The Message

If you're looking out a window, and you're not looking at the sky, it would be easy to assume today is just a late summer's day, springlike, perhaps, like so many other days. The lawns are lush and green and overgrown from constant sun and rain, flowers still bloom in flurries of color and raise buds for tomorrow. Birds are calling from the trees, a constant symphony of innumerable instruments. Step away from the window and walk through the door.

It's all a trick. Autumn is slowly wrapping herself around trees and skimming across the sky, calling the geese to follow her south. Pale leaves are beginning to litter sidewalks and streets, crackling gaily beneath automobile tires and passers-by. Squirrels are in a panic, scurrying to and fro, squabbling over food and storage space for winter, disturbing many with their constant chatter. While still bright, the flowerbeds are thinner. More and more patches of bare Earth can be seen between the brilliant array of petals.

New colors are showing up. The sparkling blues of sky and swimming pool, the reds of strawberries and tomatoes, the astonishing hues leaping from flower petals, all are giving way to a more brilliant display. Oranges and yellows of pumpkin and squash are unveiling themselves. Russet apples burst from orchard branches. The trees are beginning to store away for the winter, causing their leaves to flame in all shades of colors- red, yellow, deep purple, orange, and many colors in between. Eventually they drop and shrivel, and are pushed around by playing winds, or shattered with crunching defeat.

Today is one of those remarkable, unexplainable, wonderful days outside. The sky is overcast, threatening rain, perhaps a weak attempt at snow, neither of which will occur. A matte grey blanket of clouds. "The Grey Dome," a Professor of mine called it once. It's not cold outside; the neighbor's thermometer is checking in near 65°F. The breeze, however, is one of those sudden bursts of air that comes without warning, whipping your hair every which way and whistling in your ears. The breeze, my friends, is cold. The winds coming through the windows are cause for putting another blanket on the bed, and talk of drawing the window closed for the night and turning on the heat. The combination of warm air and cool breeze combined with the sky above is just enough to make somebody push his shorts aside and start thinking about bringing sweaters and jackets from their hibernation in boxes.

Some say this weather is depressing. That it's "gloomy." I could agree, if this weather had been constant and unrelenting. But, fortunately, today is the beginning. After weeks of sun and sweat, of burnt shoulders and cursing forgotten sunglasses, today is welcome. The air feels crisp and smells sweet. The leaves bumpily blowing across the pavement sound a skritchy Morse Code. The message: Autumn is coming.

It's wonderful to be somebody else for a song.

"They say music can alter moods and talk to you..."

Music's Eminem (Marshall Mathers) has a lyric along those lines. Whether he believes that or not is none of my concern. I believe it. It was proven to me today, in the most unexpected of events. I read a series of "young-adult" books where each chapter is begun with a quote. Some are the words of historically famous people such as Winston Churchill, Albert Einstein, and Henry David Thoreau; others are from more commonly known sources such as Charlie Brown, Dr. Seuess, and Matt Groening, the creator of The Simpsons. Other quotes are snips from Greek mythology, Western Union's internal memos, and various quotes and lyrics from people and artists I've never heard of but am sure are quite good at their craft. When I find a quote that strikes me- makes me laugh, makes me think, or makes me remember something from my own life, I have a bad habit of folding the corner of the page down to mark that little piece of literature for quick future reference. One of my first posts on this blog explains why this is not a good idea in regards to how finicky I get with my books, but that is neither here nor there. I was skimming through one of these books today, not really reading, just flipping pages and catching a few sentences here and there. There were several quotes, not on marked pages, that jumped out at me. They related to my life in a way I was hoping to find in a friend. These one-liners made me feel like I could feel better, and it was OK. All these quotes were from the same person. Somebody I had never heard of.

Being the curious geek that I am, I jumped on my trusty search engine and sought the guy out. I figured he was a poet, maybe an artist with a few good lines during an interview. I was wrong, surprise surprise. He was an English musician in the late 1960's- early 1970's. I'm sure his career would have been longer if he hadn't died. He overdosed on anti-depressants; it was ruled as suicide, but many people, including family members, stand by the belief it was accidental. Again, I digress. He was a musician, complete with acoustic guitar. I *ahem* acquired some of his music, and I'm sad he wasn't so popular 30 years ago. Maybe he would have been around longer with a little encouragement, if you get my drift. He messed around with wicked tuning and finger-picking and had a voice that wasn't exactly deep- it was sweet but not innocent. Perhaps it's innocent but not sweet, I can't tell.

So I'm listening to his songs, pulling out symbolism and listening to him make heart-wrenching ideas spill sweetly from his lips. They hardly seem sad coming from him. Out of nowhere, this beat comes from my speakers. This rolling, intense beat made my heart join in the rhythm and add to the percussion. Then, another surprise, a cello glides in, not sad- it sounds like it's calling across a mountain to a distant friend. Then, he sings. I can't help it- I smile. My arms and shoulders move as if pulled by invisible strings. They stretch, they bend, they wake from a sleep gone on too long. I'm sitting on a metal folding chair in my bedroom waving my arms around like I'm pretending to be a tree, or trying to catch flies in a pool of molasses, yet I feel wonderful, no shame or embarrassment. On the contrary, I felt wonderful! I felt like my soul dove into a cold, clear pool, all the way to the pebbly bottom where warm sunlight danced through the water, winking through the waves like diamonds.

I know you must think I had way to much caffeine or something, but I do not jest. This song calmed my head, woke up my body, and cleansed my soul. I played it over and over, drinking in the feeling. It feels like new blood is moving through my veins, no, I feel too alive for simply blood. It feels like there is a bold river foaming and crashing inside me, in the most wonderful way. The way my body reacted to this music was as if it were not my own. It was free, it was moving, it stretched and swayed. It's wonderful to be somebody else for a song.

Music does alter moods; it can speak to you. My guess is that we cannot go in search of such a song, rather it finds us, in the one moment where it finds us unsuspecting. I've been in a deep pit lately, not even motivated to draw open the curtains or raise the shade of the window. And in a moment I was caught unaware. Out of the lyrics and the melancholy chords and symbolism came a phoenix. Rising from the ash, it pulled me from the pit I've been in and dropped me into a song. I cried, the first happy tears I can remember in years. Call me crazy if you wish. I'll simply smile, for I'll know you haven't found your song yet.

Nick Drake- Cello Song.

You have 30 days. 30 days to tell somebody you love them, to try and make up for every mean, hatueful, hurtful, or spiteful thing youv'e ever said to them or thought about them. 30 days to get the courage to play your violin for them without crying. To go into that room every day for however long it takes, not knowing who or what you may find- person, shell, or half of each.

The doctors said it could be as quick as 30 days. Actually, we were all told between now and Christmas. But I was there when they didn't think I could hear them, and they said it could be as quick as 30 days.

30 days. Longer than some lives. Not the life I'm worried about. His life has had years, many years, but not enough. He's just starting to get better, talking more, moving more. How can that exist in the same universe as so much pain?