Lucid Waking

Archive for June, 2008

Huckleberry

        The forest was wide and thick with rough-barked trees. Twitters of birds filled the spaces of silence. Dappled shadows moved upon the ground in a gentle breeze. In the middle of a particularly nondescript clearing was a small, tan cottage. The sun lit it from above at noon, illuminating the mossy green roof and concealing the crumbling sides. In the midday heat, it smelled like candy and damp laundry. A few wildflowers grew on the outside, soaking up the sun at sunrise and sunset from the rosy lavender sky.
         The inside was like a dollhouse. The kitchen still had food in the icebox and molasses in the pantry. The dishes were clean and put away and a single glass cup was soaking in water from a water pump on the side of the sink. The kitchen table collected dust and crumbs. The living room had two sofas and a working, out-of-tune piano. The bedroom smelled thickly of mothballs and almost empty except for a single comforter folded at the foot of an empty mattress.
         The kitchen door led to a small garden outside. It was mostly weeds, but a few remains of cucumbers, strawberries, and pumpkins fought for their positions in the patch. Impressively sized thistles and dandelions grew in between the rather large orange vegetables in fall, releasing their seeds into the wind. The only remains of a path through the garden were the stone reveled when heavy rains pushed away the soil before the mud pushed it back again.
The garden stopped when the rest of the forest began again. The dappled light spread out across miles of leaves and needles. The thickness of the trees ended at the river, which was dammed later on at the edge of a small town named after the woods: Huckleberry.
         Huckleberry had a few houses and generally, the essential businesses. The mill was next to the river, followed closely by the baker, then church, then shoemaker and tailor. On the other side was the smithy and town hall. A rather well used road ran right through it and perpendicular to the river and over a shiny wood bridge. Many people had used that bridge to go to more bustling towns to sell wares and if it weren’t for the amazing talent of the town’s tenants, it wouldn’t have existed. But there was something special about the town and the forest that was its neighbor. Some said it came from the strange house, but others, not quite so naïve, believed it was a secret passed down for generations and perfected for longer than that and those who held such secrets, needed a quiet place like Huckleberry to practice them.

La Cathedrale Engloutie

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Beautiful Cake

        The couch sat in the middle of a very purple room: purple carpet, purple walls, and a clean glass light fixture in the middle of the ceiling. Alice was sitting on the couch writing her latest string quartet, her twin, Margaret was in the kitchen cooking for a wedding she was catering, and their niece Patricia was in the corner of the purple room building a rather large castle out of blocks. Finally there was a knock on the door that made Alice jump and Margaret curse loudly. Patricia got up from her spot on the floor and went to answer it.
         “Good evening, little lady,” the visitor at the door said bowing. “Are your aunts at home?”
         “They’re busy,” Patricia said, but Alice intercepted and gently stepped in front of Patricia and shook the visitor’s hand.
         “Please come in, Mr. Sheitower.”
         “Thank you, Miss Tailor.”
         “Go to your room,” Alice turned around and herded Patricia up the stairs. “No eavesdropping!”
         “I hope everything is going well?” Mr. Sheitower asked.
         “Oh yes,” Alice said.
         “Everything is going according to plan right on schedule,” Margaret called from the kitchen. “If you’ll just excuse me, this must be stirred constantly.”
         “Of course,” Mr. Sheitower said and turned to Alice once again.
         “Is everything all right?”
         “Well, the wedding has been momentarily halted.”
         Alice gasped appropriately. “Why what’s wrong?”
         “The bride seems to be having second thoughts. At least since she was seen last week with someone else.”
         “That’s awful! What are we going to do about this food?”
         “Perhaps it could be used elsewhere? The bank is having an open house on one of the mansions down the block and they’d be pleased to use the dinner.”
         “It’s not really for a buffet,” Alice said. “At least I don’t think it is.”
         “No it’s not,” Margaret called from the kitchen. “And I’ve just finished the cake!”
         “I’m very sorry,” Mr. Sheitower said. “I’ve more bad news as well.”
         “Oh dear.”
         “The mortgage on this house seems to be leased to your late brother, Miss Tailor and the bank wishes someone else sign the lease, or else they reserve the right to take the house.”
         “Why can’t I?”
         “Pardon me for saying, but you’re a woman.”
         “Poppycock! Ander will let me sign the mortgage if he knows what’s good for him.”
         “We can’t afford to buy the house from scratch,” Margaret called from the kitchen.
         “I understand,” Mr. Sheitower said, “but business is business.”
         “Well thank you for the news,” Alice said. “Would you like some dinner?”
         “I’m afraid I have other things to attend to. Good night.”
         “Good night. And please tell us as soon as the bride and groom change their minds.”
         “Or if there’s going to be another wedding very soon,” Margaret said.
         “Of course,” Mr. Sheitower said bowing.
         Alice closed the door behind him and dropped her hands to her side.
         “Oh, it’s such a lovely cake,” Margaret said as she went back to the kitchen to continue cooking.

Cowboy

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America the Beautiful

            I haven’t been very fond of America. Usually to a statement like that, someone older than me will drop their jaw and after gaping for a little while say: “America is a wonderful place! Where else can you have freedom of speech and not be afraid of getting arrested or killed?” England, I think. I usually counter by saying that this country has given people power who care nothing about the masses and usually mess things up. After that, I’ll leave the room promptly or switch subjects before anyone else can counter that argument and I can maintain a small sense that in a way, I’m right.
        What I thought of as America were politicians and war. No one is proud of politics and everyone hates war, so it was an easy stance for me to fall into, especially when passionate talks around me would center on those two disliked things. Independence Day for me was a time to relax and spend time with my family apart from summer school, jobs, and sitting on my bottom all day.
        Last June, I auditioned to go to Northwestern University’s music program for high school students. It was essentially college for high school students and a bit of propaganda for Northwestern’s programs. For me, it was the opportunity to live the life of a music major and see if I was crazy for choosing that path. On June 27th, I found myself dragging my two duffels and bass to Northwestern University.
        We often had performances and one of the opportunities we had was part of a mock military band on Independence Day. My friends had varying degrees of opinions on this, but regardless, we were set to play on the beach, close to the fence marking the end of the safety zone, at least one hundred feet from where they would be releasing fireworks. No one could argue that we’d have the best view.
The lockers where we kept our instruments were in a practice building closest to the lake, so it was almost no trouble to get them to our designated concert spot. Someone in charge had set up a platform to go over the sand, which made my life infinitely easier. For three days prior to the performance my fellow bassists and I (all three of us) had gone to 8 am practices with the wind ensemble to prepare. The only thing I was nervous about the day of the performance (except maybe the wind blowing sand and water into my instrument) was playing for the largest number of strangers in attendance.
        I’m not a patriotic person and brass and wind music are in impossible keys. But the music was easy to drift away from while I watched the people on the other side of the fence. In a way I felt as if I was inside a bubble and everyone was ignoring me. My family was watching but engaged in conversation that I couldn’t hear. Overall, this seemed a wasted effort.
        We ran through Stars and Stripes, America the Beautiful, and My Country, Tis of Thee without a hitch. We played songs I had never even heard of, just to show our patriotism. My legs were tired from standing and my mind was wandering. One family had brought their grill in order to make dinner. Dogs ran back and forth barking wildly, their tongues flying sideways out of their mouths as they dragged children on their roller skates down the pebble path. As it got darker, the amount of colored lights in various patterns and circles flew back and forth with limbs. My stand light glowed a pale yellow on the page.
        Once the fireworks started we were playing the 1812 Overture. And even though the song had nothing to do with the Revolutionary War, I felt something sort of different. I was sitting in the best spot for fireworks where I could see them shoot into the sky. The brass notes soared right above us with them and I was engulfed in noise. My comfortable blanket of music as I sat in the dark with my friends and colleagues was overwhelming. The only thing absurd left was the “ooohs” and “aahs” at the bursts of color. Even though fireworks cracked instead of cannons, Lake Michigan crashed to the shore instead of the Atlantic Ocean, I felt safer and prouder than I had in my life previously. I started paying attention to the notes on the page and the inflection, even if my fragile sound was overpowered by other ones. I was serving my country, no matter how small, and it was strange. From the 1812 Overture we went straight into the Star Spangled Banner. No one could hear us over the final fireworks explosion, but it didn’t seem to matter. We were going through the motions of patriotism and that was all that mattered.
The air smelled like sulfur long after the final chord was played. People sat in dazed silence, the distant sound of Chicago fireworks from miles away ringing over the water. Then, laughter and applause. We packed up our things as quickly as possible. I leaned over the fence to wave to my parents and tell my mom I’d call her once I got back to the dorm. I went back to the platform and waited for my roommate to pack up.
        The walk back was congested with giddy people and though I could understand their excitement I wanted to put my bass back as soon as I could. America for me went back to being laws and politics. But I understood a little more of what the troops felt before they left the United States. Only so far as the walk back to my dorm. By the next morning, everything was back to normal again.

Quintet for Piano, Violin, Viola, Violincello, and Double Bass in A Maj., Op. posth. 114, D. 667 (”The Trout”), Mvmt 2 by Franz Schubert

            “Echapée, changement, glissade, pas de chat, arabesque, pasé, down, chaine, step. Again!”
            Rachel gazed longingly at the slender muscular legs flying back and forth with perfect precision, the colorful leotards flying across the small practice space. Feet arched upon their toes in graceful lines, the arc of supple arms extending to gentle fingers flashed and flew back and forth as the dancers drifted across the room, and ran back to the other end to do the routine again.
            “Good! Now tomorrow I just want to see the girls in the chorus and the day after that, Alice, you’ll start your part. Good night.”
            The girls bowed gently to their teacher and then turned to curtsey to the piano player in the corner of the room. He bowed his head gently while gathering his music. Rachel sighed and patted her legs longingly. The girls filed past her, some smiling if they saw her, others just walking past, chattering about various aches and pains.
            “Ready Rachel?” her sister asked her, coming out of the studio with her dance bag on her shoulder.
            “I guess so.”
            “I’m going to have to give Daniel a ride first, ok?”
            “Yeah.”
            “I’m sorry,” Rachel’s sister brushed her fingers through Rachel’s hair. “I wish you didn’t have to come.”
            “No it’s fine,” Rachel said, wheeling her self in her wheel chair to the main lobby of the studio. “I love to watch.”
            “I know,” her sister said with a sigh. “And sometimes I wish you could be there with me.”
            Rachel smiled. “But I am there, aren’t I? In your heart.”
            “Yes, you are. When did you get so wise, you little squirt?”
            “Well I couldn’t walk…I had to get the brains.”
            Rachel’s sister laughed. “Oh, I see.”
            “You know,” Rachel’s sister said after a silence, “I dance for you when I’m on stage. I think of you watching in the audience and I just sort of…do the best I can. I might not be as good as Alice, but…”
            “You’re better than Alice to me, and that’s all that counts.”
            Daniel came out of the studio with his music under his arm and sighed. “Oh, hey, Rach.”
            “Hi, Dan,” Rachel said, smiling wide. “Let’s go.”
            Rachel’s sister smiled and pushed the wheelchair out of the studio and to their car waiting on the street for them.

(Listen to the song (it starts about 33 seconds in). And if you are interested, because it’s quite interesting: parts of a Documentary of Itzhak Perlman playing this song in London. Part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4 (which is the same link if you want to listen to just the second movement), part 5, and part 6)