Where'd You Park Your Spaceship?, page 13
I was so engrossed in what we were doing.
I lifted my head up and looked around.
The others were as riveted as I was.
Vo had more instruction for us. Now pay attention to the amplifier. There is a knob that has the word GAIN below it. Turn that up, and see what it does.
What???? The GAIN knob sounded like someone had poured dirt into my guitar. All scratchy and crunchy but also LIFE! ENERGY! VOLUME! It felt like the sounds were
attacking me.
Vo motioned for us to stop playing.
Now, your first assignment.
She was giving us an assignment?
I am going to give you a sentence. You will then create a
sound that goes with that sentence.
Corta raised her hand. We’ll create a sound?
Vo nodded.Yes. With the pedals at your feet and the knobs on the amplifier.
Zoma protested. But I don’t know how to play the guitar.
Vo smiled. Can you make sounds with it?
Well…yeah…we’ve all been doing THAT.
Vo stepped towards her. What is the difference between
making sounds and playing?
That was some one-handed clapping right there.
I kind of understood what she was saying, but that was some advanced level distinction making Vo was doing with that move.
Florent had a question. Okaaayyyy…but some people
actually know how to play guitar, that’s way different than
what we’re doing.
Vo had clearly heard that one before.
Is it? Because the assignment is not to play it. The
assignment is to create a sound that goes with the
sentence.
I couldn’t help but ask. According to who?
According to you.
Once again, Vo was so calm and confident I bought it.
Now, the first sentence. Here it is: A bird flies overhead.
We leaned in with that AND…? look on our faces.
She repeated the sentence. A bird flies overhead.
I drew a blank.
What does that sound like?
I played a chord. I hit a pedal. Nope, that sound was farther. I turned a knob labeled REVERB. AHHH, yes, that was closer. So. Some adjustments got me closer, some farther.
I established that.
I went quickly through the pedals.
One of them grabbed me. A far off sound, like the amp was in another room. I turned the dials UP. MORE. That was better.
Closer.
It was difficult for me to describe literally what I was doing.
Searching. Looking. Trying to find. A sound. That reminded
me of a thing-a bird-I’d seen do a thing-fly overhead.
I imagine there being a machine somewhere that you could
hook up to your brain and it tells you what parts of your brain are firing when you do certain things. Right then I am very confident that parts of my brain I rarely used were overheating.
And then I found it.
Or something like it.
A particular combination of knobs and dials produced a
beautiful-not just a sound-a tone. A feeling.
I have no idea what I mean by that distinction, but it feels
true. See what I mean? Normal describing is out the
window. I closed my eyes and then I pictured a bird flying
overhead and then I strummed the guitar and YES THAT’S
THE SOUND.
I knew it in some way I don’t usually know things.
I had no idea how long it had been.
Vo motioned us to stop.
Please remove your headphones. Who would like to go
first?
Stilitz panicked. Wait! You didn’t say anything about the
others hearing it!!
Stilitz, how excellent of you to volunteer to go first. Let us
hear it.
Stilitz looked around at us. It’s a work in progress, keep
that in mind-
Vo was her usual firm self. Let. us. hear.
He made his noise.
It did not sound like a bird flying overhead.
It echoed off the walls.
We stood there in silence.
Vo looked at him. Did someone shoot the bird as it flew overhead?
Did Vo just roast Stilitz?
I didn’t know how to react.
I looked around. No one did.
Vo asked him Is the bird sick?
Stilitz looked shocked.
Vo pointed up. Did the bird shat on your head as it passed
by?
Is Vo making fun of him?
I couldn’t hold it in any longer.
I laughed. Florent did, too. I could barely hold my guitar up. I found that so funny.
Duda had tears in her eyes.
Zoma sat down she was laughing so hard.
Eventually Stilitz laughed as well. Resistance was futile.
We already liked Vo. But that. Is the bird sick? Classic.
We loved Vo.
Corta, would you like to go next?
Sure. Corta took her guitar stand-Wait! You can do that?-
and held it up to the frets and then slid it down the neck
while she turned one of the knobs on the amp from DOWN
to UP while she alternately turned two of the pedals ON and OFF with both of her feet.
This astonishingly ambidextrous display of coordination and experimentation was extraordinary to behold, only to be outdone by the noise she conjured up.
It sounded like a bird flying overhead.
The highest praise I could possibly give it. She finished
and we stood there in awe.
Duda asked her You don’t play the guitar?
We don’t have guitars on Fahri.
The rest of us shared our sounds.
Vo gave us another sentence: I can’t stop thinking about what they said.
And another: Some days I feel like I’m in a black hole.
And another: All I can do is say thank you.
We made our sounds for each of those sentences,
creating and conjuring, turning the dials and twisting the
knobs, finding our way into this exotic new sonic
landscape. We lost our fear of sharing our sounds,
adjusting to the truth that none of us knew what we’re
doing. The only thing left to do was to throw ourselves into it
and see what we come up with…
After I don’t know how many rounds, Vo told us to take off
our guitars.
Duda had a question.
Yes, Duda.
I would love to know what the point of this was. I mean,
Vo, I really enjoyed this. But come on, you gotta help us
out here. What is…what was this?
Vo gave us that knowing look she had mastered.
I suspected you might wonder. You will now find out.
That door noise.
In walks…
SIR PONG!
Sir Pong?!! On Yorch?!!
I was stunned.
Please welcome Sir Pong.
He hadn’t aged a day.
Same green robe. Same streaks on his arms. Same hair.
He glided into our midst.
I wanted to get his attention.
I wanted him to notice me.
He looked us each in the eyes.
When he came to me he paused.
And then he winked.
Wonderful to see you all, please have a seat.
He bowed.
We sat on the floor in front of our amps.
I watched the others. They were having their introduction to
the phenomenon known as Sir Pong. That man shaped
me, formed me. Gave me the lens that I see the worlds
through.
And now, all those years later, there he was.
ARRANGEMENTS he began.
He repeated it. ARRANGEMENTS. Allow me to ask you a few questions. He did a slight bow in Corta’s direction.
What is your name?
Corta.
Splendid. Corta, how did you make those sounds with
your guitar?
Honestly, Sir Pong-
-she said it like it’s the best name in the world
I just kept turning the knobs.
He nodded.
And what happened when you got stuck? When it didn’t
sound right?
I just kept turning the knobs.
Sir Pong reflected on this.
Yes, that is how it works, isn’t it? You just keep turning the
knobs. Anyone relate to that?
We all nodded.
I knew that. That thing he does. Bringing you in. You’re
nodding, agreeing, affirming.
He was clearly just getting warmed up.
They used to call it politics. From an ancient word meaning
CITIZEN.
That was a swerve. From guitars to history.
Because that’s what we are: citizens. Citizens of our
CIRCLES, our planets. Of the galaxies. Of the universe.
And the question has always been: How will we arrange
ourselves? What ARRANGEMENTS will best help us all
flourish?
He was in full swing now, bringing us along in his hypnotic
way.
Because someone somewhere has to decide what
ARRANGEMENTS are best. They don’t just magically
happen. People have to give themselves to the
ARRANGEMENTS. To studying them, understanding
them, adjusting them when needed. How many of you had
running water in your home when you were growing up?
I watched the others.
They couldn’t tell if that was a trick question or not because it was so simple.
But I knew his game.
My hand shot up.
I was 14 again, eager for Sir Pong to validate me. To look
my way and say Yes Heen, good.
Which he did.
Yes, Heen, good.
The others couldn’t believe it.
Sir Pong knows me?
I was so happy that Sir Pong remembered me.
I felt like my heart was going to burst.
Water is basic for life, is it not?
Who could argue with that? We murmured YES.
Where did that water come from? The water that came
out of the faucet, the water that satiated your thirst-
I always loved Sir Pong’s word choices. He had no
problem busting out the most specific words whenever
the occasion called for it, like right then. Satiated-what a word.
The water that you used to clean the dishes, the water in
the garden, where did it come from? How did it get to
you? How was there always enough? Who decided how
that water arrived in your home?
I spent several laps in Sir Pong’s class and I never heard
that riff. He’d clearly added to his repertoire.
This is what we’re referring to when we use this word
ARRANGEMENTS. Someone somewhere has to make
these decisions-about water, land, education. How many
of you went to school?
He paused.
The others raised their hands right away.
They were starting to get their Sir Pong groove on. The
profound is always hiding out in the simple.
Yes of course, you all went to school. And I can only
assume you had excellent teachers. And you probably
never considered how that all came to be. Why would
you? You were children. Someone else took care of such
things.
Sir Pong spoke this and then hesitated, looking around at us. And then he sat down.
He stretched his legs out straight in front of him.
He crossed his ankles.
He was wearing socks. Red socks. And on his socks were
written the words BING and BONG over and over and
over again.
We all stared at his socks.
He clearly enjoyed the effect his socks were having on us.
That’s why you’re here.
He said it quietly.
Almost whisper like.
I watched Duda’s eyes glaze over.
I felt a thud in the center of my being.
Sir Pong leaned forward.
You are no longer children. You are citizens. And you are
here because you are being invited to give yourselves to
the ARRANGEMENTS.
I exhaled.
So much to take in.
Sir Pong brought his palms together, with his fingers
touching. It was striking to me how those gestures of his were burned into my psyche. So familiar, like signposts along the trail that is my life. The CHAIRS are constantly adjusting the ARRANGEMENTS, turning the dials and twisting the knobs, endlessly searching for just the right balance, the correct order, the ARRANGEMENTS that best serve everybody. Money and jobs and education-the soil, the sea, the forest, the trails and GLIDES and rivers and how we communicate and how we relate to each other and
how we each discover who we are and the part we are
each here to play-ALL OF IT. This work requires discipline
and vigilance and compassion and intelligence and
character and integrity and resilience. And there must be
those in every generation who step forward and say YES, I
WILL SERVE.
It’s like he had cast a spell.
None of us moved.
Is this my life?
The question arose within me.
All that had happened.
All that loss.
All that heaviness.
That abyss.
Am I for this?
An awkward question, but I felt the soul of it.
For a brief second, my life wasn’t just fragments and bits of
unrelated incoherence. Which is how it had felt for such a
long time.
But now, sitting there, it was something more.
A whole.
A unity.
All of it headed somewhere.
My life for something.
This.
Stiltiz found a way to drop a bomb on the moment.
So are we being recruited by the CHAIRS?
Sir Pong squinted in Stilitz’s direction, his eyes boring in on
him like he had X-ray vision.
Are you from Nims?
Oh man, that was awesome.
Sir Pong. A step ahead.
I saw the others eyes widen, like they were wondering Who is this ninja/guru/sage/teacher who knows where Stilitz is from??
Stilitz was aghast. Yeah, I am. How did you know?
Sir Pong leaned in. Do you know the Woohucks?
Of course! Everyone on Nims knows the Woohucks!!
Eirl? Claude? Pino? Sir Pong asked him.
I went to school with Pino’s son Ozar!!!
Small galaxy, isn’t it? I trained with Claude a few moons
ago-does he still do those wood sculptures?
Yes. And his daughters have joined him-one of them
makes these massive portable tent structures that we use
for homes in the hot months and then turn into food
storage in the winters-it’s revolutionized how we eat, how
we live…
Greton? Or Bilby?
Sir Pong knew the names of the daughters of a wood
sculptor on Nims?
YES!!! Bilby!! I actually fancied her for a while.
Stilitz blushed.
We watched this exchange with fascination.
And what is your name?
I’m Stilitz.
Sir Pong mulled this over.
Well Stilitz, it is a pleasure to meet you.
Sir Pong turned to the rest of us.
He was in no rush.
Now what was that? Or more precisely WHY was that-
That exchange between Sir Stilitz and me?
We heard Stiltz mutter with pride under his breath Sir Stilitz.
Or perhaps an even better question: HOW did that
happen? Because in that brief interaction my new friend
Stilitz and I touched on school and training and craft and
innovation and food and friendship and adaptation and
one generation handing an art form down to the next
generation-How does that happen? By accident? Or are
there certain conditions that allow that sort of thing to
happen? Conditions that help people find joy and do good
work and innovate and for some reason known only to
them choose to name their little baby boys STILITZ.
We all laughed at that.
Sir Pong was so good. And funny. And subversive. He
clearly picked up on what a spastic, slightly irritating
socially stunted presence Stiltz was and managed to turn
that into something else, something human and endearing, showing us the fella in there who just wanted what we all want.
Sir Pong wasn’t done.
That all happens because of the ARRANGEMENTS-specific
and intentional turning of the dials and twisting of the knobs. And there have to be people who do THAT.
*
It did not stop with Vo. Over the next few weeks we went
from TUBE to TUBE, day after day, each one holding another event, another obstacle, another exploration.
One morning we walked into TUBE 4. A woman came towards us from a door on the opposite wall. She invited us to sit on the floor with her as she pulled out a deck of cards.
She asked each of us to draw a card. And then put it back. Without her seeing what card we drew.
She then did an elaborate bit of shuffling. I realized part
way through her routine that I was enjoying a magician on
Yorch. Like you do. She stopped shuffling, pulled out various cards, handing them to us one by one asking us
expectantly if this is the same card we drew.
They weren’t.
Not one of us got the same card.
She looked crestfallen, embarrassed.
She stammered.
She stared at the floor.
It was so awkward.
She had blown her first trick.
And she clearly didn’t know how to recover.
