Standing next to the giant old tree, its static presence made Saami sombre, more and more.
He cried, “Saami is now one with the rigid, rough and-and dead, yes, dead and gruesome tree bark, Saami has turned into this tree bark… O, but why?”
Resting against the tree now, now hugging the tree and mumbling, Saami stared into nothingness blankly, quietly. He opened his fist – a flint stone chip, equally dead he thought – and started ripping off the bark once again.
“Saami sees it all, Saami knows the limits, Saami’s dungeon is different from theirs, but… it’s all the same”, he announced in pain.
The twittering yellow bird, the prancing butterflies, a distant lullaby, the pesky kung-fu crickets’ funny civil war and the red flowers’ bold stance, Saami turned a blind eye to it all.
Even the crickets stopped their civil war to enjoy the rain and the rainbow that day, but not Saami.
“Fools! Saami knows the pattern, Saami knows hope and destiny are always stuck in a traffic jam, and love…”, said Saami two hours ago.
“Love… love coloured Saami’s world black… black is the absence of all colours… black reflects no light… Saami lives in darkness”, he completed the sentence just when the fireflies lit the jungle.
Some rested on his head and hands, but Saami refused to greet them.
With a dry look, sullen eyes and tired limbs, Saami spoke for the last time, “dead, static tallness, this soulless tree bark hates Saami, this is the death penalty, and the most terrible because Saami is not tied, Saami can move, Saami knows, but not anymore, for Saami has become one with this giant numb stubborn treeeeeeeeeeeeeeee…”
Saami spoke for the last time because the lovely, joyous and calm tree’s branch took hold of Saami’s tired body and pulled him up-up-up… in a gushing blast of speed, suddenly music broke Saami’s heart-heart-heart… ta-rum-pup-pup-paa came the sound and immediately replaced it with a musical hub-dub sensation of a heart.
*
The lead singer-cum-dancer-cum-poser. [Image by Roy N from Pixabay]
From the top-most branch of the tall lovely tree, Saami could see melodic colours and no darkness, nothing was static for the entire jungle and the river and the wind and the sky and the stars and the moon and the sun (together) danced to the twee peppy tune – and equally soothing, thought Saami – that the animal orchestra was playing.
Every animal – jamming freely – sitting on the top of some tree just like Saami… Saami who started clapping, swaying along and tip-tap-toeing in the air.
The tall lovely tree finally spoke, “Saami, yoi-knowi-da-cosmic-i-dance-sO-‘ell”; Saami was seen blushing brightly before the curtain was drawn.
The hero is in hiding, asleep, has forgotten or has been brainwashed because only that could explain the hero’s silence; the dead silence is complementing the darkness ostentatiously.
And no surprise, right? This darkness is overwhelming, too huge, so vast, damn cruel, heartless/soulless, steady and conniving that the heroes have all locked themselves up in the epics, legends and myths.
Dejected and weak they have turned their backs, criticising the critics, they hopelessly work to earn a living, measuring their quiet success every fiscal year, waiting for the golden retirement when they will finally wake up… or maybe they will not.
Regina Spektor is calling out to all the heroes to wake up, rise and fight, to accept the responsibilities of actions they so unconsciously take, to wage a war against inequality one little step at a time.
*
Listen to Apres Moi before reading further –
*
I (uh) must go on standing You can’t break that which isn’t yours I (uh) must go on standing I’m not my own, it’s not my choice
Be afraid of the lame, they’ll inherit your legs Be afraid of the old, they’ll inherit your souls Be afraid of the cold, they’ll inherit your blood Apres moi le deluge, after me comes the flood…
Regina Spektor
Revolutions, the downfall of monarchies, totalitarian leaders, genocides… mankind’s history is a presence in the absence, it is ever-looming, reminding us of the foundation on which we are now building smart castles (with Alexa or Google Nest Hub or the gadget you prefer).
Apres moi le deluge is a French phrase that means ‘after me, the flood’ and is attributed to Louis XV of France; one of the explanations suggest its nihilistic connotation that says, ‘Ruin, if you like, when we are dead and gone’ and the other links it with Halley’s comet and the impending French Revolution of 1789.
Here, Regina Spektor talks about the far-reaching presence of history and how we cannot ignore it for long.
She sings a few lines of a Russian poem when reaching the crescendo; it is a poem by Nobel laureate Boris Pasternak, titled ‘February’ –
Black spring! Pick up your pen, and weeping, Of February, in sobs and ink, Write poems, while the slush in thunder Is burning in the black of spring.
An intense song that resonates across and holds your thoughts, it seems as if the song is urging us folks to stand up against the odds without delay, asking us folks not to mellow down.
Listen to Us –
*
They made a statue of us They made a statue of us The tourists come and stare at us The sculptor’s mama sends regards They made a statue of us They made a statue of us Our noses have begun to rust
We’re living in a den of thieves Rummaging for answers in the pages We’re living in a den of thieves And it’s contagious And it’s contagious…
Regina Spektor
Thieves are untied clandestinely, inconspicuously, invincibly, heartily like no other group on this planet, working religiously, solely for their profit.
The one charismatic, luring fact, among other things, is the freedom they give to every individual thief, showing no concern for each other, but keeping a check and standing in solidarity if the deal is profitable.
Regina Spektor rightly diagnosed this behaviour as contagious; the song is giving a warning, it is a reminder. Wake up dear heroes, at least to rub off the rust on your noses.
Listen to Small Bills –
*
His destiny was just too big to spend So he broke it into smaller bills and change By the time he’d try to buy the things he needed He had spent it all on Lucy’s and weed and He had spent it all on chips and Coca-Cola He had spent it all on chocolate and vanilla He had spent it all and didn’t even feel it…
Regina Spektor
May the heroes win the peculiar, surreal, boorish individual battles that they are fighting again and again and again.
Listen to Hero –
*
Hey, open wide, here comes Original sin (Vrrr) Hey, open wide, here comes Original sin
Listen to this song when the sky is orange-pink, dimly twinkling, armouring up for the dark night; listen to this song when the sky is whitish-blue, brightly warm, breathing lightly, gently healing the hero.
Peh-peh-peh… a patina trumpeter plays for you. [Source – Pixabay]
Our shadowy past lives, though hidden in the fog, it lives, and we live off it.
Ancient cities now archaeological sites, history books, paintings, literature, music and ideas remind us of the assured presence of antiquity, our link with what was the truth back then.
Like the tail of a shooting star, our past/ the antiquity makes an equally good show in the darkness, at times even a grand show.
Like a terrific shaman, the past predicts when approached with a true question and predicts without any regret.
Come, let us see, what it predicted when Regina Spektor approached it with some melodious queries.
*
Listen to “All The Rowboats” before reading further –
*
…First there’s lights out, then there’s lock-up Masterpieces serving maximum sentences It’s their own fault for being timeless There’s a price to pay and a consequence All the galleries, the museums Here’s your ticket, welcome to the tombs They’re just public mausoleums The living dead fill every room
But the most special are the most lonely God, I pity the violins In glass coffins they keep coughing They’ve forgotten, forgotten how to sing…
Regina Spektor
It seems the antiquity, through this song, shared a message for all those who are listening, which is that the past is not static, so no point in decorating and forgetting it; no point in generalising it and awarding it with a damp stamp.
Feel free to interpret it; relive the change.
Listen to “Samson” –
*
Samson went back to bed Not much hair left on his head He ate a slice of Wonder Bread And went right back to bed And the history books forgot about us And the Bible didn’t mention us And the Bible didn’t mention us, not even once
You are my sweetest downfall…
Regina Spektor
Delilah, Samson’s lover, actually a spy, had his long hair cut one night, making him powerless; the Philistines captured Samson and tortured him brutally. Samson, blind and weak, still destroyed his enemies by magically regaining his strength. He died along with his enemies after he collapsed the temple of Dagon.
This biblical account doesn’t mention the infinite voices that made Samson, Samson and Delilah, Delilah. Culturally nourished biases have always restricted so many voices and the history books have often conveniently ignored it… until someone dares and explores and talks about the sweetest downfall.
Listen to “While My Guitar Gently Weeps” –
*
…I look at you all, see the love there that’s sleeping While my guitar gently weeps I look at the floor and I see it needs sweeping Still my guitar gently weeps
I don’t know why nobody told you How to unfold your love I don’t know how someone controlled you They bought and sold you
I look at the world and I notice it’s turning While my guitar gently weeps With every mistake we must surely be learning Still my guitar gently weeps…
George Harrison
Regina Spektor covered this “Beatles” song for the film Kubo and the Two Strings (a must watch), magnifying the song’s impact so wonderfully. The antiquity becomes fully alive here; it reassures and promises the unfolding of another epic. It is pure magic!
Return in some time dear readers, and continue the tour of Regina Spektor’s musical world here at Chiming Stories.
After succumbing to the darkness I sat there quietly for ages. Did the wind play with the kite? Did the dew drop decorate the petals? I saw nothing, I stared at nothing, it was all dark. But I did hear them mocking, complaining, exclaiming, demanding. I said nothing, my voice had become dark too.
Then from nowhere a light emerged, glowing softly, fading now and then, but never dying completely. I remembered then that I can stand up, I realised then that I can walk ahead, I felt then that I am still alive. And I walked towards the light. I could see then, in the light, how dark it was.
Towards the warm and bright light. [Image from Pixabay]
I was sitting in my room in a dim mood and light. I didn’t see outside because I was too lost to think anything else. What was happening with me and why was it happening, sadly I had some idea about it, though I was dwelling on the part which was beyond my control. I was feeling cold but I didn’t move. And in some time I felt warm tears on my face. I didn’t rub my face and soon I felt the chill.
More than the failure it was me who made the darkness pitch black. I somehow just wanted to be in that dark tunnel. My room soon transformed into one and I felt cold. I accepted the defeat, I was surrounded by defeat. It was doubled by me.
Later, I felt something warm and bright within. I realised that because I accepted the defeat, it ultimately passed through me. I, at that moment, worked my way back out of the tunnel.
*
(The title is taken from Charlotte Bronte’s Jane Eyre {only the title})
In the darkness full of little lights there glowed a sphere. It was marvellous and so bright. Different colours danced in it; blue and white, green and brown, pink and orange and red, along with a subtle sublime shine. Calm and beautiful! The sphere was hypnotising by nature. You could stare for endless time without getting tired. Energy vibrated through the sphere. Everything seemed to be quiet and motionless though the sphere was alive.
Blink!
What a terrifying site! Umpteenth arms that originated form the sphere were destroying the sphere. You couldn’t see much; the blazing golden colour that covered half of the sphere split the eyes and reached for the soul. There was sound too. A deafening, screeching, horrifying sound. It vibrated madly. It looked as if some part of the sphere tried to be all of it.
Blink!
The darkness silently engulfs. Always!
Haiku
A flower knows not much/
Or knows too much – ‘cause just see/
How it blooms, dies, blooms.
Greetings!
A storyteller, following the ancient tradition of cave chroniclers, standing in vrikshasana (the tree pose) on a hill top (it is sunny, but windy), breathing in and out stories (relishing it all, but at times overwhelmed), declares animatedly that she will continue to – tell stories, share rare story gems, and connect with the pacy universe while also keeping the website ad-free.
Big thanks to my readers. Stay tuned!
Also, a humble request to the new subscribers to check the spam folder after subscribing. Silly (but necessary) confirmation emails often land there instead of the bright inboxes. Merci!
Ya-hoy!
Chiming Stories (formerly Home Chimes)
P.S – Supporting a storyteller is good for the world’s health (and undoubtedly, for the storyteller’s health as well). Shower some love via Patreon.
Gabbeh, the 1996 film, is a simple tale of a gipsy girl, her clan and the way their life goes on. Unfolding beautifully just like an artist painting a canvas, Gabbeh quietly touches the grand questions.
Godard… Breathless and Alive
A Tribute to Jean-Luc Godard, the Film Philologist who Reinvented Cinema.
Arthdal Chronicles is a South Korean fantasy drama TV series that takes us back to the Bronze Age in a mythical land named Arth, where different human species and tribes struggle to be on the top of the power pyramid.
Yes fly! For walking on the second track is dull and usual, but dreaming high, high, high requires tools. Tools like the right pair of shoes, a chirpy, gritty soul that eats butter-jam dreams, a soul that drinks milky-milky creams.
Universe’s a Disciplined Place
Silver cascade shimmering the night sky, music to the waves and surreal beauty to the eyes, the Moon loves the art of discipline.
It may be difficult to believe for the Moon’s splendour defies time, it stupefies the clock, it follows the path of a dreamer, but how could this be possible if the Moon knew not discipline?
In this moment, I am a little bit of this and a little bit of that, I am complete and incomplete, I am pleased and uncertain, I wish for nothing and I know I have to wait.
Because the distance covered reminds me of the hurdles I have crossed and the ones I could not, it reminds me of a throbbing past and a dreamy future and it reminds me of how much time is left.
Meredith and the Green Lake
Illimitable Splendour
A joy so complete without any rise or fall, so free without any time corners, so real without true being false, false being true.
