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October 15, 2002 an overtow A cool front pushes gray clouds beneath a fingernail moon.  The movement feels like an undertow above me.  An overtow.  I stroll across the parking lot toward the old school converted to an arts center.  My choral group's concert will be held here in three days.  This night we practice. I trudge the back stairs that lead to the stage.  I smell dust and varnish and sour sweat from children long since dead.  The brass is tuning against the mumbling of nervous singers milling.  I find a place on the risers where I think the baritones will be and I squat there, shading my eyes from the glare of the spotlights. The singing begins and panic snakes among the weak.  Nothing sung here sounds like it did in the practice hall at the Methodist church.  But panic doesn't bite me.  I am secure.  I know I suck regardless of venue. I stand between my former choir director and an overripe practitioner of Natural Healing and Attunement.  During the Richard Rodgers medley, drops of water fall on me from above.  It is drizzle at first and I give it no thought.  Soon, big drops splatter across my sheet music and ink begins to run.  It is raining ahead of the cool front and the roof of the old school leaks.  the paper drips and smudges.  I think of Mrs. Robinson's face, her smeared makeup and her scorn. Half notes fill with ink and masquerade as quarter notes.  Sharps are flattened.  Flats are sharpened.  Consonance fades to dissonance. Still I am calm.  A wet smile spreads across my face. I am unaffected.

©  2002 by the beastmaster