Friday, December 13, 2013

Our Gods

When your Rachmaninoff section came in, the rains fell. The clouds broke. Like it had been waiting all this time for you to start playing. When the orchestra lifted me high so that my nose touched the clouds I float with the ravens who called out their noisy welcome to me.

My sins dripped off my chest. They dropped to the earth like black oil drips, merging, colliding with the soil, until the gracious earth ate it, swallowed it.

There's something strangely unearthly about your music. I grit my teeth and try to comprehend it. I soar among the clouds like a wingless demon but in a holy garb, forgiven, accepted by your musical enormity. The thunder claps around me. Or are those the orchestral drums at the back, patiently awaiting their turn and then resounding with flourish when it comes?

Let's now fight our battles. Let's head back down to earth, now that you are replenished and refreshed by the rain and the dripping of Rachmaninoff's piano notes. Let's go to the coffee houses and look our parts again. This miserable human existence. When we need it again, we will soar again.

Our gods, the Rachmaninoffs, the Wagners, they spirit us. They lift us when we are down. For a few minutes perhaps we can avoid being these heavy hearted souls sitting in the rain, holding our arms out to the gods to take us to the skies again. Perhaps the gods will be merciful. 

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