...sometimes even a single feather is enough to fly. (Robert Maclean)


Rachmaninoff: vocalise op. 34 n. 14

While I was listening to this piece 
this Saturday morning 
in front of the fire
with my eyes closed
sipping on some coffee 
(my latest favorite:  House of Good by Blue Bottle)...

I decided, shit.
This is IT.

This is the penultimate.

I thought:
If I was dying and I was still coherent enough to listen,
or if someone ever decides to come and shoot me...
if I had a second to even get a word in with them 
before they pulled the trigger,
I would say to them, 
"Fine.  Just let me listen to Rachmaninoff's Vocalise first."

 Let it be the last thing I hear.

But then I'd ask for more things, of course.
A pen and paper so I could write my last words to my sweet love,
which I really should have asked for first
if I could only be granted one wish.
I'd kiss my dogs on the forehead for the millionth tender time.
I'd ask to go throw some scratch feed out for our hens
and watch them enjoy it so happily.
I'd ask to sit in the sunlight.

I'd probably also ask for one last chocolate from Oliver Kita.
Cognac creme brulee comes to mind. 
Or the marzipan.

And of course, the more I would think about it,
I'd start asking for more of my favorite things,
because that's just who I am.

I'm the more-more-more girl. 

And maybe after all of that
my potential shooter would decide 
to just sit back and listen
and enjoy a chocolate with me 
and soak up the sunlight
and forget about the gun.

Anyway.  I won't indulge too much 
in my "last wish" thoughts,
because I'd much rather go about the business of living,
because oh how special it feels 
to be alive, and free.
  and to know it.
yes, to know it.

Just close your eyes and listen to this.
Turn it up.
It's that feeling you get when something is so damn wonderful,
and Rachmaninoff's Vocalise 
makes me feel like I'm lifting up out of my body.

Some sopranos I have seen singing this 
put their hand
near their clavicle
almost as if to keep their bodies on the ground
to keep from being lifted up by their own voices
because the momentum is so powerful.

It's just one vowel, sung over and over and over.
The music soars and comes back 
and soars again. 

I can't imagine any better piece of music
to leave the body
or to leave this world for another,
if one had to go.

I grip the arms of my chair
to keep from flying away.

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