Philip in the Dark

The room is hot, unbearably so. Air is thick with humidity. But we are here to listen.

Lights dim and we sit in darkness, only the musicians now illuminated. Rhythmic sounds like birth or a heartbeat fill the air, swell, recede, swell. My Littlest leans into me. I touch her forehead and tiny drops of water meet my fingertips... she is perspiring, wilting, even as the music lives, dances strange. In time, she finds her white cotton skirt, twists it, folds, fidgets. My eldest looks straight on, mesmerized, dreaming. ("It was sad and happy and hopeful all at the same time," she tells me afterwards.)

Now the music feels like birds underwater, rising. Or thousands of silver fish near-colliding in a song. Outside, lightning flashes as if on demand, now and again, now and again, speaking to the notes which swirl, spiral, pulse.

In my mind, I see the music taking form... slate blue swirls, turquoise dabs, emanating from a black gash. But I must take my girls home, put them to bed, ready myself for the next day, for a morning guest. So these visions in my mind must wait; with a sense that feels almost painful I hope to remember them until time allows, allows me to put down what it felt like to listen... to Philip in the dark.

Philip in the Dark, soft pastels, L.L. Barkat. Some of the music that inspired this piece: Philip Glass's "Glassworks"