Allister Cromley's Fairweather Belle (Bedtime Stories For Grownups To Tell)
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A Giggle Is A Giggle

7/31/2009

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Allister loved, more than almost anything, to look at a baby's wise and curious gaze. Their eyes wide and searching. For it was all so new.



That hands open. That these hands are attached to you even is funny. That you make them open and close. That sound can come from a mouth. That you can feel the noise in your throat. And one day soon, the sound will come out and someone will understand what you said. That they will laugh and you will laugh and you will keep saying "ball" in literally hundreds of sentences and phrases that contain a mix of "ball" and nonsensical syllables and sounds. That a giggle will have, as yet, no name. But, that it will make you giggle-will make others giggle.



And you will giggle. And, at a certain point of surprise, your mouth will drop open and a yawn will most suddenly be born. And what is that? And you will have no time to answer this because just as suddenly you will send a jab of pudge-padded baby fist to each eye. And when you wake, it will all be new again. Each time, there will be something more familiar. Is it your crib? Is it your hand? Is it your mother?



That some dance in music and some dance in numbers. That faces contort, wrinkle, and yawn. That hands cover a face and then open for it to reappear. And, it only makes sense, that as we grow, we want to know more. We look for the answers in all that. We struggle to understand, to gain a grip. And how much of that comes at the expense of the dancing? The vastness?



Mere months ago you were not here and now you are. That you were, at one point, swimming in placenta and now you breathe air. The placenta is clear and seemingly invisible now. But, still you're swimming. And perhaps a year ago you were nothing. You were a zygote. And this is not to be confused for an argument about when human life begins. That is, as they say, an argument for others. This is merely a plea that life should continue. Life should press through. That, in our searches, we should continue to see the giggle in everything-living, dead, animate, and inanimate. 



For, how funny would it be if this were all a joke? That once we were not and now we are and perhaps we will not be soon. And there is more that we just do not understand. Oh, we will divide an atom into its millions of tiny baby atomic particles-and still they divide. Still there is more to find. And, of course, we search. Of course, we open and close our hands and grasp. But, is that not funny as well? That we do that?



That a giggle is a giggle and this world is where we live.
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A Violin Story

7/29/2009

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Allister was not necessarily the most talented musician. This he never claimed to be. He knew enough though. Enough to play many a song on the violin and follow many a person. For that is what Allister did. He followed people with a violin. Why? Well, why does one where a tie? It was just something that he wanted to do. He learned the violin. He learned the bow. And then, he followed.

He would follow no one in particular and no one for too long. Just long enough to, for example, get them to the library by way of Stravinsky. He would, then, fade away behind a shelf of periodicals. Allister could be drawn to someone by the slightest tilt in their hat that drew the bow to play Tchaikovsky. Or two young lovers, walking hand in hand under the moon whose sweetness silently called for Allister to emerge from behind a tree or spring from a pot and pour Viotti from his instrument. And a person did not have to be mobile. Oh no. Allister would find people sitting. People sleeping. Anything could spark Allister to play for them-and stay with them (for a moment).

And he would improvise. Oh, how he would improvise. He would find a knife fight that fit neither Brahms nor Bruch nor composers who did not fit in this example of alliteration. And what was he to do? He would have to punctuate each stab, each movement with his own movements. There was no time to pray that no one died, for Allister was now part of it. The knives swung and jabbed with the melody. And perhaps it was for the best that Allister improvised during knife fights. For, if someone were to know the song, they would know where the decisive blow would come.

Allister would, of course, play for the more mundane, less daring moments in a day as well. There was fruit to be selected with the help of Mendelssohn and morning papers to be read with Schoenberg-though it is important to remember that Mendelssohn and Schoenberg were not, in themselves, mundane.

And, though many remained pleased, there too, were those who sprinted down dark alleys and dove into uncovered sewers whilst pursued by Allister playing Shostakovich. This became more common when Allister had reached a certain older age. Arthritis kept him less mobile. And, though, his sprint had lost its speed, Allister still felt the need to underscore. And so he did-in his wheelchair. An afghan over his lap and pushed by his nurse, Allister still followed.

And there were many who were still pleased. Though there were, still, those that ran in fear. And to see Allister deliberately following (and, at times, chasing) you in his wheelchair picking and plucking Shostakovich while pushed by his nurse was more than eerie. It was sinister. And, Allister knew this. Do not mistake for a moment that his mind had gone. Oh no Allister reveled in these moments, as he did all, as if an entire orchestra was supporting him.
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