omega point

Omega Point. elyse reves. 11.28.00

The stage was dark, but she wasn't afraid. Her goal was too large and looming to be hindered by light. The music she knew par coeur, but she didn't have the feel right. That was why she came.

It was wrong. It was a breaking of trust. She was given the keys by her band director to practice on the weekend under supervision, not at two in the morning when her house was still raging with drunkenness. She didn't care; it was hell, and she had to leave. That was all. If they needed a reason, it was all for the music, to make the music alive.

Since the beginning she had wanted to understand. Knowledge was the answer, the key in the door, and she had to find it. Paying her way in would not work this time. She needed to find another open window, and this was the one that would let her in.

The overwhelming desire to make the music come alive burned inside her wrists. It fed her daily; it was her only source of nutrition. How to explain this to her family? Never--they were stuck in the murkiness of their own selves; it was just themselves and their bottles in this lonely place.

She needed to add vivacity. Her ticket out of this place was hidden somewhere in her heart and in her instrument case; all she needed to do was harness that power that she knew deep inside was somewhere. That, in truth, was why she was there that night. She was still on her search for that power.

G, A, B, C. 5 cents flat. Push the slide in. G, A, B, C. Two cents sharp. Lip up. C. Flat line. Perfect. Her ambreschure felt right today, no tension or strain. The air flowed fast and warm through the slightly cold silver. Music flowed through her veins. She was ready to begin.

The piece was difficult--the Artunian concerto. She wasn't concerned with hitting notes, or proper articulation of the sixteenth runs. That had already been worked on, and with proper focus would fall right into place. She didn't know how to personalize this piece. It needed some sort of emotion, a certain je ne sais quoi that she couldn't quite achieve. Auditions were in two days. First chair was already hers, but she practiced still more. It was a matter of how large a margin it would be. It was a matter of whether her playing would move her director to tears, or even to display any sort of emotion.

It forced her to think about something complicated. Philosophy--a saddening subject--it would work. She contemplated God and the universe and why her life had been so drastically different than expectations. Pondering the intense dysfunction that had marked her life thus far, the notes came out of her horn not just notes, but real music. It almost sounded like the trumpet choir in Barber's "First Essay." She could feel the energy pulse in her valves, like a pacemaker through the invisible currents in the air. The more she thought about those currents, the better the piece sounded. Plugged into the divine godhead current that intrinsically ran through her, that ran through everyone.

She reached the last sixteenth note run of the piece and focused as hard as she could. She was the goddess of Barber, the composer of faerie wing song. This piece was nothing. This piece was everything, it was her billet au monde, and she poured her heart into it like it was the last time it was to be played. The little hairs on her neck stood up.

She pulled the warm mouthpiece away from her strained lips. They were tired, but it was a good tired. She had never felt better about any playing of hers. It was almost inspired. She clapped for herself, in her mind. Pretended it was her family, acting normal, the music having reached them.

However, the clapping wasn't imaginary. A shadowy figure in a long, creased and crackled trench coat with keys in hand. Her band director standing by the back door.

"Bravo." His voice sounded like his coat.

She almost heard one small tear hit the floor.