Ocean Mistory

(Written at age nine. Spelling and punctuation are as in the original manuscript.)

1. Down by the Sea

Anna Anastasia and I were down by the sea. We went by train. When we got there we got out. Let's go swimming I cried. Anna said where are our suit-cases? We looked around. Where could they be cried Anastasia. We put them right here I said. We saw some men running. They had the missing suit cases!!! After them I cried. We ran, but the men disapered right in front of our eys!

2. Puzzling fakts
We were still staring when I said: How could they have gotten away!! Anastasia said, I don't know. Anna said, why don't we become detectives? Good idea! I cried. But we must ask Augustin what to do. They'll be coming soon, said Anastasia. We heard a whistle and we ran to meat the next train. The boys came out. As we waked to our cabin I told Augustin about what had happened. We can't aford to lose those diving suits, cried Augustin. We must get them back!

A facsimile of the original manuscript

3. Detectives
We had lunch. Wehn we were done we talked about the thifs. I said, next time we see them, let's fallow them. We must walk softly said Augustin. We saw the thifs out the window! Quick! I said. We went outside. We fallowed the the thifs. We fallowed them till we came to a trap door. The thifs went in I said let's fallow them, after all we are detectives. We went in - suddenly all went dark! I felt arms around me.

4. Captives!
After I felt the arms around me I felt nothing. After a hwile I came to myself. I was lying on my back in pitch dark. My hands and feet were tied. There was hard ground under me. All was dark exsept for one small light which came from a lantern. The others were tied up to. I cried Help! Help! Hush! commanded a voice. But I kept crying Help! Help! But no help came. I wished I was home.

5. Two Excapes
We were yelling for help when I said, look here, I found a way to excape! My wrist ties are loose. I will un-tie them and get my poket knife and cut your ropes. I un-tied my wristes and freed the others. I picked up the lantern. We crept along and came to the trap door. NOW! I cried. We ran trough the door. Menhwile the theifs saw we were gone. They said let's get out of here or we'll have the police after us! They ran away.

6. Exploring
Next day we went exploring. We waked along the seashore, hopping to see the thiefs. We saw them and I said, let's catch them! We ran quitly after the thifs. I ran to one and grabed him. Anna grabed the other one. I said give me the rope! We tied up the thiefs. The police erested them. We were very happy.

THE END

Consummate

Turn not to the flames, my love,
The flames that burn in endless rage
And send their souls to ashes gray.
My love, walk not in flames that burn
The mortal soul in coldest hate,
For when they burn their hearts to ash,
Then they can only die.

Yet walk in the light, my love,
The light that burns in endless flame
And lifts its soul in burning song.
Walk in the light while yet it shines,
For when it burns its brightest blaze,
Then, all consumed within its heart,
Then only can they die.

And Life Goes On...

In my senior thesis I wrote about the connection between music and suffering. There is an inherent connection between man and suffering, and an inherent connection between man and music. Put that together, add about 1100 more words and 39 pages, and you get the redemption of suffering through music. It's as simple as that. (If only it were; I could have been saved almost a year's worth of work.)

But I am not here to write about my thesis, though I would like to talk about suffering, and music. I would like to talk about orchestra, and Beethoven, as well. These thoughts came to me during orchestra today. We were playing Beethoven's 7th today. The whole of Beethoven's 7th is a masterpiece. The scherzo is a little long, but it is still a masterful joke. Anyone who has read my senior thesis or gone to my thesis oration will know that I love Beethoven. And that I hate Mozart, but that is a story for another day.

Well, we were playing the second movement of that masterful work, the 7th symphony, and our director, Dr. Newby, said, "The thing about tragedy is that life still goes on, and I think that is what Beethoven is trying to express here. You have to keep the music moving. When you slow it down, it defeats the whole purpose." That made me stop and think. While I was listening to the winds and brass practice a section, I began to muse over what Dr. Newby had said. Yes, when there is a tragedy, life goes on. We can never hold onto our sorrow for too long, for even though someone we love is gone, we still have life. The world around us has life, and we have to go on living. We can't help it. It is not any sort of disrespect to the dead. They know, and we know, that we have to keep moving. When we slow down, it defeats the whole purpose.

Throughout the rest of the movement, I mused on this, and as I mused, I saw what Beethoven was trying to express unfolding in his music. The movement starts quietly and somberly with the lower strings. It is a throbbing rhythm, as if someone were weeping. It it the sound of a coffin being lowered into the grave, while we look on and weep. The sorrow continues. It gets stronger, but it keeps moving. The pain is excruciating, but we must keep on going.

Then, quite suddenly, the sun comes out. The music is serene. It is not Mozart-happy; it is peaceful. The pain is not gone, but it is hidden away in a secret recess of our hearts, so that when we want to, or must, we can let it out. And we do want to let it out. Not long after the sun comes out, the music turns to the theme again, and the sorrow returns. It is not for long, however, and as it always does, the sun comes out again. That is the way of things.

The movement ends with the theme. It gets softer and softer, almost dying out, until it resurges in the last two measures. I do not think that is despair. No, it is a promise. It is a promise that we will never forget. We will go on with our lives, but we will always remember, and that pain will always be in the deepest recesses of our hearts because we loved. That is the way of life. That is the way of Beethoven's music.

And that is why I love Beethoven.

Alexander's Grave

When once he raised his head in brazen pride
From centuries of stony serpents' hearts,
He looked upon the world and raised his hand,
Encased in black and terrible to see,
And took his sword to conquer all he saw.

The world was at his feet, dejected, torn,
And still he cannot rest, till all is his;
He will not stop till his is heaven's door.

His visage stamped in silver, gold, and bronze.
Proclaiming all his glory to the ages hence,
He shall live long, and after death still more -
His name enshrined in memory's annals while
His mark upon the world is left behind.

For Death shall have no sting, no chilling bite.
Death shall not take his spirit, though he die,
His body withered once from dust to dust,
And grass grows sweetly on his mounded grave.

But yet when all is done and gone
There is no more than shadows on the grass.
And grass in winter's chill shall wither and be gone,
And love shall not his memory resurrect;
It lies not in his cold and lonely grave.

Music in the Modern Mode

In our day people, especially if they are young, say that classical music is boring. They would much rather listen to the latest pop hits or watch Justin Bieber gyrating on stage. When I go to orchestra concerts, I am struck by the overwhelming number of older people present. The ratio of people over forty is much greater than that of people under thirty. Our youth do not listen to classical music. They don't think it is relevant to them; the problems they are going through are expressed so much better in "Teenage Dream" or "Twenty-Two." So to make classical music "relevant" to today's youth, the symphonies of Beethoven and the concertos of Bach are given a touch of rock. Thus we have such atrocities as Walter Murphy's "A Fifth of Beethoven." Granted, that is from 1976, but that kind of "remixing" of the greats is still present. I hate to pollute the innocent ears of my readers, but this can only be understood with an example.

I hate it when people do this to beautiful music. It has always been my contention that in order to present something to young people we do not need to dumb it down. Thus my utter hatred of Christian rock. Just because something is called Christian does not mean it is good. (See Bad Catholic's post, "5 Reasons to Kill Christian Music.) Young people can be just as receptive to beauty as adults. They do not need Precious Moments to explain the faith to them. They do not need anything less than Beethoven's complete and unadulterated 5th Symphony.

I can understand a little the trouble, and why young people find classical music boring. After all, when you only hear Mozart and Haydn on the radio, what else are you to think? It's like showing someone the entrance to Arches National Park and not the majestic Double Arch or the stunning Delicate Arch. There are depths in classical music to which only Mozart and Haydn do not take you. You cannot simply stay on the surface and not explore the depths.

Yet there is hope. There are young people who love classical music, and even prefer it to the music their contemporaries are listening to. (Did you guess that I am one of those people?) Beauty and truth will not be ignored, now matter how much the other side presses forward. There are ways in which we can make good music relevant to today's youth without adding a drum set and electric guitars.

Recently I discovered a new phenomenon. Well, it is not exactly new to the world, but it is new to me. It is the classical flash mob. You know the principle of the flash mob: a group of people assembles suddenly in a public place to perform something for a brief time then quickly disperse. I was watching videos of such flash mobs on YouTube when I came across the Beethoven flash mob.

Since then I have watched this video many times. Every time it delights me. It is so wonderful, so powerful, so charming. One of the best things about it is the children. Granted, it is in Europe, and people are a bit more cultured there. All the same, it was delightful to watch the children throughout the video. The little girl who puts a coin in the bassist's hat stays to listen. A girl in red climbs a lamppost to have a better view and conducts from her perch. Two little boys dance and wave their arms around in time to the music. In general people are enjoying themselves. Who would not?

That kind of spontaneity lends a freshness to the music without changing it. When I see it, I think, this is what we need. Not necessarily classical flash mobs, though those would be fun. We need to clear the air around classical music. Classical music should not appear old and musty. I am all for the traditional appearance of classical music, but traditional in a fresh way. It is fresh because it is beauty. It is new because it is truth, and truth is present and relevant in any age.

And finally, as a conclusion, Peer Gynt on the metro. I love how the video portrays how beautiful music can lift us out of the humdrum routine of our lives while still being an essential part of our lives. Now this is a fresh take on classical music.

Once in a Blue Moon

They say it only rains in our town once in a blue moon. Whatever that means, it’s true. At least now it’s true. The old men would sit in the café every morning and talk about how they remembered a time when it rained nearly every day in the summer months. I can remember a time like that too. I don’t remember it raining nearly every day, but I do remember it raining at least twice a month. It was quite small then. Those were big rains. The gutters outside our house would be flooded. I would climb up onto the sofa under the window and press my nose against the cool glass, watching the rain come down in sheets outside. It would watch my father come home in the rain, his coat buttoned up tight and his hat pulled down low over his face. Mother would say, “You really need to remember to take the umbrella next time.”

My father would say, “But then I couldn't do this,” and wrap his arms around mother so that she shrieked. My father would laugh and kiss her, and then he would chase me around the house while I screamed with delight.

When the rain stopped I was allowed to put on my cherry-red rain coat and rubber boots and go out to play. The puddles were fabulous. The other children would come out to play in their rubbers, and we would have a splendid time until our mothers called us in. We went in reluctantly. Those puddles full of rain water were wonderful, magical things. You could see the whole world in them if you looked carefully. There is nothing you cannot be when you have a puddle of water and a world that smells as fresh as if it had been newly made.

But that was all so long ago. I don’t remember exactly when the rains stopped. I only remember that as I grew older the earth began to shrivel up and die like a grape that has been left too long in the sun. It was sad, and depressing, but we got used to it, all except for the old men who sat in the café every morning. They said we were under a curse. They said it was because children didn’t have as much respect for their elders anymore. I once asked my father if this were true. He sighed and looked sad as he said, “No, but perhaps it is because we do not have as much respect for our world as we used to.”

When I was fourteen I went to visit my cousin. Where my cousin lived it was fresh and cool and green. People had lush lawns instead of cracked brown earth and straggling weeds. Their trees were large and green and vibrant; ours, those few we had, were small and stunted and had a tortured sort of look. It was such a different world than the one I was used to. I loved it and wanted it to be my home. When I went back to our dry town I asked my father if we could move away. “I’m sorry, honey,” he said. “Our life is here right now.”

So I prayed. I prayed that rain would come again and turn our little brown town into a green paradise. I prayed that children would be nicer to their elders. I prayed that people would love their world more. God seldom works in the ways we want him to. The rains did not come. I finished high school, and the rain did not come. I went to college, and the rain did not come. I graduated, and still no rain. Perhaps the old men were right; perhaps we were under a spell that would not be broken for a hundred years. I would not see it happen. Perhaps my children would. I could not stay and wait for it, though. I had to leave, go some place where people were happier, and the towns were more than one color. I took a job at a newspaper office far away.

The night before I was to leave, I lay awake in my bed. Sleep would not come. The windows were open, letting in the little summer breeze there was. Everything was still. The moon was full and very bright, brighter than I had ever seen it. I looked at it and thought about the new life I was going to have. I was still thinking when I heard a noise.

When you've lived in a town your whole life you come to know its noises, the song it sings every day. But here was something new, and it awoke sudden memories in me. Perhaps I was dreaming, I thought. I sat up and listened hard. There it was again, a long, low rumble, followed by a crack. I got out of bed and ran downstairs in my pajamas. My parents were standing on the porch, tense and listening. I stood beside them and looked up. The sky was dark; only in patches could the stars be seen. The moon was still there, bright as ever, but all around it was darkness. In a flash I was little again, and the sky was dark and ominous, and the rain came.

And the rain came. It came slowly and lightly at first, a mere sprinkling, as if it had come to a new and strange place and didn't know where it was. All around the neighborhood doors opened and people came out, some in their pajamas. I walked out into the middle of the street and held out my arms. The rain pricked my skin. It was cool and refreshing, like a cold drink after a long, hot day of work. I could smell it, I could taste it, and it was good.

Then without warning the skies opened up. The rain poured down in sheets, soaking our bodies, seeping into the hard, dry earth. It woke us up. We were all out, the old folks to the little children. We laughed and danced about, splashing in the puddles that the thirsty earth did not drink up.

I slipped away, and went behind the house. I lay on my back on the ground. The rain poured into my eyes and mouth it seeped into every pore of my body. It was cold, but it was blissful. The moon still shone just as brightly despite the pouring rain. I laughed aloud for sheer joy. I was alive. I could feel it.

One rain does not make a river. But one rain can break a spell. Years later I came back to my home town. I lay awake in my bed again. I could hear the radio coming from the living room where my father was still up. I heard the announcer say, “Hello stargazers: get ready for a blue moon tonight. The moon will not actually be blue, but it is the second full moon in the month of August. This is the ‘seasonal blue moon,’ the third of four full moons in a season, an occurrence with has not happened in three years.” As the announcer’s voice faded into the back of my mind I heard the thunder. And the rain came.

Things seldom come out exactly as you want them to, but sometimes life can surprise you, once in a

blue moon.

From Darkness, Light

A couple of weeks ago I decided to read The Lord of the Rings again. It's been quite a while since I last read the trilogy; I think I may have read it either before or after my freshman year in college. Somewhere in my four years of college I watched all three of the movies, one after the other. Please note that I was very sick with strep throat and I was in bed for ten days. Otherwise I do not think I would have done that. The movies are well done insofar as they are movies, and they have a certain charm, but of course they do not compare with the books on any level. The charm of the books is far more charming. There is a depth in the books, a great amount of detail and beauty, that is lost in the movies. Why, they even cut half the scenes out! As I was reading the Fellowship I kept thinking, "That wasn't in the movie." Tolkien's portrayal of his characters is far better than Peter Jackson's. In the book, Strider and the Elves have such nobility and beauty. The Hobbits are cute and funny, but incredibly strong. Gandalf is magical and wise, but he has his comical moments that are not ridiculous. In a movie you can't display the depths of each character.

And then there are Tolkien's descriptions.

"The voice seemed far away and immeasurably dreary, sometimes high in the air and thin, sometimes like a low moan from the ground. Out of the formless stream of sad but horrible sounds, strings of words would now and again shape themselves: grim, hard, cold words, heartless and miserable. The night was railing against the morning of which it was bereaved, and the cold was cursing the warmth for which it hungered." (From the Barrow-whights scene)

Or, "The face of Elrond was ageless, neither old nor young, though in it was written the memory of many things both glad and sorrowful. His hair was dark as the shadows of twilight, and upon it was set a circlet of silver; his eyes were grey as a clear evening, and in them was a light like the light of stars. Venerable he seemed as a king crowned with many winters, and yet hale as a tried warrior in the fullness of his strength. He was the Lord of Rivendell and mighty among both Elves and Men."

Elrond in the movie must makes me laugh. He is nothing like Tolkien's Elrond. How can you get anywhere near that? I'm glad Peter Jackson decided not to put the Barrow-wights scene in the movie. Imagination fails at that point.

Before you begin to think I'm a LOR nerd, I am not. I do not particularly dislike LOR nerds; they are certainly better than Star Wars nerds of Trekkies. My main contention with LOR nerds is that they seem to focus more on the adventure of the books, or the movies. I am not a nerd; I am a fan. But perhaps "fan" is not the right word either. You are never a "fan" of Brideshead, or the Odyssey.  It is much more than that. I'm not sure I have a word for it. I don't have LOR paraphernalia. I don't hang up maps of Middle Earth and change my name to Elvish. I revel in the sheer beauty of the work. I marvel at how it can be written about such simple folk as Hobbits and be so beautiful. As C.S. Lewis said of the work, "Here are beauties which pierce like swords or burn like cold iron." A newspaper's review of the work says, "Tolkien's stories take place against a background of measureless depth...Tolkien's epic trilogy remains the ultimate quest, the ultimate battle between good and evil, the ultimate chronicle of stewardship of the earth."

The Lord of the Rings is not just a story about a fictional world. It is not just an adventure story. It is our story. It is the story of beauty being taken away from us. It is the story of the fight between good and evil. That is probably the reason I love the book so much. I have always been fascinated with the fight between good and evil, primarily because in the end, no matter what happens, the good always overcomes the evil. That is the way it is, whether it is in our world, or in Tolkien's Middle Earth.

So I will finish with a poem. I was not thinking about The Lord of the Rings when I wrote this poem. I believe I was sitting outside on a sunny day.


From Darkness, Light

The kings of old walked in the dark
With minds of steel and hearts of gold,
And as they trod their heads bowed down
While darkness pressed on every side.

But yet through dark and dismal skies
The light shone through and caught the spark
Of life within the men who trod
And warmed their hearts to burnished gold.

The light shone on and slowly grew,
And over land and on the sea
The men looked up, their hearts on fire,
And rallied in the golden light.

The dark drew back and fell to earth
On bended knee, with strangled voice
And moaning out in its despair
Retreated back into the depths -

For dark shall always bow to light
And darkness never can prevail.