Fantasia after Carmina Burana
Black-clothed conductor, jerking on spring coiled feet, points his
baton at the percussionist who ignites the movement, a stark
expression, a blinding burst. The choir stand synchronised, stealthy.
Bassists' boom, tenors donate a meek accompaniment. Sopranos shrill,
sounds crescendo over contralto, merge and sweep past my leaning ear to
Doppler weakly away into the silent silk black sky whose stars were
cancelled by the city strobes.
From the circle we see them all; the violin's quiver, the cello's purr
behind, clarinet calls to the bassoon whose bear-like boom bears
testimony to power, all held within the organ chords, swelling,
drifting, loving. Conductor undulates pulling the melodious torrent.
The notes, the rippling reverberation follow him, swelling and rising,
surging and falling and fading and scattering to an audience hushed and
absorbed by the composition's authority.
Held my head, he entered through my shattered ear. I hear it now,
tomorrow I shall mourn by the shadow of Carl Orff's grave. Tomorrow the
hall will stand emptied - hiding her secrets like shame. I will stare
at a cloudless blue sky, seeking with soft skin, a raindrop, like his
words I wax and wane, in this repugnant life.
(We mourn together - fate indeed crushing the brave everywhere we turn,
death is waiting, bearing her ugly teeth in a snarl. I lie prostrate,
without the will or strength to even lift my head. Prayers mingle with
sweat, asking god to take away this cup of suffering. Yet somehow, I
manage to stand, to hold my breath before plunging into another grey
and long day, where we constantly fight the desire to make it our
Behind my breastbone, anguish writhes, the throbbing intensifies
thoughts of my life. Pain and infinite sorrow wrap their
ice-cold tentacles around my guts, the excruciating grip, never
loosening even for a brief moment. Within my skull, throughout the
shadows of remembrance, images fly. All my past humiliations and
failings are amplified and played relentlessly, their resonance so deep
and echoed in this labyrinth of torment. In the moments where the past
takes a break from afflicting me, we turn our heavy head to face the
present, which is incomprehensible. Mountains of work I cannot face
build up on my desk and for every task we endure, more fall upon my
weary head, I am buckling beneath the weight. There is no future, just
a swirling fog of meaninglessness. Someone inside me is screaming for