The Mountain from TSO Photography on Vimeo.
A girl walks, delicately balancing on a mere rope, a cord, the only connection between two points. Swaying, she moves one foot, then the other, her toes caressing the cable. She holds a slender pole, holding her stability in her hands.
From up above, high up, near the roof of the circus tent, looking back down, the view is beautiful. Perfect symmetry, there is perfect symmetry in the circles of the circus' rings, the taut tent ropes in contrast to the trapeze swings, hanging lazily, waiting for the acrobats. The empty dusty seats of the stands echo the sounds of the night before; the smell of excitement lingers still.
She is faultless, flawless, impeccable. Looking down from high above: her brown hair pulled back and tied in a knot on the back of her head. Her lovely round shoulders show the straightness of her back, her exact and beautiful stance. One foot in front of the other – slowly she walks the tightrope, practicing for performance. In the evening, the floodlights would turn on, the stands would be no longer empty, and she would walk, walk the line again.
Notes float up, Chopin's nocturnes for the Piano Op. 9, the Moonlight Sonata and more; the source of the soaring music is the far platform. A small tape player sits there, a homing beacon to the young tightrope walker.
She can not see with her eyes, but she can feel, with every inquisitive finger and toe, the smooth sturdy pole, the taut rope, the quiet air around her. She can hear, guiding her forward, the intricate notes of the sonatas.
There is a small, weary whup as the safety net droops to the floor; and only the whisper of footsteps as a slinking finger eases to the ladder beneath the tape player. Disquieted, the tightrope walker pauses, quivering. But all is silent beneath the music; the crescendos calls her forward. Carefully she puts out her foot; step, step, step, she eases along the rope. Step. Step. Step. Her pole shakes in her hands.
Strings, quartets, rising notes, half steps and whole steps, rising in exclamation, in acclamation, singing, announcing, prai-
She starts, her unease becoming fear. She is doubly blind, absolute silence crowding around her ears. Fear steals her confidence. The long pole turns over lazily as it fell, and she follows, desperation in her ruin.
There she lies, on the betrayed net, like a once gracefull glass that lies shattered on the floor.
And two sets of footsteps – one, purposeful, unremorseful; the other, full of woe.
Shadows chase each other across the floor of the tent, passing over the stands, the rings, the tightrope, the tightrope walker. As the shadows fade into nighttime, there is activity. From above, the blue uniforms look all the same, kneeling, measuring, probing, searching. They gently lift the girl onto a stretcher, cover her, take her away – with gentleness but with a feeling of routineness. Another destroyed life.
The platform shakes, trembles, as an unfamiliar weight ascends. The police man steadies himself, leaning across the platform, feet still on the ladder. He clicks a button.
-sing, angel songs, one note piling on top of another til the crescendo can go no more. A weighty pause; then – quietly, the sounds breathe of nightfall, of completion, of finality.
The tape is taken to the station, and with its backdrop of hopeful sound, peace is gained. A small witness, a large tale heard. A jealous rival, a long sentence served.
And that music will always be a slender dream walking on air; tiptoes of sound across the edges of the mind.
