anghara (anghara) wrote,
anghara
anghara

Painting with words and music...





I wish I could I wish I could I wish I could make an animation of what I see in my mind’s eye when I listen to that GLORIOUS piece of music on the video. But I cannot draw. The visions that I see in my head, they’re just for me – and the only way I have of painting you a picture of what I see is with the thing that I own, the thing that I love, the thing that I spend my days kneading like bread with my hands wrist-deep in the dough in the hope that dome day somebody will pick up the loaf of bread that comes out of it and sate a hunger they never knew they had. Words.

I listened to this piece of music, oh, it must have been a dozen times over the last two days. I’ll write it out for you, the images that well up inside of me, that unfold on my closed eyelids as if I were watching one of those fabulous Disney Fantasia animations coming to life around me.

I’ll do it twice., both times under cut. If you will, just listen to the music while reading the first free-flow account. If you cannot quite see where things occur, the second part I’ll give you the exact points in the music video. But here we go –

First visceral images: water, wind, bird. Seabird. Seagull. No, pelican. No, ALBATROSS. And yes I know all about the albatross’s inability to land – they don’t so much come down on solid things (like the ground) as aim themselves at it and hope they hit something that stops them. So the ending of this particular fantasy is definitely something of a fairy tale, but that whole series of thoughts were not so much independent as a single thought that ran on until it hit something solid that stopped it (just LIKE that albatross): water/wind/bird/seabird/seagull/no,pelican/no,albatross. Single thought. Single thought string.

But anyway. Here we are. High above a blue sea the colour of heart-of-sapphire. High up in the sky, speckled with white clouds. There’s a bird. A young bird. It’s his first real long flight. And he is exhilarated. Fascinated. Excited. A little terrified.

Change the POV to that of the bird as it folds its wings and swoops down down down, until it is just above the ocean, until it is skimming the water. The water underneath it is blue, and it is full of sparkles – the sparkle of sunlight spilled on water. The bird flies just above it all, almost through the sparkles, and catches the light, and its feathers start to glow from it all, and light is dripping off the spread wingtips catching the wind. It begins to swoop and swerve, still just above the water and its spill of sun, flying slalom style between small islands, finally coming out of it and into open water… a dolphin leaps up to meet it and falls back into the sparkling blue…

But there is trouble, and the light is changing – the blue water is dotted with whitecaps – and somehow between one moment and the next it is all different, and the sky darkens with heavier clouds the colour of bruises, and the water turns the colour of dull pewter, and the waves reach higher, and the wind is suddenly a mallet, and the bird is swept by it, sideways, inelegant, ungainly, shedding the light from its wings until nothing is left but a pile of untidy gray feathers and a stark rolling eye, frantically trying to avoid being swamped by the rising waters, fighting the wind, tiring fast – remember – this is a YOUNG BIRD, it is the FIRST STORM. EVER. On the horizon you can see lightning snaking its way across the purple sky, you can hear thunder, you can hear the bolts that the gods are hurling hitting the earth and the water – fire and water – death by drowning – and then the bird looks up and for a moment, just a moment, there is a hint of gold fighting through the dark skies, the memory of the sunlit sparkles, and a thought occurs –

THE ONLY WAY OUT IS UP.

THE ONLY WAY OUT IS THROUGH.

THE ONLY WAY OUT.

The bird gathers up its last strength, and points itself into the heavens like an arrow, aiming for that patch of light which is already almost faded away… far away, going, going, gone… and then, suddenly, it is out, it is through, the angry cloud is behind and below it, and the sky is clear again, and open, and free.

But the sun is westering, and the light is different, it’s all old gold now, and the bird spreads its tired wings and – after turning just once to look back on the storm – flies on, into the sunset. The sky turns red and violet and apricot and amethyst, and then darker, shading into indigo, and then black. A great moon rises on the horizon, bone-white against the black sky; silhouetted against it, like a sanctuary, is a great sailing ship, one of the old three-masters, its sails unfurled. The bird makes the top of the highest mast, lands, folds its wings around itself, sighs, droops in weariness. And then looks up.

Above it in the darkness a scattering of stars are lit.

Twinkle. Glitter. Shimmer. Tremble.

Fade to black.


(Annotated)
First visceral images: water, wind, bird. Seabird. Seagull. No, pelican. No, ALBATROSS. And yes I know all about the albatross’s inability to land – they don’t so much come down on solid things (like the ground) as aim themselves at it and hope they hit something that stops them. So the ending of this particular fantasy is definitely something of a fairy tale, but that whole series of thoughts were not so much independent as a single thought that ran on until it hit something solid that stopped it (just LIKE that albatross): water/wind/bird/seabird/seagull/no,pelican/no,albatross. Single thought. Single thought string.

But anyway. Here we are. High above a blue sea the colour of heart-of-sapphire. High up in the sky, speckled with white clouds. There’s a bird. A young bird. It’s his first real long flight. And he is exhilarated. Fascinated. Excited. A little terrified. (0:00 – 0:34)

Change the POV to that of the bird as it folds its wings and swoops down down down, until it is just above the ocean, until it is skimming the water. The water underneath it is blue, and it is full of sparkles – the sparkle of sunlight spilled on water. The bird flies just above it all, almost through the sparkles, and catches the light, and its feathers start to glow from it all, and light is dripping off the spread wingtips catching the wind. It begins to swoop and swerve, still just above the water and its spill of sun, flying slalom style between small islands, finally coming out of it and into open water… a dolphin leaps up to meet it and falls back into the sparkling blue… (0:35 – 2: 43)

But there is trouble, and the light is changing – the blue water is dotted with whitecaps – and somehow between one moment and the next it is all different, and the sky darkens with heavier clouds the colour of bruises, and the water turns the colour of dull pewter, and the waves reach higher, and the wind is suddenly a mallet, and the bird is swept by it, sideways, inelegant, ungainly, shedding the light from its wings until nothing is left but a pile of untidy gray feathers and a stark rolling eye, frantically trying to avoid being swamped by the rising waters, fighting the wind, tiring fast – remember – this is a YOUNG BIRD, it is the FIRST STORM. EVER. On the horizon you can see lightning snaking its way across the purple sky, you can hear thunder, you can hear the bolts that the gods are hurling hitting the earth and the water – fire and water – death by drowning – (2:44 - 3:04)


and then the bird looks up and for a moment, just a moment, there is a hint of gold fighting through the dark skies, the memory of the sunlit sparkles, and a thought occurs –

THE ONLY WAY OUT IS UP.

THE ONLY WAY OUT IS THROUGH.

THE ONLY WAY OUT.

The bird gathers up its last strength, and points itself into the heavens like an arrow, aiming for that patch of light which is already almost faded away… far away, going, going, gone… and then, suddenly, it is out, it is through, the angry cloud is behind and below it, and the sky is clear again, and open, and free. (3: 05 – 3:44)

But the sun is westering, and the light is different, it’s all old gold now, and the bird spreads its tired wings and – after turning just once to look back on the storm – flies on, into the sunset. (3: 45 -4:12)

The sky turns red and violet and apricot and amethyst, and then darker, shading into indigo, and then black. A great moon rises on the horizon, bone-white against the black sky; silhouetted against it, like a sanctuary, is a great sailing ship, one of the old three-masters, its sails unfurled. (4:13 - 4:38)

The bird makes the top of the highest mast, lands, folds its wings around itself, sighs, droops in weariness. And then looks up. (4: 39 – 4:58)

Above it in the darkness a scattering of stars are lit.

Twinkle. Glitter. Shimmer. Tremble.

Fade to black.(4: 59 – 5: 05)


Can you see it? Can you SEE it?...
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