A Different Kind of Song
10:00 AM. I'm looking for the matching slipper for the one that is on my foot. Stumbling and yawning while trying to find an elusive, and missing second slipper is a daily routine for me.
"Where the hell is it?" I grumbled, half out loud. Unfortunately, before my first cup of coffee in the morning, and, in truth, before the second pot is brewed, I am the "bitch from hell". But then, at my age, I think that is allowable. Finding the missing slipper and putting it on, I stumble to the kitchen, eyes still half closed.
The coffee, still in the coffee maker, will have to do until a fresh pot is made. I fill my cup, pop it in the microwave, set it for 45 seconds (yes, I drink lukewarm coffee), then go about setting the coffee maker to make a fresh pot. Yawning again, I decide to get my email before I change out of my pajamas.
There is a knock at my door.
"Shit," I mumble as I glance at the wall clock above my computer. My friends know better than to bother me before noon. The only time I receive guests before the magic hour is if they come bearing chocolate. Even then they had better have a damn good reason for bothering me!
Without thinking about looking out the "peep-hole" in the door to see who it is, I throw open the door. With a scowl and an appropriate remark ready, I am prepared to see someone I know standing there. Unfortunately, I am not prepared for who this "someone" actually is. As my eyes take in the four people standing in the hallway of the high rise I live in, I'm both stunned and speechless, which is a miracle in itself. When I don't have something to say is usually a good indication that Hell, has in fact, finally frozen over. Finally, I regain my senses and realize my mouth is hanging open. I shut it. Then, the confused, first-cup-of-coffee-not-yet-finished, part of me kicks into high gear and I do the first thing that comes to mind - I slam the door shut in their faces.
Grabbing my robe which, thankfully is hanging over a chair at my kitchen table, I put it on and, when I again hear a polite knock on my door, I open it.
"Please, come in. Uh, sorry about before ... I mean, the slamming the door in your face thing. You surprised me."
"That's ok," the first person said with a smile. "My wife is the same way - definitely not a morning person!" His friends all rolled their eyes in agreement.
"What are all of you doing here?" I began. "Well, I guess I should say, am I asleep? Am I dreaming? Did I accidentally put a shot of bourbon in my coffee cup this morning?"
"Well, I'm not quite sure what bourbon is, but, no you're not dreaming. We are actually here."
I look at the four individuals who I had tried to sit comfortably in the small, somewhat cramped area I call a living room. I look at my semi-nude Christmas tree (no I haven't taken the tree down yet) in embarrassment then back at the four people sitting in front of me. Nobody has seemed to notice the tree.
"Eye candy," I thought to myself. Three of the four smiled. My face must have looked like a tomato when I blushed.
"So you can read minds?" I asked the blonde.
"Sometimes. If the thought or emotion is strong enough." he answered me.
"I'm sorry." I said. "I'll try and keep my inappropriate thoughts to myself." All four smiled back at me. "So ... why have you come?"
"We've come to talk to you about the story you are writing."
I looked at him. His grey eyes looked back at me with no sign of judgement.
"How do you know about my story?"
"We have our sources."
"Do you have an objection to the way I'm writing it? People are not going to believe me when I tell them you were sitting in my living room talking to me about it!" I accidentally blurted the last sentence out.
One of his eyebrows raised and his eyes twinkled. "This thought from someone who interviewed the Greek God Zeus for a Sociology paper in college and got an 'A'? Why would you care if someone objected to your story. Oh, by-the-way, that was a good paper - very funny."
"Your sources are good!" I said.
He smiled as did his three friends.
I decided to take the offensive. "What do you think about the whole 'sister' thing in my story? Do you think its a bit much or overdone?"
"Well, not so far. She's different enough to make life interesting for everyone."
"She needs to get a sense of humor though," the first dark-haired guest added.
"Give her a chance," his look-alike said.
"I didn't say I didn't like her, I just said she needs to get a sense of humor."
"She just got there," the first dark-haired man replied.
"Will you two stop it!" the blonde said, shaking his head. "Give her a minute to settle in and she will be as crazy as the rest of the family."
The two look-alikes just stared back at the blonde with identical, innocent expressions.
A thought came to me and I had to ask. "Do you think Tolkien would object to having all these people playing around with his masterpiece?"
"Only if he didn't have a sense of humor."
"He had a sense of humor."
"I didn't say he didn't have a sense of humor!"
The grey-eyed leader of this little impromptu group sighed in exasperation. "Enough!" He didn't have to raise his voice but his command was clearly understood. The two look-alikes fell silent.
"In answer to your question, no, I don't think he would have objected. Tolkien was a linguistic genius. There is no disputing that fact. He created a language, then created a world for that language to live in. I take it that you've read the Silmarillion?"
I nodded and he continued.
"Remember in the Preface, in Tolkien's letter to Milton Waldman when he referred to his story as a 'beautiful and powerful heroic-fairy-romance, receivable in itself with only a very general vague knowledge of the background'?
"I remember," I said quietly. This man's wisdom was amazing.
"Well, I believe that, as well as Tolkien understood the world he created, he also knew the hearts of the people who would read his books and be exposed to this world, this Middle Earth. When he used the words 'general' and 'vague', he opened the gate for anyone and everyone to enter that world and be a part of it. That would include everyone who wanted to expand or explain that world. Tolkien, himself, invited them in."
"Ok. I can understand that, but what about all these writers who are so eager to try and mould other writers into their own image, trying to insist that their own methods are the best and brightest?" I asked.
It was the blonde who answered. "Let me field this one." The grey-eyed man nodded in assent. "Do you remember, in the Valaquenta, where the Ainur sang the song of Creation for Iluvatar?"
"Yes."
"There were many voices singing, both good and not so good. Remember that Melkor sang also, and look at what he eventually became. But, even though Iluvatar knew Melkor's heart from the beginning, he still let him sing, even though Iluvatar knew Melkor was envious of the power of the others and his song was not as sweet. But, even though he was allowed to sing, he was given this warning. Iluvatar said, 'This kingdom thou shalt not take for thine own, wrongfully, for others have laboured here no less than thou.' Do you see the point I'm trying to make here? You need to understand this and the other writers need to understand this also. Everyone has the right to sing, or write in this case, their own song ... their own way."
The first dark-haired visitor spoke up, this time. "There were many different voices singing the Creation song just as there are many different 'voices', if you will, writing in Tolkien's world. It's still Tolkien's world. Nobody's right to be there or their right to use their imagination in Tolkien's world can, or should be, questioned. They are all just part of the song."
"I can't believe those words just came out of your mouth!"
I took the stuffed animals the two look-alikes were hitting each other with and put them back on top of the couch then sat back down.
The grey-eyed man got up. "Well, I think its about time we headed back. My wife is going to start wondering where I've gone. Did we answer your questions?"
All four started walking to the door, the two look-alikes pushing and shoving each other until the blonde grabbed and ear apiece and shoved them both out into the hallway.
"Yes, I think you did. Thanks for taking the time to explain things. I feel better now. I'll pass along your advice."
He paused in the doorway and smiled. "Everytime you think you're losing patience, just remember that many of the voices in this song are young. They will grow and someday their song will begin to sound as sweet as all the others."
My telephone rang, and I instinctively looked at it. When I turned back to the hallway, it was empty. I turned back to my apartment and began to close the door. Before I did, though, I heard a voice. Though somewhat faint and fading quickly, I could still make out one word.
"Namárië."
I smiled and closed the door.
10:00 AM. I'm looking for the matching slipper for the one that is on my foot. Stumbling and yawning while trying to find an elusive, and missing second slipper is a daily routine for me.
"Where the hell is it?" I grumbled, half out loud. Unfortunately, before my first cup of coffee in the morning, and, in truth, before the second pot is brewed, I am the "bitch from hell". But then, at my age, I think that is allowable. Finding the missing slipper and putting it on, I stumble to the kitchen, eyes still half closed.
The coffee, still in the coffee maker, will have to do until a fresh pot is made. I fill my cup, pop it in the microwave, set it for 45 seconds (yes, I drink lukewarm coffee), then go about setting the coffee maker to make a fresh pot. Yawning again, I decide to get my email before I change out of my pajamas.
There is a knock at my door.
"Shit," I mumble as I glance at the wall clock above my computer. My friends know better than to bother me before noon. The only time I receive guests before the magic hour is if they come bearing chocolate. Even then they had better have a damn good reason for bothering me!
Without thinking about looking out the "peep-hole" in the door to see who it is, I throw open the door. With a scowl and an appropriate remark ready, I am prepared to see someone I know standing there. Unfortunately, I am not prepared for who this "someone" actually is. As my eyes take in the four people standing in the hallway of the high rise I live in, I'm both stunned and speechless, which is a miracle in itself. When I don't have something to say is usually a good indication that Hell, has in fact, finally frozen over. Finally, I regain my senses and realize my mouth is hanging open. I shut it. Then, the confused, first-cup-of-coffee-not-yet-finished, part of me kicks into high gear and I do the first thing that comes to mind - I slam the door shut in their faces.
Grabbing my robe which, thankfully is hanging over a chair at my kitchen table, I put it on and, when I again hear a polite knock on my door, I open it.
"Please, come in. Uh, sorry about before ... I mean, the slamming the door in your face thing. You surprised me."
"That's ok," the first person said with a smile. "My wife is the same way - definitely not a morning person!" His friends all rolled their eyes in agreement.
"What are all of you doing here?" I began. "Well, I guess I should say, am I asleep? Am I dreaming? Did I accidentally put a shot of bourbon in my coffee cup this morning?"
"Well, I'm not quite sure what bourbon is, but, no you're not dreaming. We are actually here."
I look at the four individuals who I had tried to sit comfortably in the small, somewhat cramped area I call a living room. I look at my semi-nude Christmas tree (no I haven't taken the tree down yet) in embarrassment then back at the four people sitting in front of me. Nobody has seemed to notice the tree.
"Eye candy," I thought to myself. Three of the four smiled. My face must have looked like a tomato when I blushed.
"So you can read minds?" I asked the blonde.
"Sometimes. If the thought or emotion is strong enough." he answered me.
"I'm sorry." I said. "I'll try and keep my inappropriate thoughts to myself." All four smiled back at me. "So ... why have you come?"
"We've come to talk to you about the story you are writing."
I looked at him. His grey eyes looked back at me with no sign of judgement.
"How do you know about my story?"
"We have our sources."
"Do you have an objection to the way I'm writing it? People are not going to believe me when I tell them you were sitting in my living room talking to me about it!" I accidentally blurted the last sentence out.
One of his eyebrows raised and his eyes twinkled. "This thought from someone who interviewed the Greek God Zeus for a Sociology paper in college and got an 'A'? Why would you care if someone objected to your story. Oh, by-the-way, that was a good paper - very funny."
"Your sources are good!" I said.
He smiled as did his three friends.
I decided to take the offensive. "What do you think about the whole 'sister' thing in my story? Do you think its a bit much or overdone?"
"Well, not so far. She's different enough to make life interesting for everyone."
"She needs to get a sense of humor though," the first dark-haired guest added.
"Give her a chance," his look-alike said.
"I didn't say I didn't like her, I just said she needs to get a sense of humor."
"She just got there," the first dark-haired man replied.
"Will you two stop it!" the blonde said, shaking his head. "Give her a minute to settle in and she will be as crazy as the rest of the family."
The two look-alikes just stared back at the blonde with identical, innocent expressions.
A thought came to me and I had to ask. "Do you think Tolkien would object to having all these people playing around with his masterpiece?"
"Only if he didn't have a sense of humor."
"He had a sense of humor."
"I didn't say he didn't have a sense of humor!"
The grey-eyed leader of this little impromptu group sighed in exasperation. "Enough!" He didn't have to raise his voice but his command was clearly understood. The two look-alikes fell silent.
"In answer to your question, no, I don't think he would have objected. Tolkien was a linguistic genius. There is no disputing that fact. He created a language, then created a world for that language to live in. I take it that you've read the Silmarillion?"
I nodded and he continued.
"Remember in the Preface, in Tolkien's letter to Milton Waldman when he referred to his story as a 'beautiful and powerful heroic-fairy-romance, receivable in itself with only a very general vague knowledge of the background'?
"I remember," I said quietly. This man's wisdom was amazing.
"Well, I believe that, as well as Tolkien understood the world he created, he also knew the hearts of the people who would read his books and be exposed to this world, this Middle Earth. When he used the words 'general' and 'vague', he opened the gate for anyone and everyone to enter that world and be a part of it. That would include everyone who wanted to expand or explain that world. Tolkien, himself, invited them in."
"Ok. I can understand that, but what about all these writers who are so eager to try and mould other writers into their own image, trying to insist that their own methods are the best and brightest?" I asked.
It was the blonde who answered. "Let me field this one." The grey-eyed man nodded in assent. "Do you remember, in the Valaquenta, where the Ainur sang the song of Creation for Iluvatar?"
"Yes."
"There were many voices singing, both good and not so good. Remember that Melkor sang also, and look at what he eventually became. But, even though Iluvatar knew Melkor's heart from the beginning, he still let him sing, even though Iluvatar knew Melkor was envious of the power of the others and his song was not as sweet. But, even though he was allowed to sing, he was given this warning. Iluvatar said, 'This kingdom thou shalt not take for thine own, wrongfully, for others have laboured here no less than thou.' Do you see the point I'm trying to make here? You need to understand this and the other writers need to understand this also. Everyone has the right to sing, or write in this case, their own song ... their own way."
The first dark-haired visitor spoke up, this time. "There were many different voices singing the Creation song just as there are many different 'voices', if you will, writing in Tolkien's world. It's still Tolkien's world. Nobody's right to be there or their right to use their imagination in Tolkien's world can, or should be, questioned. They are all just part of the song."
"I can't believe those words just came out of your mouth!"
I took the stuffed animals the two look-alikes were hitting each other with and put them back on top of the couch then sat back down.
The grey-eyed man got up. "Well, I think its about time we headed back. My wife is going to start wondering where I've gone. Did we answer your questions?"
All four started walking to the door, the two look-alikes pushing and shoving each other until the blonde grabbed and ear apiece and shoved them both out into the hallway.
"Yes, I think you did. Thanks for taking the time to explain things. I feel better now. I'll pass along your advice."
He paused in the doorway and smiled. "Everytime you think you're losing patience, just remember that many of the voices in this song are young. They will grow and someday their song will begin to sound as sweet as all the others."
My telephone rang, and I instinctively looked at it. When I turned back to the hallway, it was empty. I turned back to my apartment and began to close the door. Before I did, though, I heard a voice. Though somewhat faint and fading quickly, I could still make out one word.
"Namárië."
I smiled and closed the door.