The Rejoicing Heart: Autumn in Moscow

Moscow is a pocket of joy, especially today. The sky is blue, but it’s not a friendly, midsummery sort of blue; it’s more like the color you see on a forty-five degree fall day, the kind where the sidewalk dances under your feet and the buildings meet the sky. It’s the kind of day that doesn’t need coffee to survive, where you can almost hear the words to the tune that composes the world. The lichen on the tree glows yellow in the noon sun, smiling up at the God that made it.

Bentleigh thinks we’re made of music. I agree. At the smallest level, we are composed of sound waves, and so is everything else in the world. This, perhaps, is why certain songs and certain kinds of weather speak more to us than others: our internal songs are the same.
This day is my day. It’s the sort of day that Bradbury would say anything could happen, and something always would. Simple pleasures gleam brightly in this weather, and coffeehouses are, for once, less happy places than the sidewalk. Usually in November it’s better to be in where the air is warm and smells like an eloquent mix of coffee and pumpkin bread, but not today. This is a streetside day. If knew how, I would dance down the sidewalk, but I can’t quite hear the beat well enough in the breeze. My feet wouldn’t be in the right key.
I think my soul is made of Chris Brown and Bach. If you gave Bach a beat instead of a basso continuo, his music would be today.
Some people hate it. Their rhythms are off, their keys wrong. For them, it feels crooked, like the way their feet jolt on the dancing sidewalk. Their equilibrium is off, and they don’t know why. But they know they don’t like it.
These are the Morning people. They prefer dawn, and rain, and Calvin and Hobbes. Which are good at the right time, but today is a Far Side day. It sings of sunshine and evening, of that afternoon glow that hits about thirty minutes before complete and utter darkness. Today is rap counted to a waltz.
Maybe some people just can’t feel the music. Perhaps that is the sixth sense that sends shivers down people’s spines, when the wind hums a minor chord and they can feel the effects without feeling the beauty.
Too many people try to get where they’re going without listening along the way. They miss so much, like remixing Chris Brown’s Forever. You just can’t do that with that piece. The Music of the Spheres is at a crescendo today, and tomorrow it will be gone. We are the Evening people.
Tomorrow, Moscow will be someone else’s pocket of joy. The sunshine will sing a pitch they can hear, and they will be able to dance to the earth’s beat. I will miss it, but I know that my music will come again. God is a Divine DJ, and he always plays our requests.

Rachel’s Thoughts: Old English Poem

For my Brit Lit class. Old English poetry has a split in the middle of each line, with two accented syllables on either side of it. The first of the second pair of syllables has to start with the same sound as one of the ones on the first half of the line…it doesn’t have to rhyme, but I liked it better when it did.


When darkness reigned                    and dimmed the sky,

The stars knew not                           their seats on high.

The Sun had yet                               to spill her grace

On Earth’s broad span,                    the shadowed-place.

Then one light flashed                     and filled the gap,

And Darkness fled                           to dens unmap’d.

The Fauns and Satyrs                       found their way

From holes deep hid’,                      and hailed the day.

The winged-ones came                    from winds-retreat,

They sang delight                             at Dark’s defeat.

The gods ascended                           to great Mount Ida;

And sphinxes dwelt                          in south Al Minya.

The Kings arose                         and reigned with might;

The people passed                            the period of Night.

Mankind grew strong,                      and cared for life;

When Time decreed,                        they captured Strife

And did not let                                 him loose again,

Till man-kind lost                            what might have been.