A poem

Range of Vision

I could paint a picture for you

of the clouds

as I saw them yesterday,

all ominous and roiling,

surging over the horizon, that humble barrier between earth

and sky,

as if they were a tidal wave

as if the tape-measure road on which we drove

lay on the coast of some tropical paradise,

instead of somewhere within the boundaries

of this unknowable shape labeled “Nebraska.”

I could relate to you

how it felt to witness the marvel

of that black paint stroke stretching

around our little antique snow globe–

like adventure and mystery

and anticipation,

like static tugging at my hair.

It could be said that

for a brief moment,

contemplating that wall of heavy condensation,

I saw not cumulonimbus but rocky palisade,

a range of steep cliffs jutting skyward

in defiance of this midwestern plane

and

for that brief moment

the idea of mountains in Nebraska seemed, to me,

perfectly natural–

although truthfully,

aside from that one brief moment,

the closest to the mountains I can ever get

is a preset background on my laptop.

Drums in the Deep

 Our story begins… with a dull, distant pounding.

But before that, me. Alone.

In the seemingly empty music building, whose doors had just been locked tightly from the outside by one of the campus security guards.

I had traveled there with the intention of getting in some late evening practice (yes, I’m trying to break my chronic Netflix habit). Beethoven in hand, I marched down the stairs toward the lounge, where reside some of the comfiest couches in the land. Beyond this cozy scene, two separate hallways with lights dimmed stretch into the bowels of the basement. There lie the practice rooms–one of which, down the hallway on the right, contains a certain temperamental Steinway I am quite fond of.

It was there, as I contemplated the inadequate lighting of the hallway on the right, that I first heard it.

An irregular, booming thud like that of a deep kettle drum, emanating from somewhere toward the end of the hallway, where a set of precarious stairs leads backstage of the auditorium. I stopped, gaze fixed on the encroaching darkness ahead, and listened.

There it was again. Boom, clank, like the chains of Jacob Marley dragging across the stark tile floor. And again. Each consequent thud reached my ears sooner–and louder–than the last.

I shifted one Birkenstock-clad foot forward, questioning my life decisions.

First of all, why had I chosen Birkenstocks? Those lazy slip-ons are definitely not conducive to running for one’s life.

Secondly, I found myself actually contemplating an investigation of the strange and otherworldly thudding sound. At the end of a dark hallway. While sporting a pair of Birkenstocks.

Did I mention that the ill-lit hallway only got progressively darker as it led on? That the glowing red exit sign at the top of the stairs shone down like the maleficent eyes of a Balrog of Morgoth? That the now-rhythmic thudding seemed to echo my own heart, which had just begun to pound in mild terror?

Did I mention it was dark?

Boom, clank.

Visions of primordial beasts, and Phantoms with acid-scarred faces, and maniacal serial killers ran through my mind. I was definitely not going to investigate. In fact, I was going to leave. Go back home. Probably watch some Netflix.

Just as I reached this conclusion, a tall, dark figure appeared at the end of the hallway. The figure pointed a bright, piercing light in my direction, as two of its fellows crept after it into the darkness. I froze.

Boom.

Clank.

The figures turned toward me, and I hoped with my entire being that those were cell phone flashlights, and that they were people (preferably of the non-maniacal sort).

“Do you hear it too?” one of the figures shouted toward me.

I slumped inwardly with relief. It was a person. A male person. Its comrades were two girls, who laughed nervously, trying to pretend like they hadn’t been as irrationally terrified as I had.

“Yes,” I said, moving forward, toward the very welcome feeling of companionship. If I was going to die, I’d at least have another human there to die with me.

“Oh, good,” said the male person. He was wearing a yellow hoodie. A beacon of hope.

Boom, clank.

All three of them then turned toward the stairs. Looking around at each other, wielding their battery-draining cell phone lights, they began to ascend that treacherous stair with its gleaming red exit sign. I followed, somewhat reluctantly–but now that I had companions, the whole thing seemed more adventurous.

We made it to the top of the stairs, miraculously still alive. The exit sign now appeared to me less evil–made it easier to plan my escape route.

BOOM. CLANK. Yes, we had definitely gotten closer to the source. It seemed to be coming from behind the wall.

“Why am I so scared?” said the shorter of the two girls. She laughed again.

“Because, this is like a horror movie,” said the other one.

“Maybe it’s a cave troll,” I added helpfully. Yellow Hoodie moved to open a side-door of the auditorium.

If this were a horror movie, I would think we were all idiots, I thought. But of course, now my curiosity had been thoroughly piqued. Could it be that some monumental, towering creature, restricted for too long to the tiny space of a nondescript “storage closet,” had finally decided enough was enough? Could it be that, within these aged brick walls, a portal, a channel to some other dimension, had sprung into being? Was this, perhaps, the work of aliens?

BOOM.

CLANK.

More likely it was the plumbing, or something equally as anticlimactic. After all, the music building is not known for its newness.

Now the door was open, revealing the extra-dark, extra-creepy auditorium. Through the gloom, row upon row of empty seats peered at us with cold, unfeeling eyes.

Sticking our heads out the door, we glanced around. Nothing appeared to be out of order.

Except that the thudding continued, unrelenting–Boom, clank–more mysterious now that there was clearly no one on the stage banging things around, like Peeves the poltergeist mischievously trying to scare some college kids.

I was now distinctly fascinated–and unnerved. My coincidental comrades were just as dumbfounded.

“I’m thinking we go back now,” I said, and they all agreed heartily. We returned (me somewhat disappointed) to the lounge, whereupon Yellow Hoodie called a security guy to come check out the building.

Sure enough, as soon as Security Guy arrived, the thudding began to tone itself down. He was, needless to say, not impressed. Armed with a mess of keys, he went off to investigate. For a few minutes we speculated as to whether or not he would survive if this were a real horror movie. The general consensus was that he would not.

Later on, Security Guy returned the lounge, where I sat unaffectedly checking messages on my electronic device. He informed us that it had just been the thousand-year-old boiler kicking on and rattling some pipes.

The news was mildly deflating. I mean, obviously I was glad that there was no threat of pipe explosion, nor psycho serial killer, nor Balrog. The fact that Security Guy made it back alive was indeed a comfort.

But sometimes, I rather prefer to believe in the improbable.

Shoutout to childhood

 As an education major, I’m required to attend music classes at one of the local elementary schools and observe classroom procedures. Generally, the experience is about as awkward as it sounds; I sit on a chair toward the back of the room, notebook in hand, and just watch as the teacher tries to corral a bunch of kindergarteners who keep glancing furtively at me, like they never knew college students were a thing. The only time I get to directly interact with them (usually by just waving and smiling) is when they all arrange themselves in “line order” and wait to be released.

Last week, some of the kids were brave enough to actually say words to me! Our conversation went something like this:

“Why are you here?” asked the two-foot-tall boy who’d insisted on giving me a hug the first time he saw me.

I made my reply as provocative as I could without sounding too creepy.

“To watch you guys,” I said. The kids chittered.

“Why?” one of the girls asked.

“Because you’re interesting.” I raised my eyebrows as they all laughed, apparently delighted at the outrageous notion that someone found them worth watching.

Ah, childhood. Sometimes I forget what bizarre, amusing creatures kids are–and, more importantly, what it’s like to be one of them.

Which brings me to this poem.

 

Easy to Please

What brings a flock

of bright-eyed elementary schoolers

to a college campus for a field trip?

Ask their teacher

and the answer will be something like:

“Your science department

with its planetarium

and instrumental chemistry labs

is such a fine establishment.

These children

came here to hear about Pluto

and to engage in that age-old discussion:

‘Is it a planet?’

A learning experience.”

She’ll nudge forward

one of her brightest

to inform you

what he liked best about his journey

into this realm of research

and higher education.

He’ll say something about how

interesting it is-

the thing about Pluto.

But later on

he and his friends will still be exclaiming

about how cool it was

to eat in the university cafeteria

surrounded by all of those prestigious college kids

and how-

get this-

in the cafeteria,

they serve ice cream

every day.

Sentinel

 In my front yard, there was a tree. And this tree was, indubitably, a tree. In front of my house it rose, an immense behemoth of organic matter, a towering pillar of awesome, shedding its glory (in leaf form) onto our humble abode. It had exactly the right kind of bark, the kind that’s perfect for peeling off and making play swords with. I loved that tree, the way its roots gnarled and twisted into the dirt, disrupting the smooth flow of grass, the way its leaves formed an outer coating on the ground. I remember how I always made sure to tread carefully when running around it, because it was the kind of tree that would trip you up if you didn’t show it proper respect. This was a tree on which you would want to carve your initials.

Now that I live in a newer neighborhood (“new,” of course, being the euphemism for “treeless and devoid of personality”), I realize just how much I took that tree for granted. For as long as I lived in that house–indeed, since before I even existed–that tree had been there, standing watch over its domain, giving shade to the neighborhood’s inhabitants in the summer, and mischievously dropping clods of snow onto the heads of unsuspecting pedestrians in the winter. The idea that it had ever been, well, less than it was, is unfathomable.

For me, the world started to exist at the moment I was conceived, and no sooner. But the universe and everything in it has been existing, and growing, and expanding since the beginning of time, without regard to my presence. That Locust tree in my front yard was there before I showed up. And it’s stayed there ever since I left.

I wonder if it misses me, too.

 

[I wrote this piece about a year ago, as an assignment for my first ever Creative Writing class. My teacher probably never read it; we never actually turned it in. But I always felt like it deserved some recognition.]