Sinfonia Concertante

I. Overture: Allegretto misterioso

When I woke, they had taken me to the place where souls are formed, growing steadily out of some sort of primordial ooze, very much like clean looking egg whites sliding and slipping into their shapes. When the souls gain buoyancy, they become turning spheres, bright and gleaming. Perfection. That’s what the twins called it. The twins are the two bearded men in complicated nineteenth century suits of brown who run the mechanism. They showed it to me with great pride. Even asked if I’d like a go at running it. I declined.

You see, once the souls have reached the top of the dome, quite happy and perfect, they are scooped out with a long green net, not unlike the ones used in aquariums only much bigger, and then they are placed in the assembly line to be run through the mechanism. Once through, they have been split in two. Looking now wobbly and fluid and pale gray, each half is carried away by one in a long succession of bald eagles whose job it is to bring the half souls to be entered into living beings.

It seemed such a tragedy to split perfection, so I asked them, the twins, why? They stopped a moment, their ready smiles fallen, and one ruffled his tattered hair.

“We’ve never considered that before, have we, Bert?” he said to the other who was now filling his pipe, viewing this unexpected question as a welcome break.

“No, brother, we just split the souls. That’s the way it’s always been.”

There was a contemplative silence for a few moments and then, the pipe finished and the smiles returned, they carried on with their work.

It seemed a shame to split them and I wondered if they ever did find each other again. I discovered that there was an entire area of research devoted to this very topic. Sixty percent of the half souls found their other half again. Which was remarkable considering the likelihood that your other half might end up on a different world and there would be no chance of meeting.

I asked if one half was male and the other half female. This was met with a sudden snort and the comment that if I was such an ignorant creature after all, why had I been brought there in the first place, really? To which I had no answer because I honestly didn’t know why I was there.

I noticed that sometimes one half of a soul would have a terrible reaction to being split. It would shrivel up, its jelly-like surface becoming wrinkly and pale green. The twins, after giving each other a knowing look, would throw these back into the pool. As soon as the shriveled half-soul touched the waters, I could see the gleaming color return, so I knew it was all right. But then, the other half would go off into the universe with no chance of becoming whole. Very sad.

I also noticed that sometimes the soul would split into more than two parts. Sometimes three and very rarely four or six. Why not five? I asked. “There are no worlds for five,” was the answer. Which I found odd since the soul parts would end up on different worlds sometimes anyway. Apparently, the two parts would go only to worlds based on duality, and the three parts would go only to tertiary worlds and so on.

I still wanted to know the point of all this. Why split the souls? When perfection is achieved, why mess with it? I never got a satisfactory answer. They seemed to think I was too ignorant to understand.

What I took away with me is this: the laws of the universe are concerned with more things than perfection and what seems a brutal act is in fact the thing that keeps life going. So who was I to complain?

shuffle shuffle, string pluck, cough cough, chair scrape scoot, hand wipe on leg

II. Romanze: Andante con moto

My life has a certain order. A time to awaken and a process for bathing and grooming that flows from shaver to shower to stove. A manner in which I straighten my bedding. A manner in which I bring coffee water to boil. A manner in which I start the car. The fixed script is the path I drive. Each day, I look for the flower seller on the corner. Where does he get those always fresh flowers? It is all part of the routine.

Today, I have the wonderful diversion of a beautiful woman to escort around the city. She is a visiting astrophysicist and my boss gave me the honor, most probably the reward for years of unwavering service, as the little treat for the rat in the maze.

I awake and open the drapes to stark blue sky and beckoning sunlight sneaking over the fences and buildings and into the alleyways. I ask myself whether all of the moments that I have lived have led to this one. Did any of those moments really exist or are they ideas in my mind? And what will the day bring?

A break in the routine could mean a complete life change.

I find her in the lobby at my work. Blonde, feathery hair. Tall, sparse, like a bird on a wire as she sits in the chair. She smiles. Her lips are thin and childlike. Her eyes seek and scurry everywhere all at once.

“Hello. I hope you have not waited long.”

“No, no. I got here early. It’s good of you to show me around. I’ve never seen the city.”

It is meant to be a simple day. An outing through the city. But of course this can never be. A single man in his early thirties, clean-shaven, not entirely unattractive and a beautiful woman in a sculpted skirt. Not simple.

I open the passenger door of Felix, my Audi, and her joined skirted legs slide over the seat.

Why do we seek a companion? What makes humans feel incomplete if they do not have someone to share life with? And why is this sharing of a life concentrated into one and only one person?

“Would you like a coffee?” I ask as I pull Felix out of the parking spot.

“Yes, please.”

I had long given up the romantic notion of someone out there for everyone. The idea of a predestined soulmate did not seem just. What about people who would never have a partner, who for reasons of physical, mental or emotional limitations really could not have that kind of bond?

What pulls us to seek another? And does everyone have that pull or only those who do have a mate somewhere?

“This is my favorite café. I think you will like it. They have Italian style and so forth.”

Taking her arm is completely natural as we step across uneven stones. She is warm and soft, a gentle breeze at my side which makes me feel light-headed.

With coffees in hand, we find the tourist landmarks and the hidden places. We comb the lively city.

“Also if we step in here,” I say, knowing exactly what I am doing, “we can feel the tram run right beside us.”

We are pressed together in a tight space like two young kids in love. I look at her light blue eyes as they concentrate just so on the tracks. Her hair in the city wind billows and I wish to kiss her. Those thin, poised lips. When the tram comes, I will kiss her.

And then, there it is, the full force of its machinery beside us blazing and I put one careful hand around her slight waist. But I do not kiss her.

The rest of the day falls forward so. Of course the museum. Of course the gate. Of course the square and the fountain.

For dinner, we look out above the city as we eat veal and share a bottle of red wine. We tell stories that are mostly realistic about our childhoods and work experiences.

As we step into the warm dark, a light breeze softly touches us. I open the passenger door and she slides gracefully into the seat. Full and warm, I enter the driver side where just the faintest whiff of her lingers about me as I start the motor.

The routine for escorting visiting astrophysicists dictates that the next step is to bring her safely to her hotel and wish her a good night.

But I do not want this to end.

“May I show you something?” I ask hastily.

She does not answer, not right away, but gives me a questioning look, still and watchful.

“It is one of my favorite places. Do not be anxious. It is the best view in the city of the night sky.”

“Okay. But then I do need to go back to the hotel. I have to give a presentation early tomorrow morning and I’d like to go over it a few times.”

“This will not be too much time,” I say while shifting the gear and pulling forward.

There is some bit of a drive to get to the right building and I feel time run forward. I park quickly.

“It is just here. Only a few minutes more.”

I open the door for her and, as she swivels out, she looks both fascinated and wary.

“We have to go up a few stairs, but it will be worth it. Trust me.”

Will it be worth it? I have loved this evening of soft breezes and gentle brushes, but what did it mean?

What I do not tell her is that some years have passed since I have last done this.

We climb the stairs quickly, the questioning look in her eyes never leaving.

The breeze cools over us as we take the last step and scramble over the railing. Most of the stairs are inside, but the last steps are exposed and emerge in the middle of the roof.

Two years ago, I left a mattress here and two years later, there it is. I cannot believe it!

“Here we go!” I say impulsively, not once thinking that a mattress on a roof might seem a bit forward, I take her hand, run for the mattress and leap onto it. She has no choice but to leap, too.

“Now,” I say, “look up.”

Before us is the open sky and its billions of stars. We lie there, silently, looking up. I am one of those astrophysicists who has not outgrown a youthful fascination with the night sky visible to the naked eye.

“I just saw a shooting star,” she says. “Did you see it?”

“No.”

I am looking at my star. Capella. She is part of the constellation Auriga.

“Do you see that star there?” I ask, pointing at Capella. “The one above the small triangle.”

“Yes. I’m embarrassed to say that I don’t know that one. I know the Southern Sky better. What’s its name?”

“Capella. I like to think of it as “a cappella” — in the mode of the church.”

“Double binary?”

“Yes. There may be a galaxy there.”

“Oh?”

“Maybe.”

We were silent.

“I used to come up here every night the sky was clear and find Capella and look at her. I do not know what it is, but something draws me there. When I was a child, I wanted to climb into a spaceship and fly to her. I was fairly earnest about it and started building one out of some old box my mother had saved. It had all sorts of knobs and buttons and my mother had cut a door out for me. I put on my space costume and went in and shut the door. I do not know what I thought would happen, but when after twirling the knobs and pushing the buttons I once again opened the door and stepped out on solid ground, I started howling. Why was I not at Capella? Why was I still stuck on Earth?”

“Why didn’t you become an astronaut?”

“Hmm. I do not know. Even now, looking at her, I still yet feel this, ummm, what is it? Yearning, I think. As if I am supposed to be there. As if I am too far. Do you ever look at the stars and feel this way?

“Honestly, no. I don’t have a special star like you do.”

“No? Hmmm.”

And I look at her, this beautiful woman beside me. I know she will most probably return to the hotel and work on her presentation, perhaps with a bit of a grin at the silliness of going to a rooftop with a man to see the stars. I will not touch her or try to kiss her. The star holds me still.

scoot scoot, throat clear, rustle rustle, bow tap

III. Minuet and Trio

You never forget the first time you see your second. I was whirling through the layers of the city, stopping to pay bills, in search of a new camafoil so that I could make crempienes in the morning again. They were a favorite growing up. Somewhere between the tongs and the teazers, a fabulous vision hovered delicately with vast emerald eyes and flowing flaxen hair. I knew instantly. The way you know about a good fruit or a bad idea. I just didn’t know how to meet.

They don’t teach you anything about this. Your parents go to great pains to make sure you know how to make crempienes, which is of course to their benefit because they might visit at any time, but they don’t give you any instructions about meeting your mates.

Sure, there are plenty of stories out there. I can’t tell you how many times I heard how my parents met. An awkward digger was working late in a dark shaft when a messenger arrived who realized upon reaching to open the message, that it had been lost somewhere on the way, so of course they had to search together. They never found the message, but they found each other. Very sweet, but not helpful.

They were on vacation at a split river when they met their third. A bird expert of all things. They were spinning after a tri-breasted ornicorn and ended up flushing out a covey of jacket jays the third was quietly observing. It wasn’t a happy beginning, but they learned a lot about jacket jays and even gave one as a present years later, not that my third parent was happy about keeping a jacket jay as a pet. Wasn’t into domestication of wild things at all. I’ve always respected that. My present was well received: a sphere that allowed you to peer into the insides of living things.

And here I was, whirling near my unwitting mate who appeared to be considering two different patterns of napkin. Beautiful, but indecisive about unimportant things. Although who was I to determine what wasn’t important.

And I moved away, continued along to the camafoil aisle, purchased the blasted thing, and went home.

That’s right. I saw my second, but we did not meet. Some intuition, some sense of the right timing of things, comforted me with the knowledge that there would be another meeting, that I would not miss my second.

There are a lot of stories about missing your opportunity with your second or your third. What if you are on the same craft, but in different parts? What if one is born in Mistoon and the other half the world away in Bartok and the other on an island in the outer trisphere?

And what if only two meet and not the third. It was rare, but there were those who were not completely whole.

I didn’t take any stock in these stories. If you were soulmates and it was meant to be, then it would happen.

I spun home and noticed something out of place right away. I had not left the stone glowing. They were waiting for me, an arrest I’d expected for some time.

Oh, Dear Reader, what will you think of me when I write this? There are all sorts and I’m the sort with a pliable heart, I guess. Maybe this is what I inherited from my third parent, this unwavering belief that all life is valuable and has a right to continue. Can’t fathom killing, especially killing with no purpose. What makes Neons less valuable than anyone else? You tell me. Or are they just too colorful for plainer types? They are called mutants and are considered limited because they only have two sides, two eyes, two arms, two legs and tiny brains. And they scrape along the ground instead of spinning. Who will take care of them? Are they worth taking care of? So many debates. The general consensus was that they had no value. There were tribunes written proclaiming it merciful to shield Neons from an unfulfilling life by taking life away. Rationalizing.

I was quiet about it. What good would I be if I was locked up in one of the Prams? Stealthily, I hid Neons in the underclosets of my home. I helped newborn Neons to safety. Oh those poor parents. Never to see their offspring again. It seemed sometimes the parents knew it was coming before the birth. I’d get word of the need for my services well beforehand with directions to a secure birthing site. There was a game to making my journey appear plausible. I could be visiting one of my parents who worked nearby or looking for a certain item at the gumshop. Almost every place had a plausible alternate reason. Perhaps it was one of those exceptions that tipped off the authorities. Now I’ll never know.

I’m sure you must have had your own opinions about Neons. Very likely you took the side of the majority and believed it was merciful to allow them to pass on to regeneration. The most probable next birth would not be mutated, so they would have skipped the unpleasantries and gone on to a better life.

It’s logical. It’s so logical that I questioned it myself. Why didn’t I agree? It must be the killing itself. Something in me was repulsed by it. Did we value life so little? There had to be a reason for our ever-cycling lives, our passages into and out of each one of them, and there must be a reason that some are born differently. Must we all have the same form?

And maybe the reason is even more basic than all of this. Have you looked at a Neon? I mean, really looked at one. Every color appears to be there. And when they turn, the light catches differently and the colors change. There is the appearance of movement of colors, almost like the outer shell of the Neons is fluid. It’s breathtaking. And they have white or black hair that comes from the tops of their heads. They may not have much potential for intelligence, but is intellect everything? Who decided that intellect is more important than beauty?

And what about their souls? When we kill them, we don’t give them the opportunity to meet their second and third, so they don’t even have a chance to be whole. It’s thought that they don’t have souls, but I don’t think that’s true.

Maybe, and here’s where you’re likely to think my reasoning is farfetched, but maybe there are more benefits to Neons and we just haven’t discovered them yet because we haven’t given them a chance.

That was my thinking when I was arrested. As they whirled me to the Pram of their choice, we zipped up past the shop where I had seen my second. I realized with a sudden quakening that I would become one of those who missed the chance. What if we had met and perhaps the emerald-eyed beauty would have asked to whirl down to share a blingé and we might still be there now and the arresters would lose patience and go on with their tasks, but they would leave the stone glowing and I would know and could escape bringing my second with me?

How frightfully idyllic.

I suppose that could be one ending to the story, but this is what really happened. And the truth is much more interesting and farfetched than anything I could make up.

In real life, I was whirled to the island of Pram III in the outer trisphere and given an orientation to the site where I’d be living from then on, or so I thought because that was before the Revolution, and I was brought to the common area with the other new arrivals and there was my second, holding the chosen napkin, hovering in a corner, and right beside was my third. We recognized each other in an instant’s mutual glance. Together we were a formidable force, once the Revolution started.

A child claps once. The child is forgiven.

IV. Marcia Funebre: Adagio in b minor

It was almost finished and already he felt a sense of loss.

The stones were small smooth friends in his fingers, dropping happily into the bag. All these years of daily meditation and penance for sorrow were nearly complete.

It began after his daughter’s death. She was so light in his arms and he held her there out on the plateau because he could not bring her to them for burial preparations. Not yet.

It was dark, still and warm and he held her before the sky with its mysteries and answers, before the dancing monkey and the long-billed bird. There had to be mercy somewhere. Oh, please do not take her from me.

So short was life, so little the reward. This joy as vibrant and moving as the lights of the sky was now empty and lost. What could it mean? How could life be meant to end?

He had felt her go. That beautiful, stubborn spirit, so brilliantly attuned to the world that she could help him even at her young age.

But she had not evaporated. She had not disappeared. She went from here to somewhere. Where did she go? Where was she now?

Did those points of light in the heavens know?

Perhaps she was now one of them.

But he did not believe it.

What he did believe was that out there was a place called Araña. The place familiar to him since he was a boy. He would look to Araña in his greatest triumphs and worst fears. And now in his utmost sorrow.

On that night, his heart wailed out to Araña. And then he saw something new.

There at the top of Araña’s left leg, the light was orange.

Had it been orange before? No, no, he’d been looking at Araña all of his life.

And it wasn’t that his daughter was there. That wasn’t it. This point of light was grieving with him. He knew this.

He looked at his daughter’s face and, seeing that she was not there, but had moved on, he brought her to the village where they were ready to prepare her burial. He could not stay to watch them mutilate the daughter he loved so much. Wordlessly, they understood.

He went back to the plateau and the comfort of Araña. As he lay there, overcome beneath the sky, he wondered whether the light could see him. He must be so small. Was there a way he could make something big enough to be seen?

An idea began to form. He would make the shape of Araña, but make it so large that it could be seen from the heavens.

The next day, he began measuring distances and setting stakes. Soon, he began an endless routine of collecting reddish brown stones. He found they were valuable to the village for making walls and plates, so he was well respected for diligence in contributing to his fellow people in this way. All the while he was looking to the sky.

And after so many years, it became that night of the final march when the last stones were removed. He looked up at the orange light at the top of Araña’s left leg. “This is for you,” he whispered, dropping the last stones into his bag.

chair squeak, cough cough, shuffle, string pluck, rustle rustle, string pluck

V. Scherzo-Intermezzo

Icelandic woman sails around the world with a little red hen named Eva
Share on Facebook
Share Tweet on Twitter
by Marina Bryson
5 hours ago

NEW YORK — Birds of a feather flock together, or in this case they never sail alone.

Cheeky Icelandic travel blog chick Steinunn Ólafsdóttir has spent every moment of her sailing journey around the world in the company of her plucky, clucking companion named Eva.

Long before embarking on her dream voyage, Steinunn knew that she wanted someone to travel with her.

“I tried to get a human to go with me, but when that did not work out very well, enough said there, I found a pet who also provides eggs for food,” Steinunn confessed. “Much more practical,” she said with a laugh.

Over an average week, Eva lays six eggs, even at sea.

Now thirteen months, and roughly 320 eggs, into their travels, the two sailors have fostered a close relationship.

“She follows me everywhere. All I have to do is call her name: Eva! And she will come sit on my shoulder. She is amazing,” said the twenty-five year old sea explorer.

“At first, I was concerned that the waves would be too harsh and she might stumble and fall. Sometimes it looks like she might go overboard, but she always regains her footing. She is very brave.”

Starting from Portugal, Steinunn and Eva spent a few months in the Caribbean before heading north. They are now in Nova Scotia and their next destination is Greenland.

“I knew it right away. She was the one.”

throat clear, cough

VI. Finale: Toccata and Fugue

Growing up, I had the biggest crush on Haley Joel Osment from the movie The Sixth Sense. He could see dead people. I completely understood. Not that I could see dead people and I didn’t have anything creepy going on involving glowing tents in the living room.

For as long as I can remember, I’ve been able to perceive souls. So far, I’m the only one I’ve met who can do this.

They have different fluid shapes and strengths of color, but there is always an oyster shell iridescence. They hover around people, a looming pervasive secret.

Like Haley Joel Osment’s character, I’ve learned to keep quiet about what I perceive. No one understands. They either start talking about auras and I end up on rabbit trails with people who are not perceiving the same thing, or I get sent for a nice chat with a psychiatrist who finds me charming and says I have a great imagination.

Somewhere in adolescence, I decided to stop acknowledging that I could perceive souls. They were there, but I could tune them out like white noise or sour factory smells.

Then I started noticing something interesting. A couple walking hand in hand through Central Park did not each have a soul, but there was one joined soul. Once I saw it, these joined souls seemed to be everywhere. I guess they always had been, I just hadn’t noticed before.

I hesitate to say this because it is so easy to offend in today’s world. I’m not making a judgment call here. I’m just telling you what I’ve perceived and you can make your own determination.

Sometimes there would be fifty or more years between the people with joined souls. In those cases, they weren’t married, weren’t involved at all romantically, but made the complete soul just by being in each other’s presence.

Sometimes they were both males or both females. All the twins I’ve seen, the identical ones at least, have had the same soul, even ones that marry. Imagine spending your whole life with your soulmate!

And, we don’t have to linger over this and hash it out now, but animals have souls, too. They often look very different than human souls, but I have seen human and animal joined souls a few times. Most frequently, a human and a dog. Again, this is not about romance or sex. This is about companionship and being whole in the presence of another.

The more I observed and learned, the more I realized that there might be a benefit to this odd “gift” after all. I could help souls find each other! I might even open a business and get paid for soul perception. Cool!

There was one glitch. How would I know which souls matched?

On my days off, I sat in Central Park, took notes and learned. It turned out that if I got serious about what I was seeing, I could pick out shapes and colors that matched the shapes and colors of another. If you’ve played Concentration before, it’s a similar idea, but completely different.

Of course, there’s a limited number of soulmates living or visiting right in New York City, so I decided to travel the world and keep a notebook. My parents were thrilled. They just wanted me to be happy, after all, which is a heavy burden for any kid to bear.

I went everywhere: small villages in China, the trans-Siberian Railroad, Madagascar, the Loire River valley, Salar de Uyuni, São Paulo, Cuenca, the Yucatan Peninsula, the shrinking island of Tuvalu, and more. In no place were there people without souls. Everyone has one. That includes the Middle East and Northern Africa, in case you’re wondering. Let’s be clear, I also perceive souls in Washington DC, even everyone right on Capitol Hill.

When I returned home, I planned a test party. Invitations went out to ten people whose souls matched another in the group. Strategically, I chose those who had money for travel and wanted to visit New York City. A tour of Greenwich Village and a Broadway show ticket were thrown in. They’d have to pay their own airfare and lodging, so there was the risk they wouldn’t want to invest in the trip or that they wouldn’t have the time. I had some back-up names just in case and only ended up replacing two pairs.

Everyone was to meet at an icebreaker at the Hotel Beauville.

It was cultural cacophony.

The French pastry chef went to a party on the wrong floor. The man from Oman left in a huff when food wasn’t offered to him again after he first refused. Apparently, someone had boots on the table with the soles showing and that was the last straw. The Brazilian dancer slipped away when the guy from Pittsburgh made the OK sign at her. The Australian woman did not see the humor in learning that the Californian was rooting for her. The Chinese man was given a green hat in the lobby, St. Patrick’s Day was coming up, and, considering it bad luck, he immediately left. And the Hungarian woman never made it at all. I found out later that she had inverted the date and thought it was happening three months in the future.

A few stuck with it and went to the shows and the tours. They left happy, but none of those who remained were complimentary souls, so the purpose had failed. It was harder than I’d realize to put souls together.

When the Californian left at last, I sat alone on the steps of the hotel, my parents’ hotel by the way, and sighed. It was worth a try, but it wasn’t going to work. The meeting of soulmates was not something that could be forced, it had to come in its own time.

I’d catered the final dinner with Rosa Mexicano, my favorite restaurant. My contact for the catering stepped out with a broad smile and joined me on the steps.

“Not as many people as you had hoped, but I think it went well. How was the food? You know, I made the mole poblano just the way you like it. I know that’s your favorite.”

“Thank you! We gave it a go anyway.”

“You know,” he said and I looked at him, realizing that it was like he belonged on these steps where I had crawled, climbed, drooled, scraped my knee, bounced balls, caught an errant frog once, and even stood in heels for prom pictures. His arm brushed mine as he spoke and his eyes were very, very dark and warm. “I kept wondering, what is she up to? She is up to something, I know it. Why is she putting these people together? And do you know what I came up with?”

The epiphany was swift and merciless.

“She did all this just so she could have more time with her favorite Mexican chef.”

I had never considered my own soul before. Perhaps I had taken it for granted that, being different, I might not even have one. But I did.

“Do you like to go dancing? I know a place. It’s the most beautiful place for dancing. You won’t believe this, but sometimes I even sing.”

And so it all led to this perfect moment. I nestled my head into his shoulder and he enclosed his arm around me. I took a deep breath and exhaled.

“I’m married, you know,” he said quietly.

Not perfect after all, but there are more important things than perfection.

crashing waves of applause, bravo! bravo! bravo!, bowing, gesturing, trickling claps
lights up, coats retrieved, hum of voices, rustle rustle, clop clop clop
lights off, door thud, pitch dark
silence
wake up