Angry Cellist
24 August 2009 00:08![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
skonen_bladesPetersen was an angry cellist.
It’s not much to go on but sometimes, when hunting for giraffes at nazi barbeques, it’s enough to catch a tremble. The scars were evident, the runners had met their matches, and the sun shone down on the tents that were erected in case of rain. All in all, a roaring success.
One with keen eyes would notice the small things that were amiss. The glass that was too close to the edge of table. The tables themselves being almost exactly forehead height for five year old children running around. The loaded rifle leaning against the bride’s cake. Not to mention the fact that it was outdoors at all. But no disasters yet, Petersen thought to himself.
It’s a queer feeling, he mused, to know that disaster is imminent but has not yet happened. It’s also a queer feeling that no matter how long one has that feeling, one will be proved right eventually as disasters are common.
The passing thoughts married in his head, fueling and quelling his anger at the same time. This bridal march that he was about play would be one fraught with warnings to the bride and exaggerated, sarcastic cheering for the groom. The impending tragedy and sadness of the oncoming train was too much for Petersen. Too obvious, too mind-rendingly clear for him to do anything else.
The warning would go unheeded but it would not go unsaid, he reasoned to himself. The warning would not disturb the wedding and would not jeopardize his career but the undertones would unsettle and hopefully inform. The bride and groom looked positively underwater in happiness and Petersen doubted that his cello, while having much in common with the tonality of a whalesong, would reach their ears as a warning.
Dissonance through assonance and resonance. A small squeezing of concern through the tension in his bow and a near scream hiding under the low notes of night from his cello. Between his knees, he held an alarm.
As he played, the seated party was not startled into fleeing. As he played, the party was not even ruffled into a quiet unease. They stared, receptive as sheep, at the bride’s slow steps to her beaming about-to-be husband.
Here and there, however, Petersen detected averted eyes, a deer-tail flick of a wrist, and even a shudder from the old woman in the pink dress. He’d influence some dreams at the most, he thought to himself, but maybe, just maybe, he’d be able to inject a little wisdom into the bliss that was about to erode between these two.
Marry young and stay together. Marry old and rainy weather. Marry rich and boredom waits. Marry poor and never waste. Point, counterpoint, melody, minor chord, fake finish, real finish, death.
Petersen had the fish after his turn on the podium.
tags
It’s not much to go on but sometimes, when hunting for giraffes at nazi barbeques, it’s enough to catch a tremble. The scars were evident, the runners had met their matches, and the sun shone down on the tents that were erected in case of rain. All in all, a roaring success.
One with keen eyes would notice the small things that were amiss. The glass that was too close to the edge of table. The tables themselves being almost exactly forehead height for five year old children running around. The loaded rifle leaning against the bride’s cake. Not to mention the fact that it was outdoors at all. But no disasters yet, Petersen thought to himself.
It’s a queer feeling, he mused, to know that disaster is imminent but has not yet happened. It’s also a queer feeling that no matter how long one has that feeling, one will be proved right eventually as disasters are common.
The passing thoughts married in his head, fueling and quelling his anger at the same time. This bridal march that he was about play would be one fraught with warnings to the bride and exaggerated, sarcastic cheering for the groom. The impending tragedy and sadness of the oncoming train was too much for Petersen. Too obvious, too mind-rendingly clear for him to do anything else.
The warning would go unheeded but it would not go unsaid, he reasoned to himself. The warning would not disturb the wedding and would not jeopardize his career but the undertones would unsettle and hopefully inform. The bride and groom looked positively underwater in happiness and Petersen doubted that his cello, while having much in common with the tonality of a whalesong, would reach their ears as a warning.
Dissonance through assonance and resonance. A small squeezing of concern through the tension in his bow and a near scream hiding under the low notes of night from his cello. Between his knees, he held an alarm.
As he played, the seated party was not startled into fleeing. As he played, the party was not even ruffled into a quiet unease. They stared, receptive as sheep, at the bride’s slow steps to her beaming about-to-be husband.
Here and there, however, Petersen detected averted eyes, a deer-tail flick of a wrist, and even a shudder from the old woman in the pink dress. He’d influence some dreams at the most, he thought to himself, but maybe, just maybe, he’d be able to inject a little wisdom into the bliss that was about to erode between these two.
Marry young and stay together. Marry old and rainy weather. Marry rich and boredom waits. Marry poor and never waste. Point, counterpoint, melody, minor chord, fake finish, real finish, death.
Petersen had the fish after his turn on the podium.
tags