Music of the Night

In Andrew Lloyd Webber’s timeless musical “Phantom of the Opera,” (based upon the Gaston Leroux novel) Erik (the Phantom) pleads with Christine to help him make “The Music of the Night.” In the context of this musical, Erik quite literally means he needs her to help him make the music that is only heightened and improved by the intensity that night brings…

“Nighttime sharpens, heightens each sensation
Darkness stirs and wakes imagination
Silently the senses abandon their defenses”

Erik further pleads with Christine to give up her ambitions and daydreams to join him in a realm of endless night, where things are shrouded in shadow and darkness.

“Slowly, gently, night unfurls its splendor
Grasp it, sense it, tremulous and tender
Turn your face away from the garish light of day
Turn your face away from cold, unfeeling light
And listen to the music of the night”

What if we did as Erik suggests and “turn our faces from the cold, unfeeling light and listen to the music of the night”? But what if, just for a moment, we consider the fact that the music of the night need not actually be something you’d hear on today’s Top 40 radio stations?

I just moved from a unique environment to yet another quite unique environment. I was living in an area where the possibility of having snow on the ground for 6 months out of the year was the reality – a place where some of the bitterest cold you’ve ever felt is experienced again and again every winter. A place where, when the sun shines during the summer, your breath is constantly and consistently taken away by the beauty that surrounds you…

A town small enough that, once you reached the outskirts, there wasn’t anything in the way of light pollution or much in the way of sounds that indicate you are, in fact, living in civilization.

The music of the night there varies as the seasons, as strange and short as they may seem, change.

On a bitterly cold night, you could be surrounded by complete silence – a silence so profound you can almost hear the clouds as they move through the dark sky. A silence so complete that you can lose all sense of time and place.

On those cold nights, when the air is so cold it pricks at your skin in icy needles like the fingers of Death caressing you… when the air is dry enough that you can feel it in your lungs as you struggle to breathe… on those nights when it seems no living thing would risk being out, you experience sounds you thought only existed in documentaries and horror films…

The quiet crunch of snow under feet as the wolf, out looking for a meal, treks through the darkness…

The silent falling snow (and yes, it can still snow even at -20) as it lazily drifts from the sky and lands on already impressive, gleaming mounds that look bluish in the moon’s reflection…

The lonely cry of an owl, awake and watchful in the trees, as it keeps vigil for a passing squirrel or hare…

The gasps of awe as someone stands in that inky realm, witnessing the majestic dance of the Aurora Borealis across the sky for the first time…

THAT, my friends and family, is TRUE music of the night.

Conversely, I now live in an area where people cannot fathom that kind of environment, that kind of cold, that kind of beautiful desolation. But yet, their night music is just as beautiful.

When I got home tonight, I stood in full darkness for probably 10 minutes, amazed at the wonder around me. I’m in an area where there is still no light pollution surrounding me – but if you look down the hill on which I live, you can see the pale glow of the casino lighting up the night with its buzzing neon signs.

At night, the saw mill just up the hill is closed for business, so the only traffic you really hear is the rush of semis on the highway as they make their long trip to the next destination – only to deliver their cargo, pick up another load, and get back on the road.

As I gazed at a sky filled with more stars than most people can IMAGINE seeing at one time (let alone have probably ever seen at one time), I could feel the silence of night surrounding me…

But yet, was it really silent?

The trees were alive with a chorus of tree frogs, croaking and chirping their song…

A young hawk that has been spending its days in the trees and sky around the yard, hoping to catch a squirrel or bird unaware, cried out as if it were telling its brethren the location of a fat possum or rabbit that was easily caught…

A dog, just down the hill yet still shrouded in shadow, barked at the rush of the semis in the distance…

Which awakened the coyotes that roam through here, raising a chorus of higher pitched yips and howls that mixed with the dog’s much deeper barking…

Just down the hill in the yard, the grass crunched as a few of the cows moved about in search of a midnight snack, softly mooing to one another as they did…

THAT, my dear friends and family, is ALSO the TRUE music of the night.

So please, the next time the sun has set and the moon has risen, bringing with her the inky blackness of night, go outside and listen to the music which surrounds you. You may be hearing a fantastic symphony – the likes you will never hear again – with ears that had been deafened before to the truly majestic world in which you live.

An Apple For The Teacher

An Apple for the Teacher

Outside, it’s still very dark and cold.  The snow reaches above my knee.  But inside, it is warm and well lit, the glow of the television attracting me as if I was a herald moth.  The carpet is rough under my bare feet, tickly and scratchy.

I’m alone.  Mom and Dad have already left for work, braving the ice fog, subzero temperatures, and stubborn vehicles.  I’m curled up on a worn out couch under a thin blanket, eyes glued to a live feed on the news.  It’s a very exciting moment on an otherwise dull day, and I can’t look away.

The reporters on the screen drones on, filling my living room with a slew of information I know I should listen to but just can’t seem to make myself care about.  I want action – the immediate rush of adrenaline I know awaits.

~~~

The air is crisp and cold.  The overnight temperature dropped below freezing and local farmers are concerned about their crops.  The winter has been unusually cold, and this strange weather interferes with progress – they’ve already had to push this back more than once.  The rough concrete of the strip is crusted with frost that crunches and slips under the heavy boots.

Steel bleachers gleam in the morning sun.  Quickly, rumbling bus loads of spectators file out of squeaky doors, crammed together on the bleachers like a squirrel’s carefully constructed cache of acorns.  The sun beats down on them, warming them through jackets and sweaters, eyes transfixed on the platform before them.

Strategically placed speakers blare out the rich, tinny music of a military brass band in the pleasant atmosphere of this chilly, humid morning.  The crowd talks to one another laid back and passing the time until go.

~~~

The whoosh of the heat kicking on fills the close yet lonely space of the living room, seemingly sucking all the breath from the room when it first blasts.  I peek outside, looking at the stars twinkling in an absolutely midnight black sky.

Nature is a cruel mistress here in January.  Her mercurial moods that lift temperatures, along with your mood – only to have them plummet once again – makes you think of her extreme displeasure, as if she’s cursed the land and its inhabitants.

Breakfast now finished, I move closer to the television.  The vehicle carrying the magnificent seven arrives.  My pulse races and I know I am about to witness history.

~~~

The sun is heating the ground and the day is turning into something, while still chilly, is very pleasant for the occasion.  The atmosphere is festival, the convivial buzz of conversations and speculation filling the air.  The sky above them is a scintillating, absolutely clear blue.

It seems the day has finally given into temptation, raising temperatures along with everyone’s moods.  This is, after all, Florida – land of fun and sun.  Nature has finally given her blessing.

After their breakfast and a short briefing before go time, the lucky seven chosen for this historic mission load into a van.  They are shuttled out to the red carpet leading to the launch pad, heroes about to step into the annals of history.

~~~

I have the sound turned down on the television.  I have no wish to listen to some reporter talk over any information mission control may be giving.  If only they’d tap into the feed from the center, I’d be raptly listening to the commentary.  My young brain just can’t take the boring tones of the reporter, though.

I watch as they approach the shuttle.  The vivid blue of their uniforms almost match the sky.  A launch technician hands her something – a brilliant dot of crimson against the baby blue background.  He’s remembered that you must give an apple to the teacher before the class day begins, and I laugh.

I’m almost holding my breath as I watch them enter a cavelike opening.

~~~

A hush falls over the crowd.  They’ve got an announcer there, on the premises, giving a blow by blow of what is happening there, live.  Spectators have quit talking, paying rapt attention to the announcer’s every word.

The seven astronauts chosen for this mission appear from a van, and everyone cheers.  They walk down a red carpet, the kind saved for Hollywood VIPS or royalty, approaching the shuttle in the trademark blue uniforms of NASA.  A launch technician gives everyone a smile and quick laugh with a cliché – handing her a bright red apple.

They wave to the crowd, smiling and hearts full of hope.  With one last salute, they enter the shuttle.

~~~

I’m mere inches from the television now.  The time has come for them to check all the systems, ensure everything is in good working order.  My heart in racing, my pulse is pounding as the time gets closer.

Having just celebrated an historic holiday, to me this is much more worthy of celebration, of holiday.  A teacher in space?  No way!  This is an honor reserved for Air Force officers, pilots… the upper echelons of the cool!  The fact that they chose her for this?  It gives hope to everyone who dreams of going into space.

I know the launch is very close.

~~~

The seven are seated, running through pre-launch check.  The goal is to ensure everything is in working order so the launch does not get scrubbed yet again.  Hearts are beating, pulses sped up in anticipation of this historic event.

Christa McAuliffe, an 8^th grade social studies and history teacher, is onboard as a payload specialist.  She was chosen out of thousands of teachers who applied for the chance at visiting space.  Her plans are to actually teach some of her classes while orbiting above Earth.  This has given children all over hope that they may also one day go into outer space.

It’s time to start the countdown.

~~~

Oh, this is it!  I turn the volume back up and place the remote on top of the large, clunky frame of the television.  They’ve started the countdown!!

I hear the thundering of the rockets igniting, but the effect is lost in my living room.  I watch, bright-eyed and naïve in my optimism.  This historic day will be one that lives in my memory forever, I think, one I will happily relive – even tell my own children about in time.

My heart is pounding in my chest as they reach 1 and the shuttle lifts off.

~~~

The countdown is started.  The crowd watches, spellbound by the moment at hand.

You could hear a pin drop in the bleachers if it wasn’t for the thunderous roar of those huge rockets.  They shake the ground like an earthquake, and everyone buzzes with excitement.  It’s going to be a day none of them will forget.

Every eye in the nation is on the shuttle as the countdown reaches one.  The shuttle lifts off.

~~~

Eyes wide in wonder, I watch as the shuttle grows smaller and smaller on my television.  My excitement is growing as I know soon it will disappear from vision as they exit the atmosphere and enter space.

Then shock… horror… my heart leaps into my throat.  There is something incredibly wrong!

The smoky fireball of the first engine separating is joined by a second as the shuttle itself bursts into flames.

~~~

The shuttle grows smaller and smaller on the horizon, moving higher and closer to the point of no return.  No one is ready for what comes.

Nine seconds into flight, right as the first rocket separates and after making a strange pattern through the short flight, an extra flame trail appears in the sky.

A silent fireball appears as the shuttle explodes like the Hindenburg.

~~~

My eleven year old mind is unable to fully process the gravity of the situation as the reporters jump back on the live feed.  My mouth is open wide in shock as I watch the smoky trail in the sky which separates into two smaller ones ending in bright flames.

This is my first memorable experience with tragedy.  Sure, I’d known my great grandparents died, but that was when I was six.  The concept of death was foreign and strange.  They just went to sleep in my mind, a really long nap.

But this?  This sticks with me for quite a while, the image of those fireballs in the sky leading from separate trails.  I don’t know quite how to process the enormity of the situation, so I try my best to find different ways to cope.

~~~

The spectators sit in the stands, silent and staring into the sky dumbly.  It’s something that takes time to process – it takes a moment for the brain to accept what has happened.

This is the first tragedy that, because of advancing technology and worldwide newsfeeds, the world shares in equally.  It is the first catastrophic event that touches the lives of such disparate strangers in such a real, visceral way.

In the months and years to come, NASA, the U.S., and many people who shared that awful moment must find ways to come to terms with what they witnessed.  For some, it’s through the review of flight data to isolate the moment of failure.  For others, it’s reexamining the dream of possibly going to space.  For others, it’s trying to compartmentalize what they saw, what happened, what was experienced, so that they can deal with the enormity of it.

~~~

It has been decades since that fateful moment when the space shuttle Challenger exploded approximately 10 miles over Cape Canaveral, Florida, killing all seven astronauts aboard, including Payload Specialist Christa McAuliffe, an 8^th grade social studies and history teacher.  While she knew she was making history as the first civilian to enter space, she did not know she would forever be remembered in connection with such an awful, tragic moment in U.S. history.

It was the first space launch watched by scores of school-aged children.  It was an occasion teachers across the country wanted their children to be a part of this moment in time, not knowing what horrible images with which they’d be left.  Children who were old enough to recognize the gravity of the situation yet were still young enough with limited life experience to be able to completely cope with the explosion were left with questions, concerns… nightmares.

And in all of that, that apple – red and shiny, crisp and beautiful – handed to her before they entered the shuttle is an enduring image of childhood.  It is something innocent, familiar… a comforting picture from everyone’s childhood – an apple for the teacher.

Trapped in the Pages of Insanity

Our first fiction assignment was to write a flash fiction piece - something short and to the point.  The added element is we had to include something referred to as a "trope" - a singular object, idea, etc around which the action in the piece revolves.  Suggestions for locations included a yard sale, so I started thinking about a yard sale gone wrong.

This was what flowed from my fingertips, sitting in class...

Trapped in the Pages of Insanity

 

 



The sun, burning through the early morning fog, cut the chill like a barber’s razor.  Grass crunched under heavy feet, dew glistening like diamonds.

The tattered remains of a former life scattered the lawn on rickety wooden tables.  Brightly colored plastic, smooth glazed ceramics, and tarnished metal beckoned like the perfume of a beautiful woman.

Among the broken toys and tattered clothing, he saw something – something as beautiful as it was terrible.  He’d been looking for this book for years, and here it was – tossed aside like garbage.

His fingers gingerly brushed the cover, cool to the touch… jagged along a torn edge.  He lifted it, the smell of paper, ink, and dust – a heady aroma to any bibliophile – assaulted his senses and touched parts of him he’d thought long dead.

He must have it!

Setting the book down, he reached for his wallet.  He checked for cash and, elated with his find, went to grab his treasure again.

It was gone!

He looked around, wild eyed and panicked.  He must have it!  Where’d it go?

A woman walked away from him, something in her hands.

“Give it to me,” he shouted.

She looked at him as if he’d gone mad.

“I just found it!  You can’t take it!”

She shook her head and turned to leave.

He ran, tackling her from behind and knocking her to the ground.

“I have to have it!”  His eyes, glazed with adrenaline, bulged from his face.

He ripped it out of her hands, only to find his treasured book was a lunchbox the lady had just bought.

He rolled off her, defeated… depressed…

He laid there, looking up at a clear blue sky.  In the distance, flashing lights and sirens grew closer.

As soon as he escaped again, he’d find his precious book…

His prize…

His treasure…

… that part of his soul he’d lost so long ago to the ravages of time and insanity.

Petroglyph

This poem is another which flowed from the Walk and Write at the UAF Museum of the North.  The first exhibit I saw were these petroglyphs recreated on large, smooth river stones.  I sat in the floor, running my hands over the stones, letting my fingers dip into the carvings, and immediately had to write.

This is what I wrote (it has not been edited or rewritten):

Petroglyph

 

River stone
Washed smooth over the
Course of a millennia,
Rough edges eroded to
Reveal the heart

Chosen not by size or color,

Not by location or age
But by emotion…
Intuition…
Insight…
Hope.

Excess stone chipped and chiseled,

Piece by piece,
Like paint flaking in the sun.

Hands move carefully…

Deliberately…
Guided by the ghosts of
Those gone before
Until a shape is clear.

Cast in pale relief from a dark shell,

The tale is told, the story sung,
A myth made real in the face of that
River stone.

Re:

Poetry surrounds us in all forms.  A common theme in some poetry is starting with a question or idea while yet another common element is repetition of an idea, object, etc.

This assignment was to write a poem beginning with the line "I'd like to begin again" and, within the poem, we had to have some repetition. 

This was also our first wild word assignment.  My word was splices.

The thought with which I was immediately struck was how some people in internet chat rooms simply say "re," if another chatter has disconnected and quickly rejoined.  This is the poem that flowed from that idea.

Re:

 

I’d like to begin again…

Rewind

          to that first moment
Reset
          the clock to zero hour
Reboot
          the CPU which splices memory
Rearrange
          circumstances, fate, chance

Yes, I’d like to begin again…

Recognize

          moments too precious to waste
Reembark
          on that path leading to my future
Reform
          my opinion of time, of choice
Rebuild
          my sense of me

We should be allowed to begin again.