#before i hand this to our organist to play. he might kill me.

[queerholmcs]

sgajshskdhd ok i've found the worst hymn in our hymnal.

[moodsmithmedia]

Lies, the Universe & Mad Men

In this short lived blog I’ve lied to you. Our relationship just started and I’m already out here telling you mistruths...I owe you an apology. It wasn’t a malicious one, but the size of the lie was monumental. This outright falsehood has become engrained into our culture and belief system without any evidence supporting it, like a religion or other dogmatic belief system. Worse yet, there’s probably more evidence against it that people blindly ignore to avoid the cold, decidedly inconvenient truth (I believe in climate change but in this instance there’s no pun intended). So before anything else let me say I’m sorry. I’ve never wanted to be the kind of person who tells these kinds of lies, certainly not to myself. So here goes...

The universe doesn’t conspire to grant wishes. It doesn’t value spunk. It doesn’t reward the consistent. This seems overwhelmingly negative but it shouldn’t be. The universe does a lot of things! It’s constantly creating fusion reactors that churn out the very atoms of which you’re made. Those atoms come together to form the air you breathe, the mountains you might climb, the brushstrokes of a masterpiece that moves you to tears and the blood that blushes the skin of your loved one’s face when you say just the right thing. That’s not even close to a fraction of it. Anything that you could possibly observe, so much of which is absurdly beautiful, is a process of or within the universe. But what the universe doesn’t do is consider your feelings or desires. It just doesn’t happen. And you should stop thinking that it does. And you should stop filling people with the false hope that it will.

Think about the sheer complexity and time that it takes for all of existence to allow for a set of circumstances to randomly play out. If you’re still thinking that the universe has an interest in your success, your concept of it is still too small and self interested. The observable universe is so big it would take light 13+ BILLION years to cross from one side of the universe to the next. Let’s say there’s an intelligent civilization at one edge of the universe. If they broadcasted a message from their end of the universe to a different civilization on the other side of it, the second civilization wouldn’t receive that message for billions of years. Billions of years! For comparison, humanity is only a couple hundred thousand years old. “They say you die twice, once when you stop breathing and the second, a bit later on, when somebody mentions your name for the last time.” Anyone around when that message was sent could have lived and died twice, thousands of times over before that message was received.

Civilization. Ours is massive and getting bigger. At the time of this writing there are about 7.7 billion of us and there’s speculation that we could top 11 billion by the end of the century. All of us, on one planet with finite resources and an economic system built on the concept of infinite growth. There’s got to be competing interests that necessitate a “loser”. 

Have you ever watched the Olympics? The Men’s 100m is one of the most fascinating sporting events. It’s not simply a display of strength, there’s an artistry required to lower your times past a certain threshold. But before each race, as the competitors get into their blocks, each one of them genuflects. This has never not confused me. Seriously. I get it. But only one person can win! I think the most generous interpretation of it is that they’re all praying for the best race they have within themselves. I can understand and relate to the idea of being the best version of yourself regardless of the outcome. But who competes without the desire to win? Don’t we actually think that competition without that “killer instinct” to win is just a prerequisite for losing?

Imagine there are civilizations all throughout the cosmos with resource distribution complexity issues roughly equal to our own. Can you really imagine that the universe is out here taking a particular interest in each individual, securing them the things they truly want? That’s just not practical. So instead we imagine that the universe is only doing this service for the people who “truly want something”. But the universe is constantly doing, indiscriminately. This very second the ocean is reclaiming the island nation of the Maldives. Their buildings, their economy, their way of life. Depending on whether or not there is another country or group of countries willing to have them, the ocean could potentially reclaim the people of the Maldives too. Clearly the culture of the Maldives hasn’t sufficiently valued not drowning in its list of things they truly want.

What do you truly want? Is it money? Cars? Women? Is it something more wholesome, like children? A career that fulfills you? A person to see you for who you are and still accept you? What about something that seems more fundamental? Not passing away painfully in some natural disaster or terrorist attack? A life free of emotional, physical, or sexual abuse? To be unburdened by addiction or to have the will power to triumph over it? Or is it simply a job that you don’t particularly want but desperately need in order to earn a living for yourself and your family? The questions should bear out the point, but for the sake of being explicit it simply isn’t possible that the people these things don’t work out for didn’t want it enough. Looking at it the opposite way makes it even more clear. Things work out all the time for people who are indifferent to those opportunities. And it fosters some kind of morbid elitism to really believe that.

Paulo Coelho wrote an inspiring piece of fiction and people treat it as if he wrote a modern bible illuminating the path toward a purposeful life for those who make themselves available to it. The Alchemist got endorsements from celebrities, like Oprah, claiming they connected with the spirit of intention in the development of their careers. They speak to the truth of how the universe works when you want something badly enough. This is deeply offensive to the legacy of artists who weren’t sufficiently appreciated in their time and had to die to be taken seriously. Johann Sebastian Bach wasn’t recognized as a composer while he was alive, instead only viewed as a competent organist. The author of Moby Dick only earned $10,000 from his writing over the course of his life. Van Gogh killed himself, a consequence of mental illness and depression over a lack of success.

So I lied to you but really I lied to me. I, in good faith, regurgitated lies told to me in good faith. Different from the televangelists asking for your rent money for tithes so they can purchase mansions and private jets, I wasn’t encouraged to purchase The Alchemist for a percentage of my monthly income to witness my dreams come true. It was given to me. Gifted to me, at a dark time in my life in the hopes that it would spark belief in myself at a time when I needed it. But the principal message of the book is a fantasy. The universe doesn’t know my name, doesn’t value my ambitions and will move on, business as usual, if you or I, died in the street cold and alone. That only became more clear as the dark time that I received The Alchemist in only got darker. How badly I want what I want matters only to me and a bit less so to those that love me but, fairly, have their own ambitions to be weary of.

This talk of dark times reminds me about another stunning fact about the universe worth pondering. The standard mode of existence in the universe is actually dark and cold. It just happens to be the case that the laws of physics, at this particular moment in the life of the universe, facilitate the creation of stars which warm and illuminate incalculably large swaths of the heavens. 

Paulo Coelho’s book took the onus of facilitating your destiny out of your hands and into the hands of a nameless, faceless, benevolent space fairy. While beautiful fiction, this is just an outright diffusion of responsibility. But there is a truth to be told about the universe. It not warm and fuzzy. It won’t make you feel taken care of. It might frighten you, depending on your openness to being challenged. As I write this, I’m not feeling particularly open to challenge. But it returns control of the ride that is your life from a figment of Coelho’s imagination to you, an undeniably real person. Make of it what you will...

“The most terrifying fact about the universe is not that it is hostile but that it is indifferent, but if we can come to terms with that indifference, then our existence as a species can have genuine meaning. However vast the darkness, we must supply our own light.” - Stanley Kubrick

[shirtlesssammy]

Monster Movie: 4x05 Recap

Natasha would like to preface this recap by falling to the floor like a fainting Elizabeth Taylor and wailing, “You TOLD me I would love doing a Ben Edlund recap this summer. You TOLD me and you were right. DAMN you, you were right!”

Welcome to season four, and welcome to where we really start to see Ben Edlund shine and push the boundaries of this show!

With the cacophony of classic monster movie string music and the black and white fog setting the tone, we open to find Sam and Dean driving down the road in the Impala. Lightning flashes and thunder crashes just as they drive by a sign indicating their latest destination:

Dean hates the music in the area (that joke never gets old). Sam’s reviewing the case they came to investigate: Vic with a gnawed on neck, body drained of blood, and a witness who swears it was a vampire! Case closed? Sam’s thinking about the end of the world but Dean’s thinking about just today, and today they can chop off vamp heads. “It's about time the Winchesters got back to tackling a straightforward, black and white case.” Lolz.

Sam and Dean make it to the town, which happens to be celebrating Oktoberfest. Dean tells Sam that they have to go see the new Indiana Jones movie, but Sam already saw it; Dean was in hell. Boris wonders who got the better deal. (Ouch, I just hurt myself. Dean’s been out of hell 10 years but it’s still too soon to joke.) Dean’s easily distracted with a big pretzel so no hard feelings.

While Dean spots a friendly waitress, Sam spots the local sheriff, and they head to get the lowdown on the case. They head to the morgue to view the victim, and the giant fang marks on her neck. Dean also asks about the witness, Ed Brewer. The sheriff admits he’s not what one would call “reliable”.

The boys then head to the local pub to locate Ed. They find Jamie, the waitress Dean made eyes with earlier. Jamie admits that they don’t come off like feds. Dean reassures her that he’s a rebel.

Cut to the boys interviewing Ed, who’s indulging in a very large stein of beer. He’s the town joke; no one believes him. Sam and Dean reassure him that they know crazy, and want to hear his story. So he spills. Walking home from the bar, he noticed the assailant attacking the victim. He was a vampire: fangs, slicked back hair, and cape..and accent. Dracula through and through. (Can the music be any more spot on?)

Jamie and her fellow waitress, Lucy, talk about crazy Ed. Lucy blots her lipstick on a napkin. After interviewing Ed, Dean heads to ask Jamie for a beer, and Sam notices Lucy’s cast off napkin. The brothers agree that it’s not really their case, but Dean insists they enjoy Oktoberfest anyway.

They settle into a booth and Dean requests a beer from the bar wench. Jamie complies but doesn’t bite when Dean asks when she gets off (she’s no Mandy!) Dean admits to Sam that “it’s time to right some wrongs.” He came back from hell with no old scars. He’s been re-hymenated! With an eye roll, Sam calls it a night and Dean asks Jamie what her plans are, but she declines. Dean lets her know that they’re probably not staying on the case --it’s not weird enough.

Cut to a full moon and two younguns swapping spit in a car. The guy is being a dick, so he’s thankfully sucked from the car by a hairy armed werewolf.

Later, the brothers interview the girl, Anna-Marie, about what happened in that car.

Dean asks for a description of the creature. She’s adamant that it was a werewolf. Between sips of her Mega Big Gulp, she describes in detail what that werewolf looked like.

In the morgue, Dean wonders what the hell’s going on in this town. It seems like it was a werewolf, but the heart was left in the vic.

Back at the pub, the brothers discuss the odd turn the case has taken. It’s like a monster movie mash-up. Jamie brings the boys another round of drinks and makes plans to meet up with Dean later that night.

LOOK AT THIS BEAN! Is there meta for just this episode? I mean, we’ve got all his coping sublimations: alcohol, food, and sex. He’s fresh from hell, and NOT DEALING.

At the Canonsburg Museum of American History, a guard is on the phone inquiring about an odd delivery. Suddenly the sarcophagus opens and a mummy emerges! The guard starts shooting the monster, but ends up on the strangled end of that monstrous roll of toilet paper.

Later, while the sheriff’s department takes care of the deceased, Sam and Dean analyze the sarcophagus. It was from a prop house in Philly, and it had prop dry ice in it. They’re dealing with a monster with a good sense of showmanship. Sam finds the whole case stupid, and Dean realizes he’s late for his date with Jamie.

Having waited too long for Dean, Jamie takes off walking through the foggy late-night streets. A flutter of wings (different from angel wings), Jamie turns to find Dracula. “Good evening.” Jamie takes off running (or slow movie running at least), until she’s cornered. Dracule insists he must have her, but she sprays him with pepper spray and makes her getaway. “Son of a …”

Jamie runs into Dean, and he sees Dracula in hot pursuit. “Son of a bitch.” Dracula is offended by Dean’s language. “Okay,” Dean responds, and promptly punches him. Dracula gets the upper hand in the fight though, and just when all looks lost for Dean, he rips at Dracula’s ear, and it comes off. Dracula runs away, with Dean in hot pursuit.

Dracula jumps a fence that Dean can’t make, and makes his getaway on a scooter.

(Boris may be going a bit overboard with the gifs)

Sam finds Dean and Jamie in the closed bar and Dean greets him by asking Sam to touch the ear he ripped off of Dracula. Nice to see you too, Dean. There's a reason though. Our beautiful, tactile-oriented Dean realized they were hunting a shapeshifter by the feel of the ripped off appendage. Furthermore, he managed to nab Dracula's medallion and discovered that it was also from the same prop shop as the mummy's casket.

“You guys are like Mulder and Scully or something? The X-Files are real?” Jamie asks after watching the exchange. Yep. Pretty much.

Sam uses his giant brain to deftly figure out the mode and motive behind their beast. The shapeshifter seems to be morphing into his favorite horror characters to act out fantasies, and the shifter calling Jamie 'Mina' and Dean 'Mr. Harker' are clear references to Dracula's love interest and competition.

Dean asks if anyone strange has come to town and Jamie scoffs at the question. Dudes. It's Oktoberfest. Who isn't here and being weird? Jamie does recall Ed, however. He moved to town just a month ago and Lucy swears he's sweet on her. He's the projectionist at the old movie theater in town. Dun dun DUN! Sam heads off to scope it out while Dean stays behind and guards (or “guards”) Jamie at the bar.

Jamie wades her way through the OMG-monsters-are-real-what-is-life-even victim arc. Also, Dean's not really FBI, right? “Not so much,” Dean admits. He does, in fact, drive around the country killing monsters.

“Wow!” Jamie exclaims. “That must suck.” (Cue record scratch.)

“The last few years it started weighing on me. Of course that was before...” He tells her he had a near death experience but now life's been different. He realizes he helps people. He saves them. “It's awesome,” he says – not convincing me AT ALL. “Like a mission from god,” he says with tones of distaste. However, while he's starting to spiral down the manpain drain, Jamie cagily asks if that means he's celibate because otherwise...wink wink nudge nudge say no more. Dean snaps out of his introspection quagmire and leans in for the kiss...

...Which is rudely interrupted by Lucy switching on the lights and rummaging around at the bar for a bottle of booze. Omigod did she interrupt? She falls over herself, embarrassed, but Jamie invites her to join herself and Dean for a drink. Dean is thrilled at the prospect of hanging out with two best gal pals. Platonically.

Sam heads into the heavily retro movie theater. Old horror movie posters line the halls and Sam advances into the theater as gruesome horror music swells. Look out, Sam! Your hair is too long! You're now the delicate maiden in this horror plot.

The organist plays on, nothing but a terrible shadow projected behind the silver screen. And then Sam bursts in on him just as he switches to a light Calypso tune. Ed, our mysterious organist, cowers under Sam's gun. Sam tries to rip off his ear and fails. Wow. That’s a test for shapeshifter he's never tried out again. Once burned, right Sam?

Sam: It's supposed to come off.

Ed: No, it's not.

Back at the bar Jamie and Dean are getting wasted while Lucy looks on, amused.

Dean realizes he’s been roofied, stands up, and punches Lucy. She looks up from the floor and shoves her jaw back into place while Dean demands to know what she put in their drinks. And then he collapses to the floor unconscious, the precious angel.

When Dean wakes he's dressed a loose white shirt and lederhosen, and strapped to a wooden slab with metal bars. Très Frankenstein chic! (Side note: don’t think about how creepy it is that our shifty shifter likes to use people as dress up dolls. DON’T think about it.)

Dracula swans in. It turns out that “Lucy” was modeled after “bride number 3 from the first film.” Dean laughs, utterly captivated by the utter weirdo monster case they've managed to land. Dracula swans across the floor to argue with Dean about movies. “I am ALL monsters,” Dracula announces. And in his movie, the monster gets the girl and Jonathan Harker gets zapped with a gazillion volts of electricity.

Dracula slowly and dramatically reaches for the switch while Dean struggles. The music builds and builds and...the doorbell rings. “Ah! Zat is zee doorbell!” he might has well have said, lifting his cape over his nose and flying away upstairs. Well, he does actually do the latter and Dean's life is spared for another few minutes.

Dracula throws open the door theatrically. It's the pizza guy! “Tell me,” he asks. “is there GARLIC on this pizza?”

“Fuck my life,” mutters the pizza guy and drives off into the sunset in search of better fates.

Sam finds his way back to the bar where he discovers the broken bottle. He's also unable to reach Dean on his cell and notices Lucy's lipsticked napkin. “Lucy,” he mutters, eyes alight with revelation.

Dracula invites Jamie to put on a Mina-like gown and then join him for...PIZZA. Jamie doesn't want to play his game though, and begs to go home. Dracula snaps and shouts in a deranged and very un-movie-like manner for her to “put on the gown.”

Sam breaks into Lucy's house cat-silently because he's Sam Fucking Winchester and stalks through the house. Jamie has donned the gown and Dracula/Lucy apologizes for scaring her. Life is too real, too brutal, without the veneer of the movies. Dracula/Lucy’s father called them a monster and tried to beat them to death with a shovel, and so they escaped into the fantasy worlds offered by movies. It's sad but Jamie, quite rightly, asks how killing people works with Dracula/Lucy’s general victim narrative. There's a noise from within the house and Jamie screams for Dean. Dracula/Lucy knocks her out and heads off to head off the hunters.

Sam finds Dean and unlocks him (though there is much merriment) and they kick their way out of the prop dungeon. They fly through weak facade walls and fight Dracula/Lucy. Things are looking bad for our heroes when the shifter is suddenly shot several times in the chest. Dracula/Lucy turns, shocked, to find that they were shot to death by Jamie's steady hand. (I mean, if you're going to subvert movie tropes HELL YEAH the heroine is gonna save herself. Dracula/Lucy dies.

And so the case is concluded. Still filmed in gorgeous black and white, Dean kisses Jamie a fond farewell. She thanks them for saving her life before disappearing back into the wilds of Oktoberfest.

I Want to Quote Your Blood:

It's time the Winchesters got back to tackling a straightforward, black and white case.

Yeah, you got me -- I mean this killer's some kind of grade-A wacko, right? I mean, some Satan worshipping, Anne Rice-reading, gothic, psycho vampire wannabe.

I'm a maverick, ma'am. A rebel with a badge. One thing I don’t play by: the rules.

I have been re-hymenated.

Hey, you think this Dracula could turn into a bat? That would be cool.

And...scene.

I can't get over what a pumpkin-pie-eyed, crazy son of a bitch you really are.

You've brought a repast. Excellent. Continue to be of such service, and your life will be spared.

'Twas beauty that killed the beast.

The hero gets the girl, monster gets the gank. All in all, happy ending -- with a happy ending, no less.

[ulfwolf]

The Northern Lights of Bach’s Toccata and Fugue in D-Minor: My home

Did you know that the aurora borealis makes a sound? It emits a sort of electrical hiss, a subtle shifting of audible frequencies, as it both shapeshifts and colorshifts across the black, star-studded sky.

I count myself very fortunate to have been born and raised in northern Sweden where each winter we had vivid northern lights (norrsken—literally, northern shine) a dozen or so times a year.

These were gigantic, multi-colored church organ pipes covering half the northern sky, fluttering or shivering slowly in the sun-particle breeze while whispering its unoiled song to all little humans standing in the snow, head back in awe.

The first several times I saw the northern lights I had yet to hear of Bach or any of his music, but I was introduced to this god of music sooner than most in that we lived a five-minute walk from our local church which sported a very impressive (I’d go so far as to say magnificent) organ, and in that the church organist was also my music teacher and he had invited me to come hear him practice any time I wanted.

The keyboards to this organ were housed in the choir loft (some call it the church balcony) at the rear of the church which you reached by climbing a narrow and spiraling set of stone steps.

Sometimes of a quiet winter night I could actually hear him play even from our house (yes, I’d have to be outside, of course, and yes, it would have to be very quiet) and then I’d rush up to the church, climb the stairs and debouch into this wonderful space that housed not only the multiple-keyboard organ cockpit, but also the seats for the choir and (of course) the magnificent pipes.

And there he would sit (his name was Harald) both hands and both feet busy with their magic. He’d sense me arriving and turn and smile at me without stopping. Me, I’d sit down and just watch and listen.

Now, it was not that I knew that the music was written by Bach—yes, he may have mentioned it but that did not register at the time. What did register, however, was Bach’s Toccata and Fugue in D-Minor, which Harald played more than once (he obviously loved it, too). Those ten heavenly opening notes found two eager ears and a forever home in this young boy, listening in open-mouthed wonder to his music teacher’s conjurer’s trick.

The association between the northern lights and the grand pipes of the church organ is easily made—they do sport the same features—and it’s only a few short associative steps from there to seeing Bach up there in the winter sky (once I learned that he had written the Toccata and Fugue).

To be honest, perhaps it’s not so much that this stellar piece of music was my home (as I wrote in the Wolfku above); it’s more that I became a home for it, and from there on, looking up at the divine winter-night spectacle, there they were, both Harald and Johannes Sebastian, smiling down at me.

That said, let’s fast forward a few years, and I now live in Stockholm in a very cold little apartment with a very good stereo system. One night—and, yes, I must admit to being high on hashish this night—I put on Bach’s Toccata and Fugue in D-Minor, and as the heavens opened in those first ten notes, I saw the familiar northern lights right there in my room, real as anything, descending through the ceiling.

Fast forward a few more years, and I wrote a short story about just that night called “Bach Lights,” which I’ve included it below. It tells of the wonder and why I still am a home for Bach, and he a home for me.

:

Bach Lights

The Winter Dawn is timid this far north. That is why she tiptoed up to my window and then hesitated, as if unsure about what to do next.

Within, Night, her brother and contrast, lingered in many places: on the windows and along the floor as frost, in the cold hash pipe as ash, in the lava lamp as yellow and red bubbly ghost still rising and falling and rising and falling from the heat of the little bulb that could.

On the table as story.

The sun scaled the sky a little more before Sister Dawn finally worked up the courage to pry herself through the frosted glass and heavy curtains and onto my face where she settled and with the help of pure physical (as in bathroom) needs found and excavated me.

I opened my eyes to wonder at the ceiling, then turned to my left to wonder at the all the little letters written on the wall, then turned to my right to wonder at the table, then at the large sheet of paper on the table with many more inky letters scrawled all over it, all mine. And when I say wondered, I really mean wondered, for as yet I could not imagine what I might have written on wall and paper.

I heaved myself halfway up and onto my elbow to wonder a little harder at the sheet of paper: so many letters, all running around scratchily in my barely legible hand. And looking, and looking again, and making out a word or two or three it came back to me, little by a little more: that long, glorious and wordy exhaling under the spell of Bach’s Toccata and Fugue in D-Minor.

I sat all the way up now and retrieved the sheet from the table, wrapped the blanket around me (noticing my breath as faint mist in the cold air), leaned back against the thick wall behind me, and began to read in earnest.

Reading, I returned to the night before and again fell in with Brother Cold and Dark (aka Brother Night)—Cold and Dark despite the two gas burners on my stove burning as high as they would go and hissing heat into his icy heart and despite the little kerosene heater that did all it could to give the gas burners a hand from its frosty corner.

But those were only gestures at warmth, for I live in Stockholm and it is deep winter in the capital N North with a meter of snow outside my window, glittering now and would be sharp to the touch, I could well imagine, and would squeak now underfoot, I could well imagine.

And in this capital N North my room is a tall rectangular box of frigid space: a three-meter-high ceiling with two almost meter-thick walls colder than death facing the outside, another wall nearly as cold facing the entrance way, and a fourth (not so cold but not-at-all warm) wall that I shared with my neighbor. It is in this box of winter that Brother Night and I spent an interesting evening; a cold and stoned evening—just me, though, with the stoned part, Brother Night doesn’t smoke hashish.

Initially, after a pipe or two, I had sailed across first one ocean (the Atlantic) and then a continent (USA) to reach the next ocean (the Pacific) and the big city by the water they call Los Angeles which had gifted me the Doors and their Strange Days Long Playing (LP) record. Leaving my very good speakers as stereo adventure I listened through all of side one and then all of side two and still my frosty wings were spread and eager to go places so I carefully lifted the Doors LP off the turntable and returned it to its sleeve (only touching the record edges), then found and disrobed and carefully lowered a Bach LP onto the turntable instead. Then, as carefully, brought out the stylus from its cradle and lowered it, slowly, slowly, respectfully, the way you should always lower even the most eager stylus onto Bach.

I have a theory: Bach is God. Well, if not God God then at least of the same substance, of that I have no doubt.

:

Of sounds there are none more God-like than those first measures of the Toccata and Fugue in D-minor (or D-Moll as my Archiv German pressing says). They arrived through the ceiling, from a distant somewhere up there in the darkness, as descending lashes of beauty to kill the frozen silence.

Stunned, I reached for pen and paper as would a photographer for his camera when suddenly stumbling upon extraterrestrial aliens—slowly, carefully, centimeter-by-centimeter—hoping not to draw their attention, you know, spook them.

I had to get him down om paper.

Him God. Him Bach. Had to. For were I not to let what now flowed into me, flow through me and then out of me as ink onto this stiff paper I would overfill and drown in beauty. Not a bad way to go mind you, but I was young then and not ready that final passage just yet.

But I did not reach for pen and paper inconspicuously enough. Those first few measures, midflight, spotted my movement and rushed me and wrestled me to the floor where some part of me, some sunny sandy California part of me somehow remained in the Doors’ Los Angeles: prostrate upon Santa Monica beach sand, warm ear to the warm ground listening to the Pacific, listening to wave upon wave reaching sand like wind reaching trees but another part of me—most of me—remained in the wintry Stockholm here and now hearing Bach/God descend and I scrambled back on my feet and discovered a pen in my hand and the sheet of stiff paper on my table and then I began to write down all that Bach said.

Those first few measures again, resurrected in a lower register, circling, then entering me like so many lovers: through my ears, through my eyes, through my skin, embracing me each as they entered. My body sang with Bach. Then the vision.

It was brother North Wind: the ever dawn of the northern lights, their shimmering pipes of icy organ rising shifting rising in a mid-winter fantasy making snow sing. It was God coming down through my ceiling as the aurora borealis and I knew then and there that Bach and God are indeed one and the same.

Then the world rises. It starts somewhere in the engine room of time, his feet on the lower pedals, hands too to the keyboard left as he begins to lift the planet. My room vibrates with the effort, with the strength and sheer joy of that rising. I am water I am wave I am blue ink and I flow onto stiffly white frame after frame of photographed aliens or no one will ever believe me I actually hear this.

The lifting escalates and crescendos and is done escalating now and flings open the door onto Spring.

I hear and see and follow with the tip of my very costly fountain pen which I bought just the other day knowing full well I could not afford it. But these were the days when a check was automatically good because you signed it and gave it to the clerk who then handed you the pen with smile. I have since learned the meaning of the word overdrawn, but meanwhile here it is in my hand and anyway, it’s too late to take it back now, no matter how expensive it was, so I do with it what I hoped and dreamed I would do with it and I write with it.

And out into Spring: The doors are flung wide open, onto narrow crystal steps that dance up into the morning into sky. No more brother North Wind now, just dawn and dew and those little lakes of silver that form on my petals and leaves and do to sense of smell what Michelangelo does to rock.

I wish I could cry matching tears.

Though for whose benefit? I am overcome, yes, but not beyond control. So, un-crying, I keep writing. I no longer know exactly what I say or why really just that I know that this is a capital M Moment and I am having some sort of epiphany here and maybe just maybe I’m a genius of some kind that someone is waiting to discover and make immensely rich and warm and to move out of this freezing almost ceiling-less room so full of darkness and frost and this immense music.

Sound as Mountain. Physical. And I confess I lose my way. In Him.

I reach the end of the paper and there is more to write as I sail on, cast about by waves—a soul in blessed turmoil. And then a new cresting that lets me sprout wings and out and over I glide. He does this to you, you know, God does. Bach does.

I have taken leave of Stockholm of winter of snow and Boreas’ and Bach’s Light and now there is only ocean reflecting soul and I cannot comprehend how anyone encumbered with arms and legs and fingers and toes could possibly have conceived and composed beauty such as this, wings such as these and again I remind myself that I am in His presence, sailing His air, and that for Him all is possible.

I turn the sheet over. The one sheet. I only have the one sheet? Why have I only the one sheet? But wondering does not turn it into several, so instead I turn it over and continue this scribbly dance on the other side and I hope that at least some small vestige of what enters actually exits as I race ahead by one inky Swedish word after another and turning my head now I see a path that perhaps can be followed, perhaps should be followed, perhaps must be followed, or I will never find my way back.

What goes through God’s mind when he writes music like this? What could possibly inspire Him, source of all inspiration? But something does and did and am I really the first to hear this? To hear what He meant. To see what He saw.

There are islets below. They could be Greece or they could be Australia or they could be our own Stockholm archipelago in the summer I don’t know and really, I don’t care as long as my wings carry me and I don’t fly too close to the sun.

My speakers make a faint hum from an inverter I need in this old apartment, so old it only has direct current (DC) electricity which needs chopping up into little AC bits to drive my stereo and that’s what makes them hum but God doesn’t care and I no longer notice. Now there is only space and the windy tapestry of pipes as I approach the edge of the second page and there is so much more to say but nowhere to say it so I turn to the clean wall behind me and now I have a sheet to last me.

We sail on, Bach and God and I for the final measure.

Timid Sister Dawn (she is very perceptive) sees all this of course which is perhaps why she finally ventured through frosty panes and heavy curtain to find my face, beneath which I sleep the sleep of last night’s frost and though I slowly know her on my face up there on the somewhere surface I choose to ignore her for a while. But she has come to stay and soon manages to dispel her brother to some nether, even colder region, to under my bed perhaps and into corners where he will sulk till the sun sets again to set him loose and she tugs me gently and tells me to wake up, to wake all the way up and to open my eyes.

:

“So what do you think?” I ask.

My friend gets to the bottom of the stiff sheet and mumbles, without taking his eyes off the text, “Amazing.” Then he turns the sheet over.

“Do you think your dad might publish it?” I ask. His dad is an editor of some sort. It’s a small magazine, but quite prestigious I’m told.

“I would think so,” he says and keeps reading. “Surreal,” he adds after another while, still not taking his eyes off my scribbles.

Then he gets to the bottom of the second page and says, “Does it end here?”

He turns the sheet over again and over again and over again looking for a better ending. “Where is the rest?”

“On my wall,” I remember.

http://rowansongs.com/blog/2019/2/2/the-wolfku-garden-22

[oblivion-time]

Ripple Effect ch 7 (SoMa Week 2017)

1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7

AO3 | FF.net

Ripple effect

In battle

"I can't believe this." Maka held back her tears as she fanned herself with her hands. "I'm getting married."

"Yeah, and he will drive himself crazy the moment he lays his eyes on you." Liz smirked wide as she grabbed her eyeshadow palette and a brush. "But since he's already your husband by law, he probably rocks a semi everywhere he goes."

Maka's face heated up and she picked up her vows and fanned herself with it, pinking even more at the knowing grin on Liz's face. They had gotten caught quite a lot in the janitor's closet by her classroom she might as well put up a sign with her name on it. She intentionally "forgot" her lunch or her keys or anything just for Soul to have a reason to come and visit her. Well, let's just say she wasn't just hungering for a sandwich. At least her students hadn't walked in on her with her husband. Otherwise she would've been fired on the spot and had a stampede of parents on her ass.

"Something like that." She avoided Liz's knowing eyes and she turned toward the full body mirror. The beautiful bridal dress hugged her curves nicely and nicely followed her legs. A simple but yet breath-taking dress she had chosen out of all the bride dresses in the store. Liz had done a simple hairdo and attached the veil at the back of her head. She simply looked… really good. She just hoped Soul would like her look as much as she did.

"I'm just surprised you can keep your sex life as alive as you two do. There's just so much you can do in a wheelchair."

"We're doing just fine." And they were doing more than fine! Sure, since Soul couldn't move his legs or support himself on them, all the work fell on to Maka, but he was certainly not just taking it. He had his hands and mouth to work with and oh boy, he worked wonders with those. Going through months without the intimate connection, it had left a hunger that needed to be squashed. Repeatedly. As often as they could.

"More than fine from what I'm hearing." Liz came into view in the mirror, wiggling her eyebrows. "I bet it will only improve once Kim has gotten the hang of her magic to give him back his ability to walk."

It would definitely, but she didn't really care. Having sex with him would always be amazing. With or without wheelchair. She knew Soul would love to walk around again and lift her up when they hugged and spin her around and kiss her whenever he wanted without reeling her down to his level. He wanted his legs back, and she would support that until the end of her life, but if he would forever be bound in a wheelchair or walking braces and crutches, she was fine with that too. As long as she was with him, she would be okay.

"Yeah, now when she's combining her magic with the progressive science and experiments, I have no doubt she will come up with a solution soon. Especially now when she has Soul's family showering money over her." She could only giggle. The first pay check Mr. Evans had given her, her eyes had almost popped out from their sockets at the large sum.

"She's smart and she will come up with it soon." Liz went around her with the eyeshadow palette in hand and a brush. "Now close your eyes."

The waiting had been killing her when Soul had been rolled inside of the surgery room. They all knew either he would come back out with new intestines and a new chance at life, or he would die on the table, but she had faith he would survive. Soul wasn't a weakling. He struggled through the consequences of saving her in the mountain village and he proved her he was truly ten times stronger than her. Soul… he was simply the most amazing and wonderful partner she could've ever asked for, but at the same time the worst one. Without a thought regarding himself and his life, he would give it all up. For her.

He had been in surgery for seven hours, and he came out alive. More than alive, two hours later he woke up more alive than ever. He was left in the hospital for weeks and she wept with joy, his body was accepting the transplant and he would no longer vomit from drinking liquids. He was gaining weight and his ribcage no longer threatened to break skin. His arm healed up and his body grew stronger. Six weeks later he was discharged from the hospital and for the first time in months, he could return home.

She kept her promise. Two months after the surgery she asked him to marry her with a golden ring in a box, and he said yes. The very next day they went to courthouse and got married, deciding to save the actual ceremony for later when their lives were more stable.

Now, when Soul was healthy enough to eat solid food and live as a normal life as he could as a wheelchair-bound person, it was time they went through with the wedding ceremony.

"There. You look beautiful." Maka opened her eyes and gazed on Liz's masterpiece. Her jaw dropped at her makeup. And not in a good way.

"Why did you give me purple lipstick?!" she shrieked and it was like a horrible throwback toward the fatal night in the mountains. When she was going on a date with "Akane" and Liz had insisted putting on purple lipstick. This— this— she couldn't trigger Soul to go all PTSD on her! "I can't wear purple!"

"Ah, come on, it's not that bad."

"Not that bad?" she sneered as she turned around. "Do you call both of us dying not that bad? What if he passes out just from seeing me or he decides to call off the ceremony or—"

"Relax." Liz swung her arm around Maka's shoulders. "It's fine. A little bird whispered in my ear that purple lipstick is the way to go today."

"What? Really?" Soul… did he really want her to wear purple lipstick? No… wouldn't he be triggered or primed to hate it?

"You know a good agent never reveals her source."

"… but you're not an agent."

"But a street thug I am. I'm just an informal agent." Liz winked as she went over to the makeup table messy with all her different products.

"I trust you not to ruin my wedding." She called after her to the sound of the door opening.

Wes peeked his head inside of the room. "It's time."

"Already?"

Wes grinned wide and slid inside of the room, closing the door behind him. "Nervous? You're just going to marry the same guy again."

Maka blew a raspberry and turned back toward the mirror to smoothen out her dress. Wes appeared behind her in the mirror. "Last time it was only us, you, a judge and a twenty dollar bill. This time, an audience of six-hundred people will be watching us."

"You've nothing to worry about. I'm sure this day will be just as magical as the day at the courthouse, maybe even better, who knows."

"I just hope this all won't freak Soul out."

"The only reason he would freak out would be if his to-be-wife-again didn't start walking down the aisle when the organ starts. Now turn around." She turned around to face her brother-in-law, he pulled her veil down. "He's just as nervous as you are, if that is to any comfort."

It wasn't anything new. She could feel him at the end of their bond, feeling his soul quivering with nerves, if any, he was maybe even more nervous than she was. Being in the spotlight in front of so many people must be scary.

"I know." She placed her hand on her chest where her soul dwelled. "He's freaking out."

"Then how about we get this wedding started?"

She let out a quick breath before she nodded. "Yes."

Liz disappeared inside of the church and so did Wes after flashing a thumb up toward her. Maka exhaled and held her bouquet tightly in her hands when the organist started playing. The double doors opened, revealing all their friends and family gathered in the benches. But no Soul. Kid stood alone at the end of the aisle and Liz and Wes stood on either side as their maid of honour and best man. But where the heck was Soul?! Her palms grew moist as she slowly started to walk down the aisle. Their friends and family among the audience didn't seem surprised at all, simply composed and smiled toward her as she went by.

She reached the end of the aisle where Wes grinned even wider at her perplexed expression.

The song didn't end. It started back up and the heavy double doors slammed open once again. She flipped around and there he was. Standing— on his legs! His wheelchair was nowhere to be seen and iron poles were jutting out from his pants, resembling his walking braces, but at the same time not. His hands casually fisted the metal rode and he gently tugged it forward— he took a step!

Maka gasped when he wobbled the slightest, intending to go and aid him when flesh grabbed her wrist. She faced Wes shaking his head.

"Just watch him."

It all fell into place. The nervousness within Soul's core. Wes's knowing grin. They all knew this was going to happen.

She watched him. As discrete as he could, he pulled at the metal rods as he shakily went down the aisle. It was enchanting. The sweet melodies from the organ seemed to cease to exist as Soul slowly made his way down the aisle. Occasionally he had to support himself on the benches, but he battled on and kept on walking down the aisle. The organ repeated the song when he reached halfway. Tears pooled up in her eyes and Maka silently thanked Liz for applying waterproof makeup.

When he was just a few steps away from her, she neared him and gathered him in her arms. "You're walking." she whispered into his ear, hugging him close to her which he reciprocated with interest. "I can't believe it."

"Me neither. Kim came up with a solution and she has managed to reconnect my nerve system to my legs. Now I just need to build up my muscles again and maybe I'll be able to walk like before all this happened."

"Thank death." she whimpered and buried her face in her husband's neck. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"I wanted to surprise you and make you proud on our wedding day."

She pulled away and she cupped his cheeks, caressing his newly shaved skin. "I'm always going to be proud of you. Wheelchair or no wheelchair. Please, include me in your battles. I want to support you and help you even if it is the smallest thing like fetching utensils because you forgot to bring them."

Soul lifted up her veil and held her face in his hands, thumb caressing her bottom lip and his eyes darkened as if he was hypnotized. He leaned closer and his forehead feathered over hers. "I promise you I will always include you not only in my life, but in my mind and thoughts. I will always support and love you through thick and thin until death reclaims me."

A smile played on Maka's lips just before they locked tightly with her husband. Loud applauds rung and whistles broke out as their lips slipped, clinging onto each other.

Kid shrugged his shoulders and chuckled heartily. Seemed like they didn't need him to wed them after all. They did it well themselves.

Soul pulled away, licking the purple lipstick smeared on his lips. "I'm so glad you put that lipstick on."

Maka giggled and kissed his nose. "If you had to choose between me reapplying the lipstick or a cheeseburgers and chill at the hotel room, what would you chose?"

"No." His eyes widened with realization. "You didn't."

Maka shrugged her shoulders and pulled him close to her. "It's your choice."

"Is there no possibility to have both?"

"I'm open for some kind of compromise." Her finger ran along his jaw line.

"I'm your guy then." He reeled her in and kissed her once again.

Finally. Their battle had ended. Now only peace laid in front of them.

...

Thank you all for reading this little fic of mine and letting me break and mend your hearts once again! Now you can rest assure, I'll leave Maka and Soul alone in this universe to live happily forever after.

[davidpwilson2564]

Bloglet

THE FOLLOWING MIGHT BE OLD BUSINESS.  JUST PUTTING IT HERE FOR STORAGE.

Trumpet Ace

I was always surprised to see musicians from the Met Opera orchestra on freelance jobs.  It seemed to me that they might want some time off.  But I am thinking now of the days before Maestro Levine took his group out of the pit and put them, from time to time, on the stage at Carnegie.  Met orchestra musicians often played in the summer orchestra put together by the famously dyspeptic Otto Radl, sitting in the Naumburg Shell, sweating it out in the heat with the rest of us lowly freelancers.  It couldn’t have been for the money, which wasn’t much, but I’m sure they were eager to play something other than grand opera.  Of course I remember the Naumburg rehearsals, at Carroll’s, when it was next the Port Authority. The pollution!  Buses coughed out their fumes and inside, in an era when many musicians smoked cigarettes, there were clouds of smoke.  (Latin gigs were worse.  The guys smoked cigars, creating layers of blue haze until someone opened a window.) Beside each of the brass players was a small ashtray on a stand.  I remember the legendary Met first trumpet, Mel Broiles, his cigarette smoldering when he played and sometimes saying, “Let’s kill this…” (meaning stab out the cigarette) “...before it kills us.”  There was a time I was surprised to see Mr. Broiles on a little church job in the Bronx.  I had worked with the church organist, Lillian Mernick, in Mount Vernon for several years.  The Bronx church was new post for her. I loved Lillian and was  always delighted in hearing her high pitched voice; you swore you were on the phone with Carol Channing. She once called me about a gig at her new job and, after having discussed the usual details, she added, in a somber tone, “We are using Mel Broiles.”  I think that, somehow, she was told to use him.  In those days I routinely carried a pair of kettledrums to the churches where I played.  And sometimes those Sundays were made more complicated because I had returned from a job in the Catskills in the wee hours.  As time went by (before the death knell was sounded at the resorts upstate) the timpani became increasingly weightier and more difficult to move.  I was ageing out of this sort of work. So I was drowsy and somewhat sleep deprived when I got to the Bronx church that morning and was met by Mr. Broiles.  Ms Mernick was unusually silent as I was told where to set up, by Mel.  “Then we’ll talk through the music.”  Which we did.  Among our selections was a piece that would feature the trumpet.  No surprise.  I was still in a half asleep.  I looked around.  I had never been to this church before.  It seemed awfully small.  Why was Mel here?  Why was he not in one of the huge churches downtown? But we proceeded and got through the program without incident and Mr. Broiles got a hand after we performed the Trumpet Voluntary postlude.  His playing was, of course, first rate.  Did any of the parishioners know they were hearing one of the best?We hadn’t said much to each other that morning but I thought, and certainly didn’t say, “I have to do this but...you’re Mel Broiles!”  His horn was in the case.  He was ready to leave. He said to me, in all seriousness, “Let me know if you hear about any more of these jobs.”  My little brush with greatness. 

[ulfwolf]

Toccata and Fugue — Musing 22

The Northern Lights of Bach’s Toccata and Fugue in D-Minor: My home

Did you know that the aurora borealis makes a sound? It emits a sort of electrical hiss, a subtle shifting of audible frequencies, as it both shapeshifts and colorshifts across the black, star-studded sky.

I count myself very fortunate to have been born and raised in northern Sweden where each winter we had vivid northern lights (norrsken—literally, northern shine) a dozen or so times a year.

These were gigantic, multi-colored church organ pipes covering half the northern sky, fluttering or shivering slowly in the sun-particle breeze while whispering its unoiled song to all little humans standing in the snow, head back in awe.

The first several times I saw the northern lights I had yet to hear of Bach or any of his music, but I was introduced to this god of music sooner than most in that we lived a five-minute walk from our local church which sported a very impressive (I’d go so far as to say magnificent) organ, and in that the church organist was also my music teacher and he had invited me to come hear him practice any time I wanted.

The keyboards to this organ were housed in the choir loft (some call it the church balcony) at the rear of the church which you reached by climbing a narrow and spiraling set of stone steps.

Sometimes of a quiet winter night I could actually hear him play even from our house (yes, I’d have to be outside, of course, and yes, it would have to be very quiet) and then I’d rush up to the church, climb the stairs and debouch into this wonderful space that housed not only the multiple-keyboard organ cockpit, but also the seats for the choir and (of course) the magnificent pipes.

And there he would sit (his name was Harald) both hands and both feet busy with their magic. He’d sense me arriving and turn and smile at me without stopping. Me, I’d sit down and just watch and listen.

Now, it was not that I knew that the music was written by Bach—yes, he may have mentioned it but that did not register at the time. What did register, however, was Bach’s Toccata and Fugue in D-Minor, which Harald played more than once (he obviously loved it, too). Those ten heavenly opening notes found two eager ears and a forever home in this young boy, listening in open-mouthed wonder to his music teacher’s conjurer’s trick.

The association between the northern lights and the grand pipes of the church organ is easily made—they do sport the same features—and it’s only a few short associative steps from there to seeing Bach up there in the winter sky (once I learned that he had written the Toccata and Fugue).

To be honest, perhaps it’s not so much that this stellar piece of music was my home (as I wrote in the Wolfku above); it’s more that I became a home for it, and from there on, looking up at the divine winter-night spectacle, there they were, both Harald and Johannes Sebastian, smiling down at me.

That said, let’s fast forward a few years, and I now live in Stockholm in a very cold little apartment with a very good stereo system. One night—and, yes, I must admit to being high on hashish this night—I put on Bach’s Toccata and Fugue in D-Minor, and as the heavens opened in those first ten notes, I saw the familiar northern lights right there in my room, real as anything, descending through the ceiling.

Fast forward a few more years, and I wrote a short story about just that night called “Bach Lights,” which I’ve included it below. It tells of the wonder and why I still am a home for Bach, and he a home for me.

:

Bach Lights

The Winter Dawn is timid this far north. That is why she tiptoed up to my window and then hesitated, as if unsure about what to do next.

Within, Night, her brother and contrast, lingered in many places: on the windows and along the floor as frost, in the cold hash pipe as ash, in the lava lamp as yellow and red bubbly ghost still rising and falling and rising and falling from the heat of the little bulb that could.

On the table as story.

The sun scaled the sky a little more before Sister Dawn finally worked up the courage to pry herself through the frosted glass and heavy curtains and onto my face where she settled and with the help of pure physical (as in bathroom) needs found and excavated me.

I opened my eyes to wonder at the ceiling, then turned to my left to wonder at the all the little letters written on the wall, then turned to my right to wonder at the table, then at the large sheet of paper on the table with many more inky letters scrawled all over it, all mine. And when I say wondered, I really mean wondered, for as yet I could not imagine what I might have written on wall and paper.

I heaved myself halfway up and onto my elbow to wonder a little harder at the sheet of paper: so many letters, all running around scratchily in my barely legible hand. And looking, and looking again, and making out a word or two or three it came back to me, little by a little more: that long, glorious and wordy exhaling under the spell of Bach’s Toccata and Fugue in D-Minor.

I sat all the way up now and retrieved the sheet from the table, wrapped the blanket around me (noticing my breath as faint mist in the cold air), leaned back against the thick wall behind me, and began to read in earnest.

Reading, I returned to the night before and again fell in with Brother Cold and Dark (aka Brother Night)—Cold and Dark despite the two gas burners on my stove burning as high as they would go and hissing heat into his icy heart and despite the little kerosene heater that did all it could to give the gas burners a hand from its frosty corner.

But those were only gestures at warmth, for I live in Stockholm and it is deep winter in the capital N North with a meter of snow outside my window, glittering now and would be sharp to the touch, I could well imagine, and would squeak now underfoot, I could well imagine.

And in this capital N North my room is a tall rectangular box of frigid space: a three-meter-high ceiling with two almost meter-thick walls colder than death facing the outside, another wall nearly as cold facing the entrance way, and a fourth (not so cold but not-at-all warm) wall that I shared with my neighbor. It is in this box of winter that Brother Night and I spent an interesting evening; a cold and stoned evening—just me, though, with the stoned part, Brother Night doesn’t smoke hashish.

Initially, after a pipe or two, I had sailed across first one ocean (the Atlantic) and then a continent (USA) to reach the next ocean (the Pacific) and the big city by the water they call Los Angeles which had gifted me the Doors and their Strange Days Long Playing (LP) record. Leaving my very good speakers as stereo adventure I listened through all of side one and then all of side two and still my frosty wings were spread and eager to go places so I carefully lifted the Doors LP off the turntable and returned it to its sleeve (only touching the record edges), then found and disrobed and carefully lowered a Bach LP onto the turntable instead. Then, as carefully, brought out the stylus from its cradle and lowered it, slowly, slowly, respectfully, the way you should always lower even the most eager stylus onto Bach.

I have a theory: Bach is God. Well, if not God God then at least of the same substance, of that I have no doubt.

:

Of sounds there are none more God-like than those first measures of the Toccata and Fugue in D-minor (or D-Moll as my Archiv German pressing says). They arrived through the ceiling, from a distant somewhere up there in the darkness, as descending lashes of beauty to kill the frozen silence.

Stunned, I reached for pen and paper as would a photographer for his camera when suddenly stumbling upon extraterrestrial aliens—slowly, carefully, centimeter-by-centimeter—hoping not to draw their attention, you know, spook them.

I had to get him down om paper.

Him God. Him Bach. Had to. For were I not to let what now flowed into me, flow through me and then out of me as ink onto this stiff paper I would overfill and drown in beauty. Not a bad way to go mind you, but I was young then and not ready that final passage just yet.

But I did not reach for pen and paper inconspicuously enough. Those first few measures, midflight, spotted my movement and rushed me and wrestled me to the floor where some part of me, some sunny sandy California part of me somehow remained in the Doors’ Los Angeles: prostrate upon Santa Monica beach sand, warm ear to the warm ground listening to the Pacific, listening to wave upon wave reaching sand like wind reaching trees but another part of me—most of me—remained in the wintry Stockholm here and now hearing Bach/God descend and I scrambled back on my feet and discovered a pen in my hand and the sheet of stiff paper on my table and then I began to write down all that Bach said.

Those first few measures again, resurrected in a lower register, circling, then entering me like so many lovers: through my ears, through my eyes, through my skin, embracing me each as they entered. My body sang with Bach. Then the vision.

It was brother North Wind: the ever dawn of the northern lights, their shimmering pipes of icy organ rising shifting rising in a mid-winter fantasy making snow sing. It was God coming down through my ceiling as the aurora borealis and I knew then and there that Bach and God are indeed one and the same.

Then the world rises. It starts somewhere in the engine room of time, his feet on the lower pedals, hands too to the keyboard left as he begins to lift the planet. My room vibrates with the effort, with the strength and sheer joy of that rising. I am water I am wave I am blue ink and I flow onto stiffly white frame after frame of photographed aliens or no one will ever believe me I actually hear this.

The lifting escalates and crescendos and is done escalating now and flings open the door onto Spring.

I hear and see and follow with the tip of my very costly fountain pen which I bought just the other day knowing full well I could not afford it. But these were the days when a check was automatically good because you signed it and gave it to the clerk who then handed you the pen with smile. I have since learned the meaning of the word overdrawn, but meanwhile here it is in my hand and anyway, it’s too late to take it back now, no matter how expensive it was, so I do with it what I hoped and dreamed I would do with it and I write with it.

And out into Spring: The doors are flung wide open, onto narrow crystal steps that dance up into the morning into sky. No more brother North Wind now, just dawn and dew and those little lakes of silver that form on my petals and leaves and do to sense of smell what Michelangelo does to rock.

I wish I could cry matching tears.

Though for whose benefit? I am overcome, yes, but not beyond control. So, un-crying, I keep writing. I no longer know exactly what I say or why really just that I know that this is a capital M Moment and I am having some sort of epiphany here and maybe just maybe I’m a genius of some kind that someone is waiting to discover and make immensely rich and warm and to move out of this freezing almost ceiling-less room so full of darkness and frost and this immense music.

Sound as Mountain. Physical. And I confess I lose my way. In Him.

I reach the end of the paper and there is more to write as I sail on, cast about by waves—a soul in blessed turmoil. And then a new cresting that lets me sprout wings and out and over I glide. He does this to you, you know, God does. Bach does.

I have taken leave of Stockholm of winter of snow and Boreas’ and Bach’s Light and now there is only ocean reflecting soul and I cannot comprehend how anyone encumbered with arms and legs and fingers and toes could possibly have conceived and composed beauty such as this, wings such as these and again I remind myself that I am in His presence, sailing His air, and that for Him all is possible.

I turn the sheet over. The one sheet. I only have the one sheet? Why have I only the one sheet? But wondering does not turn it into several, so instead I turn it over and continue this scribbly dance on the other side and I hope that at least some small vestige of what enters actually exits as I race ahead by one inky Swedish word after another and turning my head now I see a path that perhaps can be followed, perhaps should be followed, perhaps must be followed, or I will never find my way back.

What goes through God’s mind when he writes music like this? What could possibly inspire Him, source of all inspiration? But something does and did and am I really the first to hear this? To hear what He meant. To see what He saw.

There are islets below. They could be Greece or they could be Australia or they could be our own Stockholm archipelago in the summer I don’t know and really, I don’t care as long as my wings carry me and I don’t fly too close to the sun.

My speakers make a faint hum from an inverter I need in this old apartment, so old it only has direct current (DC) electricity which needs chopping up into little AC bits to drive my stereo and that’s what makes them hum but God doesn’t care and I no longer notice. Now there is only space and the windy tapestry of pipes as I approach the edge of the second page and there is so much more to say but nowhere to say it so I turn to the clean wall behind me and now I have a sheet to last me.

We sail on, Bach and God and I for the final measure.

Timid Sister Dawn (she is very perceptive) sees all this of course which is perhaps why she finally ventured through frosty panes and heavy curtain to find my face, beneath which I sleep the sleep of last night’s frost and though I slowly know her on my face up there on the somewhere surface I choose to ignore her for a while. But she has come to stay and soon manages to dispel her brother to some nether, even colder region, to under my bed perhaps and into corners where he will sulk till the sun sets again to set him loose and she tugs me gently and tells me to wake up, to wake all the way up and to open my eyes.

:

“So what do you think?” I ask.

My friend gets to the bottom of the stiff sheet and mumbles, without taking his eyes off the text, “Amazing.” Then he turns the sheet over.

“Do you think your dad might publish it?” I ask. His dad is an editor of some sort. It’s a small magazine, but quite prestigious I’m told.

“I would think so,” he says and keeps reading. “Surreal,” he adds after another while, still not taking his eyes off my scribbles.

Then he gets to the bottom of the second page and says, “Does it end here?”

He turns the sheet over again and over again and over again looking for a better ending. “Where is the rest?”

“On my wall,” I remember.

::

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