The Bell

Imagine for a moment you walk into a dark room, the edges are all shadow and slow movement, concealing the wall or corner, if such a thing is there. You only see them in the edges of you vision because they are not the centerpiece. There is a feeling of electric energy here. Silence that yearns for sound, causes you to imagine the space being filled. Silence which makes your breathing seem irreverent.

The center of the room is illuminated by lights reflecting off of the brass and curves of the enormous bell which is hung there. You can smell the sweet oil used to preserve the wood at the top. It is a beam which is thick and carved and seems to look down on you. The wood itself is designed to keep the vibrations of the bell pure and unbending. Attached so as not to mute or cause rattling with the vibrations. Carved and polished to make it clear their importance, but also that this thing which is bigger then you is for you.

Beneath the beam, attached, but a work of art itself hangs the bell. You could stand inside the dark alcove beneath it, and feel metal surround you with out touching it. You imagine how the structure might make it so you could hear your own heartbeat. A womb. From the outside, where you actually stand, you can see the pure, unblemished metal. Made in a single perfect cast. No crack or crevices. Tapered walls. Even the etching has been done with the softest chemicals, so the precise thickness, that perfect sound is preserved. You imagine how this room must feel filled with the presence of it wringing, you feel you pulse just us you imaging the deep sound shaking your sternum and spine. Breaking something loose in you. A life. The anticipation, the hope is something of joy. It is more unspeakably beautiful than the bell itself.

One can not write and do any justice to the ringing of the bell. You stand transfixed, the hammer in your hand wavering in excitement and fear long before you strike. When you do, the deed, in all its magnificence, is done.

The tone lasts for longer than you imagine possible. You know that you can not strike it again and with that thought the hammer is gone. The note though, the perfect pitch, still bends around you, caresses you, lifts you into an ocean of sound. Euphoria. Then it happens, you notice the sound and the echo begging to collapse, the roar deadens just slightly. You have less immersion than you had before and as that thought hits you, the sound grows ever more slight. You are loosing it, the perfect beauty is evaporating. The sound lingers, but now it causes you pain, longing and loss. You have been changed and that thing which changed you is no more. The power dims and it is place a longing which is even greater than that which you had before the sound had been heard at all. Now you know what is not there.

You look upon the bell and weep.