Music came down from the sky. Otso and his whale appeared as a dark speck, silhouetted against the clear blue sky. That speck appeared to grow as the whale descended, balancing a piano and Otso on its back. Bucket also hovered over the joyous crowd, his other worldly accompaniment meshing with and enhancing the musical stories presented by the performers on the stage. Some in the audience listened, taking in not only the sounds, but watching the holograms which playfully interpreted the familiar tales, differently. Each component brought emotional depth and a deeper understanding, telling a new facet or impression to the familiar stories. Most in attendance sang. Their voices were a choir which added empathy to the performance.
The stories were recounted conversationally, as though the performers were channeling the details as seen by different participants or onlookers with each telling. All of the accounts were true and valid. You might think it would be confusing for the audience to sing along with tunes that always came out different, But no. They were so in tune with each other that they channeled what the others expressed. They sang the same arrangement, not mirroring each other, but branching out in harmonies as the spirit of the festival guided them. How can I put this? They were on the same page from the record of their shared consciousness and improvisation. Effortlessly. Even Flash, Bucket and Otso’s whale knew the composition that seemed to just happen. Without instructions, without expectations or fear of doing it wrong. It grew, rising and curling, into the air just as the castle had grown from the plateau, if that’s how the castle got there, of course. Or the way a pumpkin vine might curl as it jockeyed for a place in the light.
What do I know? I’m just telling you what I see. The story just appears in its complete form when I let my fingers dance to document it.
I know how it happens, and I’ll let you in on a secret. Everything already exists in the painting of our lives. We just move from brushstroke to brushstroke within the masterpiece of our existence. Don’t believe me? That’s fine, too.
The music ended, and everyone began milling about. A steady stream exited through the gateway, heading out onto the plain. Some dined at tables between the stone wall and the cliff, just on the edge of the plateau. Others went into the castle, and a few remained in the courtyard, talking or watching the holograms. Whales appeared in the air, rising up with people on their backs. The riders pointed down at features from above, or waved to friends below them, calling out or laughing with joy.
They were happy because they had no agenda. They just opened their eyes to see what was already there. Not to change it, but to appreciate it. They didn’t make assumptions about those they shared the planet with.