Love, Literature, and the Lydian Mode

She is sitting at her desk, a pencil in one hand, and the other hand holding a cold can of diet Coke. Every once in a while, her pen stops scratching, so that she can take a sip. When she tilts the can against her lips, her little finger lifts itself from the surface of the can, a remnant of the elegant habits of a time and culture now lost. A time and culture she is attempting to bring to life.

I stand behind her, outside the shadow of her lamp, wondering how best to perform the task set before me. In these modern times, people no longer understand what I try to say to them - they do not pick up the traces I leave in the sparse trees, in the faces of the people pushing past them. Subtlety is lost in the 21st century, replaced by clocks, computers, classrooms, places and things which tell you everything and leave nothing to Imagination.
He has a very difficult time, Imagination. He has bags under his eyes from keeping awake through the night so often - Dream often needs his help these days, to make his work worthwhile and interesting. He complains to me about how often people ignore him, how many times they dismiss him. I see him often; sometimes we work together. We do so more and more; with people the way they are, the strength of both of us is needed to get the job done.

But today he is busy - most likely some new artist, or, even more likely, a filmmaker. I can’t say I blame him for leaving me today; the films these days could use a bit of his work.

The girl has moved, reminding me of the task at hand. She has turned on her computer (uninspired devices, really, but sometimes useful in my line of work), and is now instant messaging a friend, whose screen name is, as I read over her shoulder, “thenextbard.” I smile faintly as I recognize the name; I have visited him several times, each time with great success. The girl is talking with him about her writer’s block. I laugh to myself quietly at the irony of my standing right next to her as she types the words. I’d like to tell her that everything will be alright in a few minutes, as soon as I find out how to do this, but that’s not recommended in my line of work.

“Thenextbard” tells her he has to go. She says farewell, sighs, and reaches for her mp3 player.

Suddenly I know what to do.

But in order to do it, I must make another quick trip.

I see him now. A friend of hers, but not the bard. He is also sitting at the computer (they seem to be everywhere these days, but today I will not complain, since I have a use for it). I have visited him once or twice before, so I know how this should go. I gently tap him on the shoulder, so that he will turn around.

He doesn’t, choosing instead to scratch at the shoulder, still typing with one hand.

Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t.

Feeling in a somewhat violent mood, and also being in a rush, I crash his computer. I know he hates it, but at least it gets his attention.

After the usual human string of curses and attempts to reboot, he sags back into his chair. I could tap his shoulder again, but instead I decide to run my hand across the strings of the guitar behind him.

This usually creeps people out. But not him. After all, he often insists half in jest that his guitar is a real person, so why shouldn’t make a sound?

It’s worked. He has picked up the guitar, and is now fiddling with random tunes. Now that all the pieces are in place, I carefully, subtly guide his fingers so that it plays something approaching an ancient scale - the Lydian mode, actually. If he were one of us, he might realize that this was the same kind of music that used to resound through the Greek temples. But he isn’t. And so he plays, unaware of my presence, unaware of how his gradually forming composition will be used.

I prepare to leave, but before I do, I do one last thing. With his computer screen still black, I change it so that when he returns to his instant message page, there will be only one name there.

I return to the girl’s side, after running a few errands that take no more than half an hour - sending mothers the right songs to calm their crying babes, presenting a new metaphor for a poet to use, giving another writer a few words to put in her essay, etc.

Sure enough, after a few minutes of waiting, the boy with the guitar appears on the girl’s IM screen. After quick hellos, he tells her to check her email. I linger just long enough for her to download the mp3 file and listen to the first straining notes, and then hurriedly grasp her pencil and begin writing furiously as the music plays on.

Nothing like a few moments of complete satisfaction with my job.

I visit her again, a year later, to see how she is doing. As I see her, sitting at a table, signing copies of a book (the book I helped her with, I note with some selfish pride), I grin. With all the busyness of her still-young life now, I may have to check on her in the future, and help her out with whatever uninspired sequel she will probably be working on then.

Postscript:
A few years later (not that time makes a difference to me), I was approached by one of my colleagues, Love. I don’t talk much to her; our paths rarely cross. But today, she greets me with a “Hello” and automatically rushes into her story.

“Do you remember a writer girl you may have helped with a book?”

I reply, saying that there have been many writer girls that i have helped with books.

“Have you helped one by getting a friend of hers to play her a piece of music?”

I slowly nod, and ask what about them that could be so interesting, although I have already guessed what it is. I wouldn’t want to spoil her fun.

“Well, I don’t want to spoil your fun -”

Ironic, I was just thinking the same thing.

“-but you might want to go take a look at them.”

So I do.

I see them both, sitting in the park. I smile, because outdoor places are useful places for my work.

They are both sitting on a park bench. The girl is still writing, but today, she smiles as if she knows she can never get writer’s block again. The boy is still playing his guitar - the same guitar, although now significantly more beat-up. He is smiling as well, as he closes his eyes and inhales the clean, crisp autumn air.

The girl stops writing suddenly and puts her paper down. As she does, I spy a small but brilliant glimmer on her left hand, which goes to turn the boy’s face towards her. He turns his head, his hand still strumming the strings.

The strumming stops only when their lips meet. And even then, afterward the long, lingering moment, he plays one final chord. In the Lydian mode, of course.