Post by Monty Brown on Feb 21, 2010 8:02:10 GMT -5
Firefly Fields Academy was a pretty interesting looking place.
Several large ramshackle building's surrounded by grass, trees, paddocks, fences, in an asphalt car park. Fig trees and camphor laurels provided shelter outside, so Monty sat crossed legged underneath one. Young people dressed in all assortments of clothings, and hairstyles, and sizes greeted each other and bounded up and down the stairs. With their colored hair and clothes and lewelry they made Monty feel dun-colored. They were all as casual as birds, but had a purpose.
Crows gathered in the fig tres and squabbled, dropping fruits to the ground. Their voices were harsh and lonely. Monty looked through one of the windows to the top of the main building and saw fig seedlings growing in the gutters. It felt like the end of the world and nature was reasserting herself. The students were bright, optimistic remnants of a society that had destroyed itself.
Inside of the building, the walls were painted a very light blue color, just a shade or two lighter than the clear minimalist sky pierced only with a white-gold sun perched high above. There was not a single wisp of a white candy floss cloud to taint the blue canvas in front of his eyes. Inside of the arts room the walls were painted it bright colors, hung with art work. The windows were made from colored glass which threw bright pattern's across the floor. It reminded him of a place that had been settled by gypsies. Not too far away, a young woman sang as another young guy with a shaved head and a large plug in his ear played on the drums. The guy's whole face was covered in metal; his ears were covered with studs, snake bits under his lips, a ring in each brow, and a septum. The young woman sung a simple, dignified song, sung with strength and purpose. She improvised and sang on, oblivious of Monty sitting and watching, listening. She played with the notes, bent them and warbled them, whispered them, and cried them out, her whole body her mouth and lungs and chest an instrument for the sound.
As he tried out a few chords with his guitar, Monty leaned over in a way that was both tender and modest. He strummed a few notes, ears cocked to the vibrations of the instrument. He loved the thick bass notes it produced, like a dreambeat almost. A lot of guitarists found playing bass boring, but not monty. He could even practice without playing along to a record, enjoying the steady thunk of the strings and getting right into the rhythm of it.
Monty's face transformed itself when he played. It responded to the music he pulled from the guitar, each note affecting the muscles of his face: one made him wince in pain, the the next softened and relaxed him. The sound affected his body: this note made his shoulder twitch, that one caused his elbow to squeaze against the side of his body, with the next he hunched over. His whole body wove around and through the notes, fizzing with the color, souring and warbling like a bird, then squeaking like a bat.
The sounds always made Monty realize over and over again that the world is alive. As long as life has floated in the oceans, crawled across the land, flown through the air, the Earth has been alive. At first the world had no name; it was simply a quiet presence, living and changing. As the life on the world became more sophisticated, so did the spirit of the world. No one will ever know when the Earth became the Earth, or when the Earth began to think of itself as something. No one will ever know when Mother Earth was truly born. Very few even know of the Mother, and fewer still have heard her voice.
But Monty heard Her voice everyday; through his guitar.
Several large ramshackle building's surrounded by grass, trees, paddocks, fences, in an asphalt car park. Fig trees and camphor laurels provided shelter outside, so Monty sat crossed legged underneath one. Young people dressed in all assortments of clothings, and hairstyles, and sizes greeted each other and bounded up and down the stairs. With their colored hair and clothes and lewelry they made Monty feel dun-colored. They were all as casual as birds, but had a purpose.
Crows gathered in the fig tres and squabbled, dropping fruits to the ground. Their voices were harsh and lonely. Monty looked through one of the windows to the top of the main building and saw fig seedlings growing in the gutters. It felt like the end of the world and nature was reasserting herself. The students were bright, optimistic remnants of a society that had destroyed itself.
Inside of the building, the walls were painted a very light blue color, just a shade or two lighter than the clear minimalist sky pierced only with a white-gold sun perched high above. There was not a single wisp of a white candy floss cloud to taint the blue canvas in front of his eyes. Inside of the arts room the walls were painted it bright colors, hung with art work. The windows were made from colored glass which threw bright pattern's across the floor. It reminded him of a place that had been settled by gypsies. Not too far away, a young woman sang as another young guy with a shaved head and a large plug in his ear played on the drums. The guy's whole face was covered in metal; his ears were covered with studs, snake bits under his lips, a ring in each brow, and a septum. The young woman sung a simple, dignified song, sung with strength and purpose. She improvised and sang on, oblivious of Monty sitting and watching, listening. She played with the notes, bent them and warbled them, whispered them, and cried them out, her whole body her mouth and lungs and chest an instrument for the sound.
As he tried out a few chords with his guitar, Monty leaned over in a way that was both tender and modest. He strummed a few notes, ears cocked to the vibrations of the instrument. He loved the thick bass notes it produced, like a dreambeat almost. A lot of guitarists found playing bass boring, but not monty. He could even practice without playing along to a record, enjoying the steady thunk of the strings and getting right into the rhythm of it.
Monty's face transformed itself when he played. It responded to the music he pulled from the guitar, each note affecting the muscles of his face: one made him wince in pain, the the next softened and relaxed him. The sound affected his body: this note made his shoulder twitch, that one caused his elbow to squeaze against the side of his body, with the next he hunched over. His whole body wove around and through the notes, fizzing with the color, souring and warbling like a bird, then squeaking like a bat.
The sounds always made Monty realize over and over again that the world is alive. As long as life has floated in the oceans, crawled across the land, flown through the air, the Earth has been alive. At first the world had no name; it was simply a quiet presence, living and changing. As the life on the world became more sophisticated, so did the spirit of the world. No one will ever know when the Earth became the Earth, or when the Earth began to think of itself as something. No one will ever know when Mother Earth was truly born. Very few even know of the Mother, and fewer still have heard her voice.
But Monty heard Her voice everyday; through his guitar.
