it was the violins first: their plaintive wail soaring up to the heavens, descending in a spiral, swooping and diving like seagulls, catching his heartstrings and pulling them, like a teasing child tugging at his hair, drawn bumping along in their power, and the first tear welled up in his eye. A swell from the cellos, like an ocean beneath him, tossing him in impermanent anguish, throwing him bodily, till he felt seasick with the constant movement, thrumming inside his head. The reedy oboe, screaming with pain, howling in intensity, sent lightning bolts through his head from ear to ear, searing pain, he was tasting it now, The clarinet's warmth was welcome relief, like an old friend jogging beside him, dancing, like old trad jazz, and he bopped up and down, then embarassed and ashamed, stood stock still again. The mellow tones like chocolate, and he was back at the seaside, eating ice-cream with a flake, which melted in his mouth, and then caramel pudding, with swirls of cream, as the flute joined in, and pop, poppin strawberries exploding in his mouth, the silver percussion setting nerves a-prancing, like horses in the circus, a floating pink tutu astride a white mare, and sounds increasing, whirling him, the band's twirling red master of ceremonies, his black moustache like a giant treble clef, a phrase mark, and his whip cracking, cracking, Was his crazy mind going, or coming and going, was he here, or there, as the sound swelled, the massive organ full stopping, no, not stopping, nothing was stopping, it was mad, maddening, and he had to stand here, as his synaesthesic brain caught sounds, sights, tastes, and colours and threw them around in a whirligig of ectasy, and he stood, waiting, waiting, for his cu.
And then he opened his throat, and sang, sang till his heart would burst, but it wouldn;t, he knew, for all was in place, as his voice, his wonderful gift of a heavenly voice, rang round his head, resounded round his chest, and the audience stilled, and stopped breathing, and then breathed with him, each phrase, each motif, each note, rising, rising upward to the gods, here in the Albert Hall, as his last concert, his farewell to all that, travelled on its way to the end, each aria swelling his pride, entrancing the audience, till the final notes cascaded like the sparks from a firework, and fell to the ground.
Silence,
And then the sound which filled his heart and mind, the sound of applause, a huge roar, like the sea again, roaring, thunderous applause, louder than he had ever heard, and it was over.
Finished.
A life well lived, well sung, and well spent.
And the applause would ring round his head for the rest of his life, till the end of his days.
He stood on the beach, and listened to the waves, and remembered.
And carefull folded his icecream wrapper, and put it in his pocket.
Dreams were always worth having.
And his were really loud.
Copyright © 2008 Rob Richardson. All Rights Reserved.