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100 lines
4.5 KiB
Text
100 lines
4.5 KiB
Text
.LP
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.ce
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.ps 16
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.CW
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THE GREEN
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.R
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.ps 8
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.CW
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tags: 1918
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.R
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.PP
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.ps 10
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Mary lit candles while I made some adjustments to the sound levels
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and then paced off the markers on the stage. The trees were turning up
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their leaves and the cold breeze against my face indicated that the
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sooner we got started, the better. The weather was in transition
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again. I noticed that in the diminished light, the curtain seemed to
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be reflecting the green from all around us. I looked down at my arms
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and the same effect was showing against my skin. Mary smiled
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acknowledgement from her corner of the stage.
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.PP
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.ps 10
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I faced toward the swaying grass. The movement of the hillside
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caught hold of me immediately\(emI felt it pull against my stomach\(embut
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once the playback started I had little trouble falling into the
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correct rhythm. Insects in the trees began to organize their shrieks
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around the activity on stage. Presently, our surroundings had settled
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into smooth synchronization with the machines. The shift between
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recognition and acceptance was instantaneous, complete.
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.PP
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.ps 10
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I noticed after a while that this had all transpired without
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incident, and so with the usual assistance from Mary I began the
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second phase of the rite. Intonation. One voice, then two, joining
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with the electronic pulses, slipping into the fold, setting down a
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canopy atop the invisible scaffolding which was still emerging from
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the loudspeakers. We erected a shelter of sound, continuing with the
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program until almost all movement within sight had come to a stop.
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Even the grass had ceased its inverted pendulum swing. A single drop
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of water splashed against my face and I winced almost imperceptibly,
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but did not waver in my vocalizations. We both turned to face the
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hillside.
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.PP
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.ps 10
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Then silence, from the both of us, and all at once it was over.
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.PP
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.ps 10
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After an indeterminate period, Mary began to extinguish the
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candles. I worked my way around the stage, detaching speakers and
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re\-coiling cords and plugs. The hillside below remained resolutely
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still throughout this secondary performance, our movements a sort of
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encore begging the mute appreciation of spring foliage. This silent
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effect would persist for weeks before finally returning to normal.
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Mary and I would fall back into our own familiar patterns. Clanging
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about. We would complain that we missed the children, or that the
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government had evolved beyond all recognition. It was comfortable, for
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the most part. But the trees on the hillside were more thoughtful.
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They would hold still for a few more days, perhaps as a reminder of
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what had already passed. While I might climb back up to the stage some
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afternoon, planning to relax with a book, my consciousness of the
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synchronicity would have already expended itself. The resonance would
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be completely drained. I was sure it would be the same for Mary.
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.PP
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.ps 10
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I slept better that night than I had in a long time. A decade. The
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temptation was always to think that if we'd take time out for this
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observance just a little more often, if we'd simply make an effort to
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keep these sentiments in our daily thoughts... Well, you know how
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these things tend to work out. The truth is\(emand this is as
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important as any other detail you'd care to focus on\(emthe rite was
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only to be performed once a year. That's how it had always been. And
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the tradition, I think, was correct. Well\-founded. The empty spaces
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were in fact as significant as those caressed by the resonance of
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conscious observance. The transition from one state to another could
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only be measured along this sort of blunt, descending staircase.
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Dividing awareness from its counterpart, one state from its successor,
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empty to all filled up. How else could we perceive change at all?
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.PP
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.ps 10
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As the rains started, I scooped up the last of the cables and
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snapped shut the plastic container where they were stored when they
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were not being used. A thoughtful crease appeared along the ridge of
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my eyebrows, and Mary quickly rolled out the awning over the stage,
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just as the downpour really began to break loose. We locked hands and
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wandered the stone pathway back to the house, a silent song on our
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lips as the rain beat clumps of our hair down against our ears. It
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felt as if we were aging in reverse.
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.PP
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.ps 10
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Rainwater spread over the green fallen leaves, sticking them to the
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concrete, bulletin boarding them from the edge of the woods all the
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way up to the house. We kicked them along as we made our way through
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the spring shower, splashing forward to the doorway and its steady,
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house\-shaped warmth.
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.PP
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.ps 10
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Until next year.
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