The Song Weaver

Wind Song

Wind flies through my hair
And I can hear a seagull calling.
Sand beneath my toes...
Suddenly I'm falling.
The spirit holds me tight,
and suddenly I'm calling.... into the wind.. 

My shrill scream beckons to 
Whom I do not know, but something
There is telling me that 
I'm not finished yet.

Flying into this night, I can't quite 
Make out the outline of my soul, but
I know it's somewhere there.

Falling into day, I can feel myself
I'm quite aware,
I've never felt
Quite like this... before...

And yet, there's something
Tickling the back of my mind and I
Can't quite put my finger on it.

There's something calling deep
Inside me. 

There's something falling into me.

There's something singing to my brain
And I can't quite hear the music.

I'm afraid.  Alone.

But something in me stirs

And suddenly a thousand voices open up their mouths
And I can hear them singing
And I can hear the words
And for that brief moment
   That moment I'm aware...

Five billion eyes are crying.
Five billion souls are laughing.
Five billion people stop and stare
   And wonder what is going on.

I can feel my feet tremble.
I can sense my knees quake.
I can sense the world around me 
  Screaming in the night.

And that shrill scream returns to me and
  I understand its voice.  I hear its
Clarion
          Call.

"Too late," I think.  "Too late" I scream.

I can no longer hear the words.  The moment 
  Is gone.  The pain has vanished.  The joy
Has
       Left.

And once again, I stand on the beach, 
  Calling out to the cacophony of the
Windsong of the waves and the screeching
  Of the gulls.   

And I am alone.

Dance of the Dead, Music of Life

I dance tonight in the night of souls with the wind blowing fast through my hair and my eyes water. I dance on ice with fire burning bright beneath my toes, the flavor of the sky rushing across my tongue, the scent of change pungent an awake in the air. I sing tonight and the dead call out to me and I shout back their names, one by one they dance for me and I sing to them and then I blow deep into my saxaphone and feel the air of freedom escape my lungs and the sounds that escape are low and deep and I feel my fingers touching and caressing the brass buttons, and the click of the keys is like castinettes and I pause for a moment and inhale.

I dance tonight in waters both numbing and scorching, one hand holding a live wire and the other hand held by a corpse. I can not say what it is I am singing, but I taste the air I am breathing. My feet feel like shattered glass and my eyes feel red and swollen. My hands bear scars, ancient scars, scars of history and belief and persecution and rage. They bear the scars of a woman who as a child was slammed against a floor hidden behind a school gymnasium, the air musty and damp. They bear the scars of a child half dead, sometimes alive who finally as an adult began to learn how to live again. When I dance with the dead I am calling to the child I used to be, saying that it's okay to move past this, to become alive again, and that to escape the broken glass, the suffocating screams and deadening silence and be free again that these scars must be faced. I tell that child that it is okay now, that it can fly away but it just stares at me coldly and smoulders of its own accord.

This child I once was is now my child. I do not know how to raise this child. I do not know how to love this child. But I try. And as I breathe deeply once again, I play now only for her, her cold gaze chilling me, but my warm breath hoping to compensate.

I stare back at her. I let notes ripple from my horn, deep and raw. I let fear guide me as much as hope. I weave these notes, I play these songs, in hopes of reaching what is left of my childhood.

She is angry now, and does not want this music. Her eyes run the color of blood. Were this any child but myself, I would stop now, holding myself back. But this is me, and I know she needs me as I need her, and I can not stop now.

Face flushed, I brace for impact. She lets out a blistering hiss and I am almost ready to end this here and now.

But such is not my fate, at least not today. I am holding my tune, continuing to play these notes, ever changing, ever constant, this tune holds us together. And as I hold my ground, I can feel her fists pounding against me, ineffectual and filled with terror.

I do not remember what it is like to be her, but I let her flail at me as best she can, knowing this is necessary. As her hands fly across my body, I can hear a rhythm, a rhythm I never knew I had back then, and I match it, and play it back, and she continues to pummel me, and I know that eventually this will start to hurt, that I must let it hurt for change to come, and I play notes more shrill. That live wire in my hand starts crackling, and the corpse is coming to life.

Within a moment we are weaving songs together, her lips upon my breast, sucking wildly, with hunger for the music, and I can feel myself being drained, yet enlivened. Shock waves crackle through me, and moments later she looks up at me and smiles.

I nod, knowing what must next be done, and i let go of my saxaphone, though it does not stop playing, and attach that wire to my navel, and she attaches it to hers.

Her hands come towards my stomach and pull my skin open, dancing her way inside me, climbing through my system, rushing through my veins.

Suddenly I am whole again, no longer alone, no longer afraid, aware, alive, hopeful. The wire, the corpse, the wind have all disappeared. I am alone, on an open field. Long, thin blades of grass rise around me, and I fall down and roll with them in delight. All is silent, save for the rustling of grass and the distant sound of crickets chirping. The moon is high over me, and I think I see it smiling

I grab my saxaphone, and almost start to play again, but decided it is better to listen to the music of the crickets for awhile.

After all, the song will always be there.

Copyright © 1996, Julie Waters.