The excerpt opens with Antonio Matta introducing a reading from his upcoming novel, Love Is in the Eye of the Beholder, and welcoming poet‑performer Delisa Moreno at the Ether Lounge, a Spanish Harlem restaurant and bar that hosts a weekly open‑mic night. Detailed, vivid description establishes the venue’s warm lighting, eclectic décor, and supportive atmosphere, emphasizing its role as a safe creative space where artists gather, sign in, and hope for a receptive audience. Delisa, dressed in a rainbow‑colored dashiki with a styled afro, steps onto the stage, receives a microphone, and prepares to share a spoken‑word piece. Musicians provide an improvised, harmonious backdrop before she begins. The poem, titled “Tick Tock,” personifies time as an impersonal, relentless force that both wounds and heals. Delisa reflects on time’s cold, unfeeling nature, its role as a healer, its permanence, and its relationship to love—describing love as patient, compassionate, and complementary to time’s inexorable flow. Antonio interjects brief repetitions, reinforcing the ticking motif. The piece ends with a shared refrain of “Tick tock,” underscoring the central theme of time’s passage and its intertwining with love, resilience, and personal growth.
Chapters
What you are about to hear is an excerpt from the new novel by Antonio Mata, Love Is in the Eye of the Beholder.
Let's give a warm welcome to an Ether Lounge veteran, Miss Delisa Moreno.
A petite woman stands on a medium-sized stage under warm lighting. She holds a black cordless microphone and smiles with brilliance, leading the audience in applause. The woman's rainbow-colored dashiki looks beautiful with the luminous gleam of a spotlight shining down on her. She stands at center stage. Her reddish-brown afro is picked out with perfection, glistening from its sheen in the light. The Ether Lounge is a restaurant and bar in New York City's Spanish Harlem. Every Wednesday night, poets, singers, and musicians pile into the establishment. They signed their name on a clipboard to be one of the night's performers at the open mic event. As they wait for the emcee to call their name, like Delisa's just now, each artist prays with hope when they demonstrate their craft on the stage that night, it will be well received. Delisa makes her way to the stage from the barstool she had been sitting on while watching the other performers. She walks between scattered round tables draped with tablecloths and candles flickering on top. Many of the customers in attendance know her from her past appearances and smile with excitement watching her walk by them. They sip their cocktails as they finish their meals. The Ether Lounge ambiance is one of creative security and freedom, a place where individuals can express themselves as they are and feel safe in their skin without judgment. The Ether Lounge is a mellow place, always full on Wednesdays, occupied with free-spirited people who enjoy the taste of palate-pleasing dinner platters, sentimental lyrics, moving instrumentation, rhymes, spoken word, and sultry sounds of soulful singers and their melismas charged with emotion and melodies. The Ether Lounge signature libations are always satisfying with their discounted drink specials exclusive for the weekly event. No attendee comes to the restaurant without a designated driver. The petite dashiki-wearing hostess waits for Delisa as she gets closer to the stage. Behind her is a small ensemble of musicians. The band comprises a drummer sitting at a standard drum set and a woman behind a pair of conga drums. To the left of the drummer is an electric bass player. On the opposite side is a keyboardist. The quartet plays soft music as Delisa steps onto the stage. The bass player extends his arm and helps her onto the platform. Patrons admire Delisa at the After Lounge for both her talent and loveliness. She turns the heads of the men there and even some of the women. She is beautiful inside and out, with light-colored gray eyes and smooth brown hair that hangs to her shoulders. "Let's give it up again for Miss Delisa Moreno, ladies and gentlemen," the hostess introduces again, and the two women embrace in a friendly hug. The hostess hands Delisa the microphone and steps off the stage, leaving Delisa alone in the spotlight. The band stops playing. "Hello, friends," she says in a soft voice to the audience. "It's a pleasure to be with you again this week. I've prepared something special to share with you tonight." I hope you enjoy it. DeLisa places the microphone on its stand at the foot of the stage. She opens a black and white composition notebook and flips to a page she had dog-eared while sitting at the bar. DeLisa turns her head to look behind and give the band an okay to play something. It's typical of the musicians to start out playing unorganized yet harmonious sounds as they let the poet speak a few lines. They play this way for only a few moments to get the feel of the piece the performer recites. In this way, they can better accompany the artist and their work. So the bass player plucks a few notes while the drummer hits his hi-hat and cymbal with his brush-tip drumsticks. The conga player strokes the drumheads a few times, and the keyboardist plays a nice chord or two. Delisa closes her eyes and feels the music a few seconds before speaking. Then she opens her eyes, clears her throat, and reads her spoken word poetry to the crowd. Tick tock.
The touch of its hand is cold. The saying cold hands, warm heart does not apply to it. It has no warmth, for it has no sympathy or compassion. It does its thing regardless of consequence. It is impatient, ceaseless, and demanding. It asks for me to keep up and regulate life to its pace, yet it will not slow down to let me catch up. It may not show kindness, but it heals. It is the succor to my not-so-seldom languishing and misery. It is the medium of my oscillations between exasperation and contentment. It is the plug for the gaping hole in my soul. It mends the aching cavity in my heart from adversity. It rejuvenates and heals by its universal grace.
Yet it is impersonal.
Not even the Most High can alter its ways. From the moment its measurement was created by humankind, it's been going nonstop ever since. As my heartbeat has for decades unfailingly. God has a distinguished way of dealing with it. The rest of us have our way, no matter how inadequate. It is the real deal. Its existence is of the essence. Its persistence in existing and sustainability increase my resilience. Even though its generosity is limited, each person gets only an allotted shared. In it, maturity is an occurrence, a possibility for all that are subject to it, even though wisdom is not guaranteed. Many get lost in the days. Perfection can come from its tides, and creation can evolve and grow freely with its longevity. It is wasted with idle minds.
People gamble with it in their attempts to challenge fate, even though they fail to realize their authorship.
It is perseverance inherent and independent. It continues even when we stop. It never looks back and never stalls. It is a continuum of actuality.
Time keeps ticking away.
Tick tock. The sounds of the hourglass pour endlessly. It ages in spite of facelifts and anti-age creams. It allows the opportunity for resolution, restitution, realization and rehabilitation. Its continuity builds on the past but cannot promise a future. Oh, time, the firstborn of Mother Nature and religion's Father God. It gave way for us primates to evolve. Time has nurtured civilizations, guided spiritual journeys, and ripened the fruits of patience and love. Yet we still try to Speed it up, slow it down, put it on pause, all in order to cling to the memory of how we used to be or grasp the tail of an often distant dream of how we want to be. Time and love complement each other. Love is kind and compassionate. Time heals all wounds. Love is patient. Time waits for no man. Love never fails. Time never ceases. Can those seeking love find it in time.
