A Cross-section of These Quiet Moments

-Review of “Columbus”, directed by Kogonada

 

Small, intimate encounters spanning mere days or weeks ironically bear a kind of weight that can reverberate for years to come, and even heal. Such was my experience with the film “Columbus” and its lead characters, directed by first-time auteur Kogonada previously known for his quality work as a video essayist. Since his passing, this film is but one of only a handful I believe captures Roger Ebert’s poetic thoughts on films being machines that can garner empathy. Here, this is not achieved through soul-crushing emotional revelations or plot-centric, relational bombast but through the poignant conversations between the film’s two leads portrayed in Jin (John Cho) and Casey (Haley Lu Richardson).

The film’s cinematography, deftly captured by Elisha Christian, may as well as be the film’s third lead character, as it operates with such intentionality and forthright majesty that it is an entity unto itself, quietly but prominently present as we are invited to listen in on these characters’ conversations. And conversational this film is, moving at what might otherwise be considered a tedious, uneventful pace in any other work, but not here. The emotional tenderness and authenticity I experienced as the film came to a close honestly surprised me, though I was immediately grateful for it as I also realized I would miss these lovely people whose lives I had been invited into.

Per the cinematography and thematic anchors, architecture is a foundational concept throughout the film and between Jin and Casey, as both characters bond over forms of estrangement from their parents. Jin has returned to Columbus, Ohio to aid his ailing father, a stand-out architecture critic and lecturer in the area, though this passion perhaps also served as the source of their estrangement; Casey on the other hand bears an innocent but well-informed, intellectually enamored affection for architecture as the safe places she retreats to physically and emotionally to cope with the knife edge she believes he mother is constantly straddling behind her back, rooted in a past of meth addiction. Architecture in essence bonds these two characters as they both in turn view its impact on their lives from opposite ends of the spectrum as governed by their family systems.

Character development of course primarily resides in these interactions between Jin and Casey, but more beautifully so, I felt it in witnessing the mundane. Jin’s shoulders slumping slightly as he lowers his head in the shower. Casey and her mother peeling vegetables together to prepare dinner. Brief scenes of either character walking to a new location, the town’s architecture an ever persistent presence melding background and foreground at times to remind you of its characterization. All of these small moments and scenes are nonverbal character development, perhaps lending all the more to these people feeling so very real in their portrayal. Said moments and conversations are in turn serenely punctuated by a lovely, soothing score by Hammock, whom Kogonada sought out specifically to compose for the film; my previous experience with the band as an instrumental post-rock/post-alternative force has only been augmented positively so with their presence in this film.

Jin and Casey’s veiled wounds and the walls they have built in front of their goals, personal or relational,  are likewise represented in a way by the architecture on display; physical space, angular beauty, striking symmetry, all of these things are used with precision and intentionality in every scene such that any of them could be easily framed. The structures portray beauty and even mastery of sort, all the while knowing the intense labor underwent in their creation. This intentionality adds depth to their conversations as well, even if only subtly. Meandering pace and progression are at the heart of this film, but that is a praise. We sometimes hear of this concept of there being beauty in the mundane; Jin and Casey’s relationship combined with the visualizations on display argues a step further: these mundane moments and brief relationships aren’t just beautiful, they can carry us forward.

Side characters in Casey’s co-worker (Rory Culkin), star pupil and protégé of Jin’s father (Parker Posey), and Casey’s mother (Michelle Forbes) all bear unique weight in their interactions and histories with the lead characters, adding nuance or levity to the plot’s progression that also further characterizes the town. I would have liked to see perhaps another 10-15 minutes of interactions between these characters and the leads even for the sake of a little more exposition about their pasts, but the film does not necessarily suffer for lacking it.

“Columbus” simply asks of its audience the most basic, important of requests in cinema: pay attention. Attend to what is in front of you, don’t just watch and hear, but internalize. We are invited into the conversations between Jin and Casey, that we might be reminded sometimes even brief or chance connections with another person might be the very thing that start us down the path to tearing down impediments we have built in front of carrying forward, even those we are not entirely aware of. We must simply pay attention.

The Stories Held Here- A Review of “If Beale Street Could Talk” (directed by Barry Jenkins) by Javin Mather

Even great turmoil and unjust pain can be conveyed tenderly when done so through a lens of love, though not easily so. This is what is accomplished in “If Beale Street Could Talk”, directed by Barry Jenkins whose film “Moonlight” took home Best Picture for 2016. Here, Jenkins trades the multi life-phase, almost biopic approach of Moonlight for a period piece conveying myriad facets of black America even resonant in today’s social climate as told through the romantic strife of its two wonderful lead characters Tish Rivers (Kiki Layne) and Alfonzo “Fonny” Hunt (Stephan James).

Beale Street is conceptualized even in the film’s beginning in a quote from James Baldwin, author of the book, being described not so much as literal, physical place (though it may well be) but as a kind of narrative plane of existence in which reside all of the many stories of African Americans in all of their joy, sorrow, struggles, and ongoing hope for true change. The love of Tish and Fonny is one such story, intimately told with attention to detail and poignancy in a 1960s or 70s New York city landscape. Central plot vehicles throughout the story center around Tish’s ongoing acclimation to her pregnancy with Fonny’s child as well as the various family dynamics at play between her own family and his upon mustering courage to break the news. Meanwhile, legal drama and even some thriller elements come into play in the film’s other narrative pillar, being Fonny’s seeking justice while incarcerated for a crime he was wrongfully accused of. How the couple upholds their love and support for one another and their developing child amid these oppressive trials is the bedrock upon which the film offers warmth and hope despite the social injustices of the setting.

“Everything fades away or disappears when I’m with them” and similar phrasings are used sometimes when describing quality time and intimacy in romantic relationships, and Jenkins achieves this for the viewer in Beale Street, primarily achieved from my perspective through three main aspects of the filmmaking: Layne and James’ sincere acting and authenticity in expression; beautiful and inviting cinematography from James Laxton connecting us to the characters’ direct gaze into the camera in detached moments; and a warm, enveloping score by Nicholas Britell. Whenever the pair is on screen together, it’s as though everything around indeed fades away, and it’s an experienced I’ve never had in a film with a pair of characters. The intimacy of myriad small and large moments between them as a couple were felt with such intensity and sense of connection, I felt as though I was almost intruding upon them in the midst of those experiences as an unwelcome guest at risk of distracting them from one another. In light of this, Tish and Fonny almost immediately took place on a short list of characters for whom I hold a deeply hearfelt desire for their happiness no matter what. I gladly welcome them.

Tish’s loving, wide-eyed gaze is amplified all the more by how brilliant her smile feels in moments of recognizing Fonny’s love and consideration for her, and I desired those moments all the more for her as they occurred only occasionally but powerfully so throughout the couple’s various trials. Fonny’s reassuring smile and strong vocal cadence accompany Tish’s precious emotionality in a manner that conveys genuine desire to love, support, and protect her contrasted to the underlying brokenness he feels being limited in doing so from prison. These felt like fiercely real people whose lives I was privileged to be invited into, and maybe that’s the point of Beale Street: we’re being invited into the lives of others, as we are in most any kind of relationship, but at such a unique level of intimacy that we may as well being falling in love alongside them.

I mention the score earlier, and I’ll say a bit more here. Beale Street is one of the few films I’ve seen in recent years where the score not only augments or enhances its emotions, it is mandatory to its experience, as though it were its own fleshed out character learning and feeling with us alongside Tish and Fonny. Britell’s use of strings when the couple is on-screen invites like a warm blanket stitched with equal parts warmth and heartache just as ominous low notes and tones made me bristle at the thought of anything threatening these people I grew to love.

Acting from side characters such as Regina King and Colman Domingo are equally heartfelt and engaging as Tish’s loving but protective parents, though Dave Franco’s unexpected presence as a well-intentioned Jewish landlord seeking to offer Tish and Fonny assistance removed me momentarily from the film’s immersive haze. Ed Skrein (Deadpool)briefly portrays a venomous police officer complicit in Fonny’s wrongful incarceration, and actresses portraying Fonny’s toxically religious mother and sisters serve their brief parts well in a scene of emotional tug o’ war between both families following Tish’s revealing her pregnancy early in the film. A trip made out of state by Tish’s mother late in the film, though excellently acted, felt as though it momentarily disrupted the film’s pacing as well.

Jenkins portrays intimacy between people with a rare level of nuance, authenticity, and precision in character growth that I felt as though I was actively experiencing said connections with the characters versus simply bearing witness to it as an audience member. I’m reminded of the scene in Moonlight during which Mahershala Ali’s character tenderly cradles the film’s lead character Kevin in the water as he teaches him to swim, turning to my wife with tears unexpectedly streaming down my face and stating “It’s the first time in his life where he feels safe with someone else.” It has been narrative blessing to be invited into Tish and Fonny’s story that conveys safety in the hope focusing on love can provide, proving all the more that Beale Street is indeed a sacred vestibule of stories such as theirs.

Terms

“Terms”

 

I feel like some distinctions are worth exploring when it comes to film and surrounding terminology.

 

Plot: the general synopsis or “pieces”/events of the film in which the characters fall into and are impacted by

 

Story: how said pieces occur, in what order, and the outcome they create, the plot more fully fleshed out or given more detail and connected coherence

 

-plot and story are often used interchangeably, but I would argue they are not one in the same. Plot is far more general, if you will. A film can arguably have a plot but little to no story, but it cannot have a story without a plot since story is a more in-depth, detailed expounding upon of the plot. Plot and story are both present, for example, in “The Avengers”, though one could argue something like Terrence Malick’s “Tree of Life” or “To the Wonder” have a plot but little in the way of actually story per se.

 

Premise/theme: These two words could perhaps be utilized interchangeably, premise being the underlying concept or human element the writer and director are seeking to portray. Bear in mind portrayal and actual execution are two different things. Take this line from a review for “Brad’s Status” for example: “…the uncomfortable truths it explores: the human tendency to take stock, especially around middle age, and to compare our lives against both our friends’ achievements and our youthful visions of our future selves.” This is the underlying human theme that is conveyed in the film, something we are to understand and perceive via paying attention as the audience, and it’s likely not going to be spelled out for us or verbalized in the film; that would essentially be narrative “hand-holding” if you will, and is arguably insulting to the film-goer, let alone doesn’t challenge us to think and muse about the experience.

 

-films always have plot, and should they eschew more in-depth focus on an actual story, that doesn’t mean it’s a bad film. It perhaps means that focus is being given to portraying a central premise or theme. Take last year’s “Logan” for example. While it did contain narrative and structural progression of a story, one could also argue James Mangold was ultimately more focus on conveying a premise of finality, one’s past catching up to them, and the redemption of a hero from his violent past.

 

Character development: how well a character’s personality, quirks, sense of voice, relatability, empathic elements, and human nuances are written and expressed by the actor/actress such that they feel like a real, complex being; or, should said character fall into a trope (intentionally or unintentionally), what unique elements about them are still present that make them engaging beyond said trope.

 

Character arcs: how a characters grows changes (or does not) in response to the events of the plot or the story, and well do those changes or lack thereof fit into the flow of executing the premise and primary themes. Frustration over some characters being seemingly static or changing very little is perhaps unwarranted at times, as the fact that they don’t change or are stubborn in their traits amid even the most dire of plot events is perhaps what the creator is trying to convey about them, regardless of their likability.

 

Word Building: how are the world, environments, and spaces portrayed in the film (fictional or non-fictional) conveyed and displayed such that they feel like realistic and/or lived in places we as the audience can form some kind of connection to such that they bear influence on the characters, the plot, the story, and possibly even the characters’ emotional arcs. World building might also be associated with events, scenes, backstory, lore, and other such information (visual or otherwise) that convinces us the places were are seeing have not only some kind of history to them, but also create a tone and atmosphere that contributes to the film’s premise and plot events. For example, scenes of violence or even sexuality in some manner in a given work may in fact have little to do with plot or story progression. That does not mean they are present without purpose or simply for shock/titillation. They perhaps contribute to the world’s tone, positively or negatively depending on what the auteur desires to portray and convince us of (This place is magical, this place is horrifying, this place is tragic, this place is beautiful and peaceful, this place is dreary and toxic, etc.).

 

 

Apart from one’s own personal/moral convictions, I’d argue that all of these terms and how even individual scenes, events, and interactions in a given film contribute to them need to be taken into account. In terms of content, there are certainly things I have a hard time watching or “handling” in some films; that does not mean that given content is pointless, wrong, or doesn’t deserve the place it holds in that film, however. I feel we often confuse our own reactions to things in films with whether or not they should be there to begin with. Another contention is the tendency to criticize something as being of lower quality or relatively disinteresting due to our perhaps not understanding the nature of what’s occurring; perhaps a story isn’t being told so much as we are being shown a collection of characters, their lives, and how they react and change in response to aspects of a premise or central theme. Conversely, something that is especially driven by narrative and story related event progression may not always bear the depth of character development or arcs that we’re looking for, but that does not necessarily mean the film is poorly made or has not been executed well.

 

My experience with any quality film, be it a summer action-packed blockbuster or a gut-wrenching dramatic piece worthy of awards attention, is that most things in them are rarely portrayed without purpose. We would perhaps simply do well to recognize that the given “purpose” of most anything in a film feeds into one or multiple of the terms I’ve explored, sometimes not just feeding into “story” or its progression therein. This isn’t a negativistic critique of the movie-going audience per se but more so an exploration of the eyes for film I’ve developed over the year as a cinephile and (hopeful) critic. We often hear the phrase (or chastisement) “pay attention”. That is an action word, to attend to something. Being mindful of intentionally and perhaps more fully attending to the stories we partake of, whether for entertainment/laughs or learning something about the lives of others, will ultimately enhance our understanding of them as well as our overall experience.

Balance in All Things

-review of Star Wars: The Last Jedi, written and directed by Rian Johnson

-based on characters created by George Lucas

 

 

In Star Wars mythos, the idea of balance permeates the entirety of the film saga, now 8 movies strong with Rian Johnson’s newly released “The Last Jedi”, along with side stories in “Rogue One” and various tv series and video game incarnations considered part of the official canon. Balance applies to the Force and the prophesies that reside within its legacy as heavily influenced by the Skywalker family. Balance is struck and tipped to and fro in the many war games and exhilarating dogfights in space. Balance is constantly in flux between being achieved and torn asunder between good and evil and large and small ways in the characters’ personal journeys, primary and tertiary.

That balance in terms of new Star Wars territory and filmmaking in general is expertly achieved in “The Last Jedi” is a remarkable feat, and it is through this lens that I hope to craft by review of the film, having just seen it tonight with the dearest of movie-going companions (spoiler-free!). Many feel this is the Star Wars film where the stakes are officially raised, and they would be right to think so after 2015’s lovely but largely safe “The Force Awakens” that struck all the right nostalgic chords while also carrying narrative weight largely similar (negatively so to some) to the original trilogy’s “A New Hope”. With “The Last Jedi”, Star Wars is striking out into far more unfamiliar territory both in its story as well as it narrative structure, a daunting task to say the least.

Here, however, Johnson shines. This feels like a Star Wars film, let’s get that out of the way first and foremost. The same feelings of dread and somber revelation occur in the story’s darker moment as they have in previous entries, the same excitement reverberates throughout the theater during the opening crawl and the movie’s various exciting setpieces, and the audience’s collective heartbeat races when the faces we’ve grown to love (old and new) adorn the screen. And yet there are differences as well. This is an action-packed movie, do not be mistaken, and yet at the same time, I would argue Johnson has also crafted a character-driven thriller. Daisey Ridley, Oscar Isaac, John Boyega, and Adam Driver seem far more at home in their characters in this film, and arguably we feel that with them as the audience. Rey, Poe, Finn, and Kylo Ren feel more grounded as believable characters in this movie, bolstered all the more by solid writing and even captivating dialogue moments that carry tension and excitement in tone and what they portend on part with the explosions and lightsaber battles. Character drama through solid writing, while certainly present in spurts in various entries in the series, has not been something the saga has been known for, but as previously discussed, it is balanced well with the elements of Star Wars we already know and love in “The Last Jedi”.

Character motivations, choices, plot elements, and various narrative twists likewise give the film a tone more akin to thriller as well as a kind of deceptive surprise we are perhaps not used to in a Star Wars movie. Characters will behave and make choices that sometimes periodically alter our impressions and feelings about them starkly contrasted to what we felt in “The Force Awakens”, even the original trilogy in some regards. Poe, while still brash and action-first, may come off somewhat frustrating at times here, understandably so, as those same admirable traits from “The Force Awakens” don’t necessarily serve him in the same capacity her. Even Luke, whose ample presence here more than makes up for his brief and reticent part in the last movie, is not so much the retired hero as he is a broken and jaded warrior well aware of the grey in the world around him after originally viewing his story as black and white. Especial credit should be given to both Daisy Ridley and Adam Driver in their portrayals of Rey and Kylo Ren, as their acting skills in these characters combined with the strong writing shine forth in such a way that the audience enters into a kind of tense dance with them, ebbing and flowing between feeling like we know and understand them or at times feel like we are questioning what we think we know of their motivations and allegiances.

I segway into a separate, tangential paragraph here briefly to pay special attention to the late Carrie Fisher’s role and presence in this film. To momentarily wax somewhat sentimental, she is our Princess Leia. This is in no way dampened in this new film, and in context of “balance” previously conceptualized, she is indeed the leader and princess known and loved in Star Wars lore, though counterbalanced with the resolve of a seasoned leader all to familiar with the weight of loss and experience. Her decisiveness, her moments of snark, the fierce determination in her eyes are alive and well in “The Last Jedi”, perhaps the most they ever have been in her time portraying this character, and one cannot help but feel added weight behind various lines and dialogue spoken by her addressing the series longstanding concepts of legacy, remembrance, and even mortality.

Other strong marks of the film include John Williams’ blaring score, carrying both familiar and new themes that scream Star Wars with pride and bombast. The visual aesthetic is likewise poignant, be the cold grays, black, and dark blues of space, the vibrant nightlife of a class-driven locale, or the piercing but morose red sands of a planet covered in salt and emptiness; I truly hope Disney begins releasing these films in the 4K blu-ray format upon home video release, at the very least with these newer Star Wars films. Side characters in Laura Dern’s Holdo as well as Kelly Marie Tran as the series first Asian-American main character in Rose are delightful in their roles and personalities, convicted, fierce, and determined in their own unique ways. Comic relief comes in the form of porgs, odd little part rabbit, part guinea pig, part bird-like creatures, present just enough and at usually the right moments to bring some laughs without overstaying their welcome to the point of being obnoxious.

The film is by no means perfect, and I certainly have my own gripes. Middle portions of the film seem to drag briefly, intermittently impacting its overall pacing but not detrimentally so overall. Benicio Del Toro’s side character is present in the film briefly enough that his part may as well be considered a cameo, and the character’s also carrying some vocal and behavioral tic in accent and mannerism feel a bit forced in lieu of the brevity of his part. This is indeed the longest Star Wars film, clocking in at around two and a half hours, and while this isn’t necessarily a complaint, a movie-goer may indeed “feel” this length, should they not be aware of it ahead of time. Some small events such as characters transitioning between locations and other such things seem to be missing minor steps in logic or explanation to the audience as well, and while these moments are not jolting enough to ruin engagement, they stood out to me nonetheless, however briefly.

Ever since the House of Mouse bought LucasFilm, I feel we are three for three thus far in terms of quality Star Wars movies being produced. That this is the first in the sage to venture into new narrative and tonal territory is certainly a notable event, but with all the challenges that come with that combined with honoring the elements of the series’ legacy that we know and love, I would say we are off to a great start with what Rian Johnson has crafted in “The Last Jedi”.

Beneath

Setting forth, the shroud of darkness already encroaches. A steady but wary stride carries me forth…to whatever end. Yellow eyes and the clicking of teeth and claws begin to surround me after what seems like only moments. They do not yet advance, however. I continue on, ever at the ready. There is a suffocating thickness to the darkness, filling my lungs it seems just as it nearly blinds me. Still, I press on. At what must be the midway mark, it begins.

I run with all my might, seeing shadow after shadowy silhouette detach itself from the surrounding tree lines and unformed crevices and alcoves of this deadened, burnt land. Only seconds seem to pass, and I can already feel their hot breath on my neck, the glow of their eyes vaguely illuminating my shoulders. Clawed hand reach out, tearing my armor from me as though it was mere cloth rags, my flesh being gashed and torn deep in the process. I am pulled violently backward, hard and fast, suddenly feeling icy murky water surround and envelop me as my head sinks beneath the surface before I can even hope to gather my bearings. I am pulled and sink to a bottomless depth over and over, losing coherence and feeling more and more each time…

It feels as if an eternity has passed in this place. I have lost sense of self, purpose, and motivation… of heart. All is a dark, sludging haze, and my adversaries must be content with my present state, as they have not sought to torture me with any kind of consistency. I am numb all over in mind and body. I bear no attachment to anything or any awareness of myself, my form, or my spirit. All is still, subdued, and passive in this murky world of depravity and silent ruin.

Suddenly, a shattering shriek of rage and fear strangely goes up and echoes through the void in which I dwell. Something pulsates within and around me, growing gradually stronger and stronger with each passing beat. Faints lines and waves of light begin to ripple outward from my decrepit form as I lift my eyes and feel something. That I am feeling anything is wondrous enough, but it is a strange feeling. The faintest slivers of resolve begin to interweave themselves through me, amplifying the burgeoning pulsation and light radiating outward. I lift my eyes, and I begin to climb.

No sooner as I begin to climb do clawed hands reach out from seemingly all directions to try and pull be back down, and indeed they do so much that I am swallowed into a mass of agonized, writing forms of teeth and leathery flesh. Aggressively, I shoulder, shove, and push as hard as I can to fight through the horde of this complacent world’s malicious denizens, seeking even the smallest of openings. The light continues to pulsate through and outward from me, but I can scarcely make it out amidst the mass I am in. One final pulse booms outward with sudden, impacting ferocity, causing the forms around me to spread briefly in terror. Bloodied, exhausted, and broken of what strength I thought I had, I reach up to grasp scarred hands…

Romance

I write this piece as perhaps an addendum of sorts to my earlier piece “The Grand Pursuit: A Beautiful Violence”.  I have spent some time in sweet connection and intimacy with Jesus, my King, today, and I am ever swept up, tenderly embraced, and beautifully overwhelmed with how in love with him I am.  Knowing furthermore that the love with which he pursues and romances my heart overshadows my own efforts to the nth degree fills me with awe and silences anything I could hope to say in response, even in times that I have fallen sway to lesser lovers.

Music is innate to my heart and spirit’s connecting with the Greater Things beyond me and this temporal existence.  I experienced precious intimacy and closeness through both lyrics and pure instrumentation during our time together today, as well as loving communication and prayer. Following this, I felt led to investigate and re-read old messages and emails from dear friends, people integral to God’s displaying His absolute goodness and provision for my heart’s growth, strengthening, and overall nourishment.  I realize this experience today was something meant for me and the King alone, as is the amazing and intimate nature of the ways in which he recklessly chases after our hearts like a lover, but allow to me to at least share the lyrics to two songs that resonated with my heart during this sacred time.  Thank you for reading and for listening, dear ones.  I love you all.

“Hallelujah” by Bethany Dillon (acoustic)

Who can hold the stars
And my weary heart?
Who can see everything?

I’ve fallen so hard
Sometimes I feel so far
But not beyond your reach

I could climb a mountain
Swim the ocean
Or do anything
But it’s when you hold me
That I start unfolding
And all I can say is

Hallelujah, hallelujah
Whatever’s in front of me
Help me to sing hallelujah
Hallelujah, hallelujah
Whatever’s in front of me
I’ll choose to sing hallelujah

The same sun that
Rises over castles
And welcomes the day

Spills over buildings
Into the streets
Where orphans play

And only you can see the good
In broken things
You took my heart of stone
And you made it home
And set this prisoner free

Hallelujah, hallelujah
Whatever’s in front of me
Help me to sing hallelujah
Hallelujah, hallelujah
Whatever’s in front of me
I’ll choose to sing hallelujah

“Always” by Hillsong (United)

Did You rise the sun for me?
Or paint a million stars that I might
Know Your majesty?
Is Your voice upon the wind?
Is everything I’ve known marked
With my maker’s fingerprints?

Breathe on me
Let me see Your face
Ever I will seek You

Chorus:
‘Cause all You are, is all I want, always
Draw me close in Your arms
Oh God, I wanna be with You

Can I feel You in the rain?
Abandon all I am to have You
Capture me again
Let the earth resound with praise
Can You hear as all creation lives
To glorify one name?

This last song most especially speaks of such profound, divine intimacy J  Tears falls softly as I listen to it even now.

“Fallia”

Fallia

The day is enveloped by subtle but relaxing warmth.  A soft wind gently caresses the nearby Hokkaido coastline as it weaves its way across the rugged landscape towards the nearby city to greet the denizens that dwell there. It ushers in the kind of spring that foretells of new things to come but at the same time whispers softly of the good times passed, a peaceful nostalgia for those old enough to remember it.  The nearby city welcomes spring openly and casually, the pace of its inhabitants’ daily lives notably slowed and eased with the new season’s inception.  Like small boats drifting on the air, blossoms fall from the trees quietly to the ground.  Standing in just the right spot on the city’s edge brings the cradling sound of the ocean’s waves, back and forth, to and fro.

Sitting on a small outcropping in one of these very spots is a girl.  Her obsidian black hair is of a moderate length, falling just slightly two inches past her shoulders.  Some of it falls gently against her small face while some threatens to cover her azure eyes.  Her skin has a pale quality to it, not unlike the moon on a clear night.  Suri is her name.  She sits and watches the blossoms, captivated by their simple flow and beauty while awaiting the changes and newness that spring brings.

Like many girls at or around the age of 10, Suri has her own desires and dreams to chase.  A few years ago she began learning how to play the piano and immediately fell in love with it.  It was upon first hearing the keys sing “Crest of the Wind ~The Three Trails~” that she felt an intimate and inextricable bond with the instrument.  The beating of her heart and the breath of her soul became entwined with and wrapped up in the blessing of music as spoken through the piano’s voice.  These feelings and her curiosities only multiplied, growing in depth and complexity with each new thing she learned and experienced.

What time she has had to commit to lessons and practice since then has lessened due to her school activities keeping her busy and her parents’ constant insistence on prioritizing her academics.  She isn’t one of those kids that are curious about everything; she doesn’t make mischief or cause trouble.  Suri loves yellows, greens, and blues, any colors that paint the world with life and vigor.  What friends she has she is loyal to and goes out of her way to be there for.  She takes the world in simply.  Sometimes people get hurt or bad things happen, so she’s been taught.  School is just that: school. The best part of the day is, of course, at 3:00 PM, the end of the school day.  Her grades are nothing spectacular, though she makes efforts to excel in what she does.

Today, Suri is not feeling quite well.  Her parents assure her that she will feel better soon enough, that what she is feeling is just the flu, nothing more.  Upon coming home, Suri’s mother gives her some pills to take and sends her to her room to rest, as per the doctor’s orders.  Parents will be parents, and hers most certainly are; the fuss her mother makes over her not feeling well seems just silly to her at times and can be rather annoying.  Suri slowly drifts off to sleep.  Like anyone else, she dreams.  It is at times like these that she sees Fallia.

It begins like every other time.  Fallia is beautiful.  Her eyes open slowly.  Fallia looks down at her feet and then her hands.  Her fingers are long and slender, her palms soft.  Appearing around 17 years old, her silky black hair falls long past her shoulders, nearly reaching her waist.  Her frame is small, her face gentle but determined, exuding a quiet strength.  She proceeds to take in her surroundings, her piercing ocean-blue eyes looking around curiously.  She is standing in what appears to be an expansive Victorian manor this time.  A grand staircase is in front of her, large and exquisite pieces of art adorning the walls to her right.  Off to her left she sees a grand fireplace alive and roaring in the living room.  The faint smell of lavender wafts through the air.  Fallia smiles.  Suri’s grandfather always drank tea with lavender in the evenings before his passing away some three years ago.  Fallia walks into the living room to see someone sitting in a large armchair angled towards the fireplace, a cup of tea in his hand, his silver hair faintly catching the light emanating from the fire.  The kind, weathered-looking man smiles warmly at Fallia.  “Hello, my dear.  You look lovely!  How are you?”  Fallia’s smile broadens, and a small tear forms at the corner of her eye as she walks over to where he sits, seating herself in the chair next to him.

Upon waking, Suri feels an incomparable peace. She thinks about when these dreams began some time ago, right after she started school at the age of five.  It is when Suri’s heart is shadowed by the veils of doubt, fear, or pain that Fallia’s world becomes her own.  Every time, a new, unique place is experienced.  Through each dream, she is granted this peace in some special form.  In them, some small longing is fulfilled, a desire pictured and reimagined or a loved one revisited.  This morning she sits up in her bed slowly, the faintest traces of lavender teasing her nose.  “Grandfather”, she whispers.

The week progresses as most any week does.  The kids at school are abuzz with the anticipation of spring break in less than three weeks.  Suri is feeling better, and just in time no less, as she has her first piano lesson in two weeks.  Not feeling well and her homework piling up have prevented her from making her lessons.  Her piano lesson proceeds less than smoothly, her pieces sounding more like train wrecks than classical music.  Suri goes home feeling somewhat frustrated and dejected, but also just a bit more determined.  The summer concert is less than three months away, and she desperately wants to perform her pieces.  No matter, she will just have to spend spring break and the beginning of summer vacation practicing as much as she can.

In the following weeks leading up to spring break and during those after, school proceeds smoothly. Suri’s parents fidget and argue over her less due to her improved and stabilized health, and Suri sets her mind and heart into place as she practices diligently and earnestly, an iron determination overcoming her like never before.

Months pass.  Summer vacation is nearly here, the energy at school practically tangible as the kids’ already short attention spans deviate constantly to what they are going to have fun doing during vacation.  This is not so for Suri.  Certainly, she is looking forward to summer vacation to some extent.  This thought, however, still pales in comparison to the feeling of dread that twists Suri’s stomach: she is unable to perform at the summer concert.  The concert is two weeks away, but she is not feeling well again.  Suri will even admit that it is much worse this time than it was last time.  She has a high fever, chills, little to no appetite, and is almost always fatigued.  Her parents are manic with worry and anxiety about her condition, already determined that she will be doing nothing that would prevent her from getting rest and recovering, including rehearsing her piano pieces.  All of her practice feels like it has been done in vain.  To make matters worse, she has not seen Fallia in nearly two months.  She wonders if anyone is out there, if anyone is listening.  Suri wants to cry and scream.  These questions stick in her mind for what seems like an eternity.  The bottom of Suri’s world falls away.  Any resolve she has to satiate her heart’s desire to perform crumbles into dark, bitter ashes.  The trees are still adorned with blossoms, their slow and arduous journey to the ground seemingly matching Suri’s heart as it falls into despair.

Three weeks have passed since the summer concert.  Summer vacation is already half over.  Suri’s health is in a constant state of flux, some days better than others and the bad ones are hell.  She has good days, though she is never completely well.  She has been to the doctor and even the hospital a number of times now in hopes of quelling her symptoms and receiving some answers.  Suri lies in her hospital bed now, occasionally writhing from the sudden bursts of pain and exhaustion that ceaselessly assault her.  A small, clear tear rolls down the side of her face as she thinks about not having spent any time with her friends this summer, missing the concert, and the fear that all of the treatment and attention she has received has had little to no effect on her sickness.  The nurse comes in after a while and gives her a sedative to help her pain and help her sleep more soundly.  Sleep comes slowly but surely amidst the anxiety and pain.  Suri dreams.

Fallia’s feet find no footing as she falls through the air endlessly.  Everything around her is white, devoid of any dimension or depth.  Her heart rises into her throat and she is filled with fear when her attempts at screaming out are met with silence, though her mouth is open, her eyes wide.  Suddenly she levels out.  She’s drifting now, floating back and forth like the blossoms that Suri gazes upon so much but dropping slowly towards the ground that might not even be there.  Finally her feet make contact with something solid.  Everything, however, is still white and empty.  She tries walking or looking around attempting to gain some kind of orientation, but everything feels so blank.  The whiteness surrounding her seems to gradually envelope her, swallowing her up, growing brighter and brighter until she can no longer see her own hands in front of her.

Fallia snaps to attention.  Her vision clears of the consuming brightness and focuses.  Everything around her seems dark and foreboding until her eyes gradually adjust.  There seems to be a solitary light source glowing from behind her.  Faintly, she can make out what appear to be hundreds, if not thousands of faces looking directly up at her.  She gazes down at the surface on which she stands.  It is black and just polished enough that she can make out her reflection.  She is wearing a simple but elegant black, silken evening gown that flows down to the floor.  Her hair is styled, though not too extravagantly; it cascades down her shoulders like black ocean waves and in small rivulets that catch the light just enough that they seem nearly aglow.  Her shoes are black as well with bits of silver in them like miniature stars.  She looks back out at the faces; they look at her patiently and expectantly.  Fallia is confused, not knowing what is going on, or what is being asked of her.  She makes a half-turn to discover the source of the light.  It is a small, bright lamp.  It rests atop a piano.

It is not just any piano.  It is the largest, most beautiful and elegant grand piano Fallia has ever seen.  It is jet black and polished to a shine, standing nearly ten feet in length, the lid raised majestically.  Slowly she walks over and stands in front of it.  Beneath the lamp on the stand sits music.  The piece is entitled “Eternity ~Memories of Waves and Light~.”  Fallia sits on the bench nervously and places her fingers on the appropriate keys.  Immediately everything feels natural.  She knows this song.  It’s as though she’s always known how to play it.  She begins.

The piece starts out with simple chords in a decrescendo.  The introduction of the melody is soft and sweet, but seems to be building at the same time.  There is a certain   elegance and innocence to the piece so far.  The melody repeats again, this time fuller and more robust.  Fallia feels a kind of electricity dancing on her fingertips, a fire starting to burn deep inside her.  The melody drops down again into a state of peace and serenity, but just as quickly begins to build again, this time speeding up faster and faster while still maintaining a gentle quality.  Everything around Fallia begins to melt away.  Deeper notes are now being played, the hammers striking their chords proudly and with some urgency.  The faces of those watching seem to fade away being replaced with lights that dance and swirl like fireflies all around Fallia as the piece builds and builds from sweet simplicity to a grandiose fullness.  The melody is now at its peak, swelling with beauty, fierceness, and passion unencumbered.  Radiance spins and blurs all around her as Fallia is sucked in, swept away, and caught up in the music.  It feels as though the entire universe has come alive, an ethereal presence sweeping over Fallia, warmth flooding her.  Moonlight flows around her and between her fingers as they gracefully fly up and down the keys.  Starlight shines off her pale skin and off the ends of her hair with an otherworldly quality. Her right hand glides fluidly across the keys, connecting triplet after triplet, the left lending power and presence to the piece’s building momentum with its firm, low chords.     Just as quickly as it rises and bursts into its glorious climax, the melody falls back down into a gentle and cradling purity.  The piece gradually slows and comes to a subtle but profound close, ending in a majestic crescendo.  A small, almost unnoticeable crystal of moisture falls down the side of Fallia’s face as she sits back and smiles slightly.  Time seems to have stopped.  There is no more sound, just silence.  Fallia slowly stands and turns towards the on looking faces; humbly, she bows.

Spring is brought forth again as it usually is every year.  Today is not the warmest of days, however.  There is moderate breeze that blows in from the ocean and into the city, the inhabitants pulling on their jackets just a bit tighter, twisting their scarves just a bit more snugly.

A couple is sitting on the ground outside.  They occasionally look at one another emptily and solemnly, but stare off ahead for the most part.  A little less than two years have passed now.  The questions flowing through their minds are practically audible.  “Why so soon, so quickly?”, “Hadn’t the leukemia gone into remission?”  The two parents sit in front of a small tombstone adorned with the words “Suri: Making the Heavens Shine”, the morning light glinting off of their tear-stricken faces.  They both smile faintly.

The wind blows through the trees, the rustling branches voicing their sound all throughout the cemetery, making their presence known.  In another time, another place, perhaps in a dream, the sound builds into the low roar of applause, as though thousands of people are jumping to their feet in excitement and adoration.  The couple sitting in front of the tombstone is filled with a peace that passes understanding.  The wind continues to blow through the trees, filling the air with a lovely fragrance.  The blossoms fall to the ground softly and gracefully.  They are fragile and delicate as though they may melt away at the slightest touch.  Subtly and quietly, they fall, ushering in the season’s change.

“In Mighty Service”

In Mighty Service

“Whoso pulleth out this sword of this stone and anvil is rightwise king born of all England.” – Sir Thomas Malory

Battle standards flow and crease in the wind.  The men shift weight from one foot to the other, the anticipation, unrest, and even fear mirrored in their eyes.  The air is saturated with the growing sense of dread being experienced by all present; the slightest drop of a pin threatens to shatter the nerves of all the men.  The King stands his ground firm and resolute, myself close to his side, the 12 at his back.  The rest of his host stands ready.  It is mid-morning, the sun not yet having conquered the mist of night.  Dew clings to sparse patches of grass like buds of glass.  The fog swirls and parts briefly as the woman steps forward towards the King.  Her hair is black as coal and yet has a violet quality to it.  Her eyes, though always hiding anger, used to display concentration and rationality; now they are fierce and wild with an otherworldly craze and hunger.  With a cold, passionate, and piercing ring, she declares her intent.   “Brother, you are the fool.  Mother first bore me, and thus I have the right to what is called yours.  My absence of late has been for no other purpose than for my devising your fall, to take what is mine by right.”  A wretched, deafening scream goes up from behind her and it begins.

I remember the boy had passed by me as he did most any day.  Certainly he had known of me, the rumors and lore surrounding me, though at the time I doubt he cared for the gravity of such things and what they might have had to do with him.  I knew the King back when he was nothing more than this very same wide-eyed young boy with determination in his eyes, dreams in his heart yet to be realized.  Back then I carried a different, particular reputation.  Many would say that my stubbornness was matched by none other, my resolve unflinchingly rigid.  I was living in my humble dwelling of stone as I had my whole life, in a small town on the outskirts of Albion, when I first noticed the boy had moved to town with his family.  Upon first sighting him, I thought him to be rather peculiar and unique compared to the typical street urchin-types that populated the town’s many small niches and hideouts.  Time passed with little change in the town.  Many folk sought my aid, what I had to offer.  Therein was my stubbornness, however.  While many chose me, what I stood for, and the path I represented, I chose none of them.  Save for the young boy.

The years had worn on as usual; the boy had grown into a young man.  The impetuousness of his youth had passed for the most part, and a solid maturity began to take root in him, a strong confidence present in his walk.  Of late, he had been spending large amounts of time with an old man, known quite well throughout the town as well as the surrounding area.  To some people, the gentleman was a genius of science and the arts, to others a wise historical and philosophical advisor, but to most he was a bringer of conjurations, trickery, and magicks, the very embodiment of ill-will.  To me, he was an old friend and acquaintance that frequented my spot whenever he happened to be in town.  It was during one of these visits that the old man spoke the words to me that confirmed to me what I had known all along and had patiently waited for.

Dusk was settling comfortably over the town, the last traces of day spilled across the sky in blues, violets, and reds as the citizens parted from one another to their homes, their doors shutting out the coming night.  Earlier that day, I had spied the old man walking with the boy, lecturing him about this and that as he had many times before.  There was a slight breeze coursing its way through the town, perhaps coming off the coastline a half day’s journey from town.  No matter where it came from, however, for it was a wind soft enough to whisper of change.  A silhouette materialized and then solidified as the old man approached my dwelling quietly but with some degree of urgency.  For a while, the two of us stood there, allowing silence to finish blanketing the town.  He was dressed in simple attire, nothing more than a simple cloak and some robes that gave him a priestly look.  His long gray-white hair fell well past his shoulders.  His face spoke not so much of age as it did of wisdom and experience; every furrow and wrinkle had some story to tell.  The old man then turned and faced me, speaking firmly.  “He is ready.  It is time.”

Many years have passed since that day.  The young man, now King, had chosen to accept my aid and the charge that he was destined for that day, and he has grown into an upstanding, noble leader, serving both God and country with honesty and sincerity.  The old man’s words have indeed seen fruition by this time. The King and I have been through more than what five kings might experience during their reign.  The King has ruled Great Britain, its surrounding lands, and people well, bringing prosperity, stability, peace, and genuine happiness to those serving under him and the kingdom as a whole.  Ever by his side, I have seen the growth and wealth fostered from his rule and wisdom.  Despite his successes and glories, he has remained humble and of strong integrity, never forgetting his menial beginnings and the choice he made as a young man to accept my task and aid.  Sometimes he would simply rest his hand on me calmly in the evenings as he would survey his kingdom thoughtfully from inside one of the castle’s spires.  At times that I was not at his side, I would be resting in my new home, a special place of honor set aside for me in his chambers; upon entering at day’s end he would sometimes merely whisper, “Hello, old friend.”

The King is not without friends and people he loves, those he is intimately close to.  His wife, the Queen, stands by his side in love, faithfulness, and support.  She is a pillar of strength and refuge for both him and the people.  Even now in her later years, beauty has not forsaken her, neither in body nor spirit.  Tinges of gray have begun to weave themselves into her hair, giving it a luminescent quality.  She speaks with poise and assurance but also with gentleness and compassion for her husband and for her people.  The King’s best knight is also his closest friend and confidant.  He leads those under him strong, well, and firmly.  Many times the King and I have sparred with him, the sounds of clashing as well as laughter ringing off of the courtyard walls.  The King’s friend stands tall and broad-shouldered, dark brunette hair just reaching his shoulders.  He walks with courage in his stride, purpose in his gait.  He and the King may as well be dear brothers, their edification and trust of one another being what I would call nothing short of integral to the King’s faith in his forces and his own personal well-being.

The King’s forces are matched by no other in the land, not so much in their armed strength, though they are strong, but in their strength of character and loyalty to my Lord.  Weekly he meets with them to discuss strategy, morale, and enjoy one another’s company.  Every man is equal, none any better or more honorable than the other when they meet, the 12 most prestigious knights facing one another around the table in the castle’s great and majestic military hall.  It is usually at times of political or military unrest that the old man from the King’s youth comes and goes, offering what wisdom and assistance he can.  I could not ask for a finer band of men with which to stand, fight, and serve our King.

This being said, the King has not lacked enemies.  He and I have shared in many battles passed, our foes smote to ruin in the wake of the King and his men.  Nary has a dire moment in battle ever greeted my Lord in the 30 years of his reign.  Until now.  Threat without has never threatened the boundaries of the kingdom with any great severity.  It is the threat from within bonds that is poised to unravel my King’s rule this day.  That traitor and snake.  The King’s own half-sister.

Always had she been covetous of the attention showered upon the king by the mother they shared.  My Lord had sought audience with her numerous times after taking the crown as so to reconcile their petty familial differences.  She would hear nothing of it, and it was perhaps his achieving the throne itself that drove into a kind of dark madness.  Like the King’s old tutor and teacher, she delved into the sciences, arts and philosophies, and still even further into things blacker, forbidden.  For a time, word of her and her doings diminished from common word in and around the kingdom.  Most took this to mean that she had finally accepted her half-brother’s position.  But oh, how wrong this was.  The King received a summons from her suddenly to meet with his men in the fields midway from the castle and the kingdom’s northeastern boundary.  It is on this day and on these fields that my Lord stands to face her, come what may.

Just as the morning mist begins to dissipate, the mass of bodies slowly moving in from behind the woman appears.  A collective gasp goes up from the men as the horde begins its charge forward.  They look as men in the last throws of life, the appearance of having been run through by blade or spear frozen on their tortured faces.  Their bodies have a strained and contorted look, their skin devoid of life’s hue, their shrieks and unearthly cries filling the air.  There is hardly but a moment to speak what is being thought throughout the ranks.  The darkest and most forbidden of knowledge, the twisted aftermath of mankind seeking to play God: golems.  Still the King stands firm and readies the defense against this hellish onslaught.  These abominations of man, homunculi, close the gap with incredible speed, their gnarled and misshapen weapons glinting in the morning light.

The crash of steel against steel is thunderous, as though the clouds themselves might be shaken from the sky.  Almost effortlessly, I drive through one human puppet after another.  In no time, I am drenched completely in the blood of these hell-wrought creatures.  It is an intimate dance of evisceration and death.  The 12 dispatch their own contending foes with relative ease as each agonizing minute passes.  Despite the army’s combat prowess, the enemies never seem to lessen in their presence, one felled only to be replaced by three.  The King takes his share of cuts and minor wounds, but these are no matter as the thrill of battle grips him full on.

The gray morning grows darker still, a moderate rain beginning to fall.  Yells of victory and pain, bloodlust and agony arise from the King’s ranks.  Each of my kills begins to feel like a repeat of the last, never-ending, and I see the King’s eyes begin to weary.  There is no real life in the enemy’s fight, just a mindless, reckless rage that seeks to trample everything in its path, as commanded by the host’s power-demented leader.  But is all lost?

What has felt like hours upon hours of gruesome combat is no more than 40 minutes passed.  Slowly the King’s army host begins to push back the writhing mass.  Is victory ours?  Despite the horridness of the fight, is the win ours to claim?  Just as I finish this thought, the horde parts slightly.  There she stands suddenly in front of my Lord, mouth twisted into an evil, self-satisfied grin, eyes ablaze.  I lunge out as fast as I can to meet the soft skin of her pale neck.  Her hand comes up with such speed that she may as well have not even moved.  Stopped.  Hard, compressing waves of blackness press down on me furiously and just as quickly fade.  The King screams and staggers.  My resolve crumbles, my strength collapses.

“The King is wounded!”  The cry comes fierce and sharp.  I cannot see what is going on around me.  I am broken, shattered, lying in the drying mud, its hue slowly changing to dark crimson as blood pools in its crevices and grooves.  I hear labored breathing not far from where I lay.  Is it the King?  I cannot say.  The man yelling is difficult to make out, save for his dark brown hair and tall frame; the morning fog and mist envelopes him and the men surrounding him, those wounded and those lying dead.  The sounds of the battle still rage on fiercely nearby and in the distance.  The moans of the injured and the screams of those being dealt a bloody and merciless death congest the air, swallowing any hope of reprieve.  Like a violent ocean battering a cliffside, weapons are clashing against one another.  Bodies, mangled and nearly unrecognizable are all around me.  Could the battle have gone so ill?  Was my Lord’s battle strategy not thorough enough, its tactics not sound enough?  My body is broken, shattered.  Useless?  Suddenly I am seized from where I lay and a swift darkness surrounds and engulfs me before I can give these questions any further contemplation.

The black veil of darkness lifts, my view is restored.  There is a foreign, orange glow dancing along the far wall, and I see some of the men that have survived standing close together in the corner, their hollow stares still speaking of the horrors they witnessed in battle.  How much time has passed?  Hours?  Days?  I do not know.  What of the King?  Is the battle still being fought?  What of the rest of the men?  It must have been the King’s friend crying for help, I conclude.  Just then I hear his voice.  “The King’s wounds are serious, but not dire.  Any normal man would have bled to death like a sieve if not for the abilities of our Lord’s stalwart ally here.”  He spares a quick glance down at me.  “That witch’s forces are being held at bay for now, as both our forces and his are in need of supply, replenishment, and rest.  It seems as though she believes the entirety of our spirit is now crushed with the King wounded as he is.  I do not know for how long we can hold out though, as the King is still in great need of recuperation.  Just as well, what might be resolved about the damage done here?”  Again he casts his gaze at me, this time with a more solemn, grave look in his eyes.  A voice alien to me responds, “This is far beyond any of my skills to fix or heal.  You and I both know the unique nature of this situation.  Even the castle’s new bloomery is no good for such damage done.  The King’s friend looks toward the ground, stroking his bearded chin in contemplation.  “I will take this matter to Her Majesty the Queen to see what counsel she might offer.”  With that, I am gathered up delicately like a fragile new born.

Again, what seems to be an eternity passes.  The King’s friend has laid me to rest upon the King’s bed; His Majesty is still receiving medical attention elsewhere in the castle I imagine.  The room is dimly lit, strange shadows casting themselves in various places along the walls.  What was once vibrant, personal, and almost sacred about my Lord’s dwelling is now replaced by a subdued, unspoken gloom, as though the room itself waits in sorrow for its master to return whole from his injuries.  The door opens slowly and softly.  A tall but slender figure stands in the small corridor of the doorway.  The Queen walks with grace as on air across the room to where I lay on the bed.  The room’s dim light catches her auburn hair making it look almost aflame.  She bends slightly and takes in the sight of me, a stern but concerned looked covering her face.  As soon as it appears, it softens.  “We are in need of your strength like no other in this grave hour, my friend.  My husband and our people have need of your services to their utmost, but first your wounds must be mended, your spirit born anew.  I will see to it that this is accomplished for you, for my Lord and husband…for hope in this dark hour.  The Lady waits.”  The Queen’s words of revival and need rest with me as I am taken up again, my broken body being covered and shielded in her velvet cloak.

Time passes once more, though it is not riddled with the panic and desperation of today’s earlier events.  The Queen and I travel on horseback from a side entrance into the castle, perhaps to mask our departure.  The roads we take are inconspicuous and out of the way, winding their way through backwoods and across a small plain.  The rain from earlier has lessened to nothing more than a drizzle by now, though there is a biting chill in the air still reminding me of the day’s chaos and unrest.  Upon leaving the plain, we enter another wooded region, this much thicker than the last.  The road on which we have traveled has all but disappeared by now, and yet the Queen still rides on with purpose and a quiet strength in her composure.  Hours more pass by.  Just as the woods seem like they cannot get any more impenetrable, we come to a clearing.

All is still, no breeze, no sound.  Not 50 feet from where the Queen stands is a glistening, smooth lake.  It glows as though the moon itself shines beneath it.  Gingerly, the Queen places my ruined being into the still waters.  I now see the evening’s fading light from beneath the surface, the lake’s current and slight chill caressing me.  Celestial light rises from the depths around me, swallowing me entirely.  Further and further I sink into this lake of glass and crystal light.  The light then begins to fade slightly.  The current carrying me puts me to rest, still suspended deep beneath the surface.  The smallest of crystals swirl about me like a heavenly kaleidoscope of brilliance.  The visage of a young woman takes form directly in front of me.  Her face is soft and kind, but her eyes pierce like no other in their steady, firm gaze.  “I know of your purpose and your need here, friend.  You have served the King mightily in your years together, but never before has he had need of you than he does now.  You are to be the savior of your Lord and his lands from this sorceress’s evils and wiles.”  Strength, resolve, life returns to me.  My brokenness mended, an energy and power courses through me and fills me like never before.  I begin to rise towards the lake’s surface.  “Go now, Great One, return to your Lord and Master, offer to him the aid his men are in dire need of, assuage his discouraged heart.  Leave this place revived, renewed, and empowered, with my blessing.  Go forth, Caledfwlch, to your King.”

I am taken to my proper dwelling within the King’s chambers upon our return to the castle, the return journey feeling practically nonexistent.  The King has still not returned.  Patiently I await his arrival, time passes.  Eventually I hear a quiet voice outside the room.  It is the King’s friend.  “Take rest, Sire.  I know your wounds have all but finished healing, but if we are to succeed in tomorrow’s assault the men need you to be at your best.  I know that the Queen has informed you of our renewed asset in this fight, and I have divulged a sound strategy for the battle to come.  Please, take rest, my friend.  You have shouldered enough on this horrific day.”  Footsteps indicate his departure.  The door opens steadily.  My Lord walks in.  His wide brow is adorned with the remains of a small gash above his left eye.  His poise still exudes strength even after all he has weathered this day.  He slouches slightly, his body still obviously bearing some of the pain from his wounds, both physically and mentally.  His eyes stare off momentarily as in deep thought, contemplative.  He then turns and faces me head-on.  “Glory shall be ours this coming morn.  The land, the people cry for it in light of the horrendous atrocities that have been witnessed this day.  I have not weathered this many years facing my destiny only to have it taken now, all the kingdom’s hope extinguished by the insane greed and malice of  this befouled woman, be she family or not.”  His jaw sets.  The King’s eyes are now fierce with determination, but border on shedding tears for the men lost today.  His face softens after a moment longer.  The bond between us lives on, strengthened all the more by what we have both endured this day.  For a brief moment, I see in the King the face of a resolute young man who made a choice of greatest weight many years ago.  Never once has the calling waned in its severity or need, nor is there any other who might fulfill it as the man standing in front of me has.  A brief, reverent silence ensues; time’s passing irrelevant and frozen in this intimate place.  There is warmth, familiarity, and love in the slight smile gracing the face of my Liege.  “Hello, old friend.”

“Little Stranger Girl”

November 28th, 2009

I weep tears of joy over this song as it makes me think of the daughter I may one day have. In a way, I dedicate this to her. She will be beautiful and precious, and how much more so in the eyes of the King. Oh how much do I desire to be a man that will be deserving of such a gift, that can reaffirm how treasured and lovely she will be, that can fight for her heart, and that can show her the King’s extravagant love, strength and grace. I cannot fathom how amazing it will be to hold her, to dance with her, to watch her grow into womanhood. The poetic intimacy and connection that is conveyed in this song breaks my heart with reverenced humility at the thought of what an honor it will be to one day be someone that my little girl can look up to for love, support, and hopefully an example that will carry her through all her trials, adventures, and days on this Earth. To be the subject of my future wife’s love and devotion is humbling and awe-inspiring enough as it is. To even try and comprehend the privilege it will be to build a legacy worth living in having and raising children is something I simply cannot wrap my mind around, and it is in this realization that I know my heart is experiencing something lovely and profound. It is in this moment that I am experiencing the briefest glimpse of the glorious blessing I will someday receive upon becoming a father and holding my child for the first time. It has been some time now since I have last written, dear ones. I cannot even attempt to explain why I have done so now in sharing this transcendent moment with you save for simply stating that hearing this song has pierced me unexpectedly, deeply, and profoundly. While such things are sometimes best kept intimate and internalized between the Giver and the receiver, my heart felt immediately prompted to share this great moment with you, as undeserving as I am of it. I don’t seek to advertise or solicit the promotion of an artist due to something as basic as personal preference, but I desire to share something with you that has proven suddenly meaningful to me in what might seen as a “beautifully abrasive and striking manner”; at your own discretion and desire, pay the 99 cents to iTunes and download “Little Stranger” by Peter Bradley Adams, or send me your email address. Here are the lyrics. Love and blessings to you all, dear ones.

“Little Stranger” by Peter Bradley Adams

There’s a love he cannot hide
Though he waits in the line to fight
So he looks up to welcome you, his child
Little stranger girl, you are home tonight

He reaches out a thousand miles
And sends his voice to where you lie
And in your dreams he carries you, his child
Little stranger girl, you are home tonight

When you have grown, you may ask why
And you will read these words he writes
And they will say, I thank you, my child,
Little stranger girl, you are home tonight

“Your Hand in Mine”

April 6th, 2009

Thanks to the wonderfulness that is Pandora Internet radio (where you suggest an artist you like and it plays songs by that artist as well as others with similar musical qualities), I’ve discovered the instrumental post-rock band Explosions in the Sky 😀 I created a station on Pandora with musical properties similar to those found in music by Sigur Ros, whose song “Hoppipola” you may recall me doing some instrumental and emotive analysis of a while back 🙂 (shared via email and on Facebook :-P)

Anyways, I purchased one of Explosions albums, “The Earth is Not a Cold Dead Place”, and the finishing track is something I’ve grown quite enamored with in the last couple days. It opens very minimally with some simple electric guitar melody, playing in a somewhat smooth, somewhat swaying fashion. If you listen, you can hear the slow rise of drums in the background; these then abruptly stop before the drums fully and robustly enter the scene in a somewhat repetive, militant pattern that is nonetheless determined and pushes the song forward.

The drums suddenly drop out again, the guitar melody initiating once again, but this time with some bass accents, giving the piece a fuller-bodied, slightly more impacting sound. Something is building, rising, yes it is.

The drums enter again gradually but quietly. Guitar rhythms and melodies are being layered upon one another by now, the song is growing in complexity, but harmony is nonetheless apparent, as the song builds more and more. At a little over 5 minutes in a singular guitar melody rises above the rest, only to quickly hush as the song dips back down into near, fading silence, perhaps giving an impression of intimacy.

The layered melodies enter again with only about 1:40 left in the piece, only to fade away again almost immediately, a single drum beat emmanating from the song’s background as the solitary guitars continue their strains, once again joined by a driving bass beat at 50 seconds left.

Finally, everything drops out and fades, abruptly enough that a significant impression is perhaps left, but not so much so that it feels abrasive or as though one has been let down to disappointment in some way.

Suitable to the title of the song, this song reminds me of love; not so much love as a concept, a literary/Biblical term, but perhaps let me put it this way: love as a journey. Much like this simple but poignant piece, love between two people can often begin subtly, gently, and almost unknowingly. Rarely does it come clamoring down the hallway, all boisterous-like, ready to assault and overtake us; no, oftentimes, it sneaks in unnoticed but readies small pebbles to throw at our window, striving to get our attention, even for the briefest of moments, unadulterated, lovely, and pure.

Should we respond to this sweet and determined beckoning, we are in store for something quite wonderful, dear ones: a journey. The journey that love takes us on with another is filled with its rises and falls, driving fhythms that push us forward, and subdued cadences that firmly but calmly hush us into attentive, loving, and ultimately meaningful submission to its otherworldly graces. And what an adventure it is that we experience in our relationship with that person.

Throught the relationship’s course, various elements, experiences, and aspects ebb and flow; if they didn’t, heartfelt change would not occur, and therein, no growth would occur either. Ultimately things would become apathetic and laborious. But as we know that is not love’s nature. For as things ebb and flow as with the shore and the sea, there is always that solitary but precious and poignant melody that plays continuously, much like the opening guitar melody in this piece. It is intertwined and interwoven into the song much in the way that true and legitimate love is threaded into any real relationship, even amidst its rises and falls, and its moments of driving perserverance or hushed anticipation.

In the “love”-saturated society in which we dwell (I use quotes to reference love in that it has been cheapened by marketing, pop divas, hot-pink Hollywood steamy-ness, rom-coms, buddy-films, and one-night stands), the first reference that may come to mind is that of a romantic relationship. All of what I’ve stated here certainly applies to such a relationship, and most certainly in the case of one that culminates and “begins anew” in marriage, but I also contest that such thoughts and reflections apply to any other kind of relationship that is truly meaningful to two people. Love that dwells between siblings is woven into their shared memories growing up under the same roof and standards; shared experiences color in the lines of the relationship that love so expertly draws in their lives

Love between the best of friends is the binding force that gives meaning and weight to the bond of brotherly or sisterly camaraderie. With such a backbone and guiding force present in the relationship, both people certainly can see one another through thick and thin; in such glorious times can one truly say to another from the heart that it means the world to them “having you for a friend.” Such relationships allow the heart to remain full even at the end of all things, the ending and beginning of all seasons.

And in retreating back to what was perhaps the originally assumed reference, yes, such a golden thread is woven into the fabric of romantic and marital relationships. It is that persistent but simple, sweet melody that dwells in the relationship throughout all times and happenings, sometimes quietly resonating in the background and sometimes pushing through majestically to the forefront of the chorus.

Regardless of the nature of the relationship, this is the mighty and blessed position that love is capable of having in our lives and in the lives of the relationships we hold dear to our hearts. Any relationship is very much a third entity that exists between two people, and much like the individuals involved, it requires nourishing, reinforcing, and tender care. Such a beautiful thing can most certainly be accomplished if it is sought after, not by one’s head, but by their heart.

How do I know such thoughts to be true? It is simple: they are true because such things are alive, well, and growing in the relationships that I love and adore with each of you.