guitar in the moonlight.