Michael Cornrows

Michael Cornrows sat in a sun-baked field in Oklahoma; blinding white light, painful blue sky, iron red earth. A gentle warm breeze blew wheat around him. He squinted into the sun and, holding his guitar firmly, inhaled slowly and fully. He rang his fingernails down onto the bronze shining stings. A single chord flew out at the speed of sound, rated for the edges of the infinitely flat expanse and disappeared, swallowed by space. Michael was stunned; a chord that would nicely fill his room at home had been devoured by the vastness of an Oklahoma wheat field.

He remembered another rime when he had visited his friend Bill in Indiana and the, had gone out at dusk to play some music in the field in front of the house. A thick fog had settled in, obscuring everything except a large, spidery tree about fifty feet away. They tried to play a few songs, but the oppressive, almost malicious spirit of the fog gobbled up their efforts and left them weak and lame. Bill had come up with the idea of trying to play along with the spirit of the fog, to express it -- perhaps to mollify it -- but this fog was inimical to music and musicians. As the last few pathetic notes leaked out into the mist, the broken-spirited pair hastily packed their guitars and beat a retreat into the warm safety of the house. It seemed as if you could almost hear a muffled, sinister chuckle emanate from the moistness outside...

But today was different. Perhaps it was because his power as a musician had grown, or that it was a different setting, the brilliant sun inviting him to try again coaxing him to see if he could make his presence felt. So he stared up at the sun again, holding his guitar out in front of him as if making an offering to a god. He rook another deep breath, more slowly and fully than before, and drove his hand down toward the sound hole in a sudden, almost violent manner. The strings sprang to life, the lower ones vibrating crazily, forming weird, sinusoidal interference patterns, and the chord shot off the spruce soundboard and spread out like ripples from a stone tossed into a mirror-smooth pond. Michael watched and thought he could almost see the waves running through the wheat, flattening our rows of stalks as if some strange circular wind had emanated from the point where he was seated; the corners of his mouth curled up into an impish grin. Finding the temptation irresistible, once again he sent his hand boldly hurtling against the strings even more adamantly than before. This time there was no doubt; a smooth wave rolled through the wheat like a swell through a golden sea, and even a few startled crows flew up from the field, cawing into the endless blue sky. With surging joy rising within him, Michael slashed at the guitar again and again, each stroke sending a new pulse through the wheat. He did strange things with his left hand, hammering on and plucking at the stings while his knifelike right hand cut off the harmonics. He did things that his guitar teacher had never told him about, or told him never to do; he did things that he had no idea he was capable of. Some of it was wild and powerful, sending strong, broad pulses arcing through the field. Some of it was haunting and delicate, causing small bunches of stalks to undulate and dance gracefully. Finally he came to the crescendo, striking chord after vibrant chord, the multitude of waves crossing and interfering with each other, creating tall spikes and deep troughs, until the entire scene was one of a raging, storm-filled sea. And each stroke pushed back the darkness that filled Michael's mind; the cold glazed cinder block corridors of school that he should be in, the comfortable bur sterile tract home thaat he lived in, the taunts an aloofness of his peers that he met with an uncomfortable smile. As his guitar bowed as if made of rubber, he plunged determinedly ahead, heedless of the gathering billowing white clouds in the sky that soon knotted into masses of dark purple and blue. And as the last full, harmonious chord rang into the air and ever so slowly decayed, filling space, Michael heard a low, grumble of thunder and felt the first drops fall against his skin, tasting the delicious metallic rang mixed with salt on his lips. He fell bark onto the warm earth, sprawling arms widespread under the lightning dark sky, and laughed.