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| LYRICS (by Matty Jeronimo) All the small towns On the shorelines Two shadows On the cliffside And a lone car On the brown rocks Black water Red on my side It’s just a trick of the light It’s just a trick of the light It’s just a trick of the light It’s just a trick of the light And the small towns On the black bay Nothing moving All is quiet And the seabirds In the slate sky Guide the cold wind Back to my side It’s just a trick of the light It’s just a trick of the light It’s just a trick of the light It’s just a trick of the light But we wake up From a long dream And an old song Floats over the water It’s just a trick of the light It’s just a trick of the light It’s just a trick of the light It’s just a trick of the light It’s just at trick of the light! | Lord Anthony is a seven year old boy who lives in a stone house. His house and his realm rest gently on a cliff that overlooks the shores of the Pacific Ocean. The height of this cliff is equal to the precise distance an acorn falls in eleven seconds. Lord Anthony has timed it himself, he assures me. He lives alone with his father, a Dr. Winston Lord. Anthony’s father isn’t the type of doctor that takes care of the sick. Rather, he is the type that sits around in his study, smoking all day, and smelling like scotch. He is retired now, and sometimes mentions the royalties he receives for a book published a very long time ago. Dr. Lord’s hobbies include: - Symmetry - Scotch - Learning to mimic the bird calls of migratory fowl - Conducting experiments with kites to disprove the “Global Warming” conspiracy - Ignoring Anthony  |
Anthony doesn’t mind being left alone all of the time. He is a very important person after all. Although he is often obligated to help his father with his drunken experiments, every other moment, he is Lord Anthony: ruler of the vast expanses of his territory. The ancient pine forests that surround the house are his. The vegetable garden is his. The soft meadow overlooking the cliff is his. Yet he often looks, with a state of melancholy unbefitting such a young boy, down onto the sandy beaches at the bottom of the cliffs. This stretch of golden mystery–each little rock potentially hiding treasure troves of soft shell crabs, sand dollars, and curious flotsam–is beyond his reach. Though the beaches appear so close, there are no roads or paths that connect them to Lord Anthony’s world. If only he could transport himself onto one of the brightly colored sailboats that he sees through his father’s telescope.
One day, as he was wrapping up one of his father’s kites after a day of failed experiments, Anthony asked, “how come no boats ever land on our beach?”
“What use have they for such a silly, pointless beach?” replied Dr. Lord as he simultaneously took a sip of scotch while lighting a cigarette. ”They have more important things to do.”
In reality, he had no idea why their beach was so desultory. However, two notable disasters in the late 19th century had given it the nickname “Wreck Beach” among sailors of the Pacific. Since then, rumors of Hydras and sea Kraken have dissuaded anyone from visiting Anthony’s beach. One day many years from now, a new variety of giant squid will be discovered to inhabit only the coastal waters off the shores of that beach. They will be found living inside the ruined husk of a centuries old shipwreck in a highly organized society. By chance, the lead scientist will be named Stuart Anthony, and the new variety of cephalopods will be given the nomenclature “Anthony’s squid”. The World is full of incomprehensible surprises such as this.
Lord Anthony’s favorite day of the week is Wednesday, because it is on this day that he takes violin lessons from an elderly Japanese man named Hatsuki Matsumoto. He is Anthony’s closest neighbor, located about 2 miles to the south along an old deer path through the woods. He rides his bike, a deep tan colored steed named Svetlana. Once, when Mr. Matsumoto was a small child, he was a violin virtuoso, even playing concerts for the Emperor of Japan. Tragically, his career was cut short when an earthquake hit a concert hall in Kyoto where he was playing. The falling rubble severely injured the boy, leaving him blind and paralyzed. He was 15 years old. Today, Matsumoto Sensei lives with his daughter Penelope, a vibrant little seamstress who always greets Anthony with warm soup and a hug.
Matsumoto is a patient man, who has great faith in Anthony. Because he is blind, they do not use sheet music, clefs, or notation. There is already a lifetime of music inside his graying head, which he is able to whistle the finest precision. This is how Anthony learns to play. Matsumoto Sensei selects a tune and delicately whistles it for his student, who with youthful eagerness plays it back on his violin. There is no talk about mistakes or wrong notes, because these are obvious. Rather, Matsumoto directs Anthony’s spirit.
“To be a great artist,” Matsumoto always says, “you must be willing pull out your own heart and bare it for the audience. With music, everything is transparent. All of your sins, your hopes, and your dreams spill out. Find your peace Anthony, and then you will be great.”
But Anthony is not at peace. There is a great restlessness inside of him. He has already explored every mystery and wonder in his realm. He is a kind and gentle Lord over all the creatures, critters, and citizens of the forest, the garden, and the meadow. Yet, he wants more. Only the universe is equal to his vast appetite for discovery. He is already 7 years old, a venerable and wise ruler, yet he has never once swum in the ocean. He longs for the gentle lull of the waves to wash over his tiny, stately feet. But the beach of his dreams lies at the bottom of an incomprehensible abyss–beyond the cliff-edge where his world ends.
On a rainy day of indoor treasure hunting, Lord Anthony finds a book with the story of Icarus. A brilliant idea begins to hatch as he prepares a series of blueprints to embark on the greatest adventure of his lifetime. Having learned from the tragic demise of Icarus, Anthony decides to embark at night, when there will be no burning sun to tempt him. Armed with the boldest crayon blueprint ever conceived, he spends a week making the necessary preparations.
In the shed is an extraordinarily large kite painted with a terrific picture of a Horned Owl, which Lord Anthony nicknamed “Mordecai”. It was once part of his father’s experiments, but because of the size, it was impossible to fly with one hand free for his glass of scotch, as was his custom. Rather than change his habits, Winston Lord abandoned this kite in favor of smaller ones, which were more conducive to his rampant alcoholism.
One day, as he was wrapping up one of his father’s kites after a day of failed experiments, Anthony asked, “how come no boats ever land on our beach?”
“What use have they for such a silly, pointless beach?” replied Dr. Lord as he simultaneously took a sip of scotch while lighting a cigarette. ”They have more important things to do.”
In reality, he had no idea why their beach was so desultory. However, two notable disasters in the late 19th century had given it the nickname “Wreck Beach” among sailors of the Pacific. Since then, rumors of Hydras and sea Kraken have dissuaded anyone from visiting Anthony’s beach. One day many years from now, a new variety of giant squid will be discovered to inhabit only the coastal waters off the shores of that beach. They will be found living inside the ruined husk of a centuries old shipwreck in a highly organized society. By chance, the lead scientist will be named Stuart Anthony, and the new variety of cephalopods will be given the nomenclature “Anthony’s squid”. The World is full of incomprehensible surprises such as this.
Lord Anthony’s favorite day of the week is Wednesday, because it is on this day that he takes violin lessons from an elderly Japanese man named Hatsuki Matsumoto. He is Anthony’s closest neighbor, located about 2 miles to the south along an old deer path through the woods. He rides his bike, a deep tan colored steed named Svetlana. Once, when Mr. Matsumoto was a small child, he was a violin virtuoso, even playing concerts for the Emperor of Japan. Tragically, his career was cut short when an earthquake hit a concert hall in Kyoto where he was playing. The falling rubble severely injured the boy, leaving him blind and paralyzed. He was 15 years old. Today, Matsumoto Sensei lives with his daughter Penelope, a vibrant little seamstress who always greets Anthony with warm soup and a hug.
Matsumoto is a patient man, who has great faith in Anthony. Because he is blind, they do not use sheet music, clefs, or notation. There is already a lifetime of music inside his graying head, which he is able to whistle the finest precision. This is how Anthony learns to play. Matsumoto Sensei selects a tune and delicately whistles it for his student, who with youthful eagerness plays it back on his violin. There is no talk about mistakes or wrong notes, because these are obvious. Rather, Matsumoto directs Anthony’s spirit.
“To be a great artist,” Matsumoto always says, “you must be willing pull out your own heart and bare it for the audience. With music, everything is transparent. All of your sins, your hopes, and your dreams spill out. Find your peace Anthony, and then you will be great.”
But Anthony is not at peace. There is a great restlessness inside of him. He has already explored every mystery and wonder in his realm. He is a kind and gentle Lord over all the creatures, critters, and citizens of the forest, the garden, and the meadow. Yet, he wants more. Only the universe is equal to his vast appetite for discovery. He is already 7 years old, a venerable and wise ruler, yet he has never once swum in the ocean. He longs for the gentle lull of the waves to wash over his tiny, stately feet. But the beach of his dreams lies at the bottom of an incomprehensible abyss–beyond the cliff-edge where his world ends.
On a rainy day of indoor treasure hunting, Lord Anthony finds a book with the story of Icarus. A brilliant idea begins to hatch as he prepares a series of blueprints to embark on the greatest adventure of his lifetime. Having learned from the tragic demise of Icarus, Anthony decides to embark at night, when there will be no burning sun to tempt him. Armed with the boldest crayon blueprint ever conceived, he spends a week making the necessary preparations.
In the shed is an extraordinarily large kite painted with a terrific picture of a Horned Owl, which Lord Anthony nicknamed “Mordecai”. It was once part of his father’s experiments, but because of the size, it was impossible to fly with one hand free for his glass of scotch, as was his custom. Rather than change his habits, Winston Lord abandoned this kite in favor of smaller ones, which were more conducive to his rampant alcoholism.
Anthony spent a full week gathering stray feathers from the forest, which he affixed to the surface of the kite. Two flashlights attached to the top of his yellow bicycle helmet will allow him to see at night. Then, with some adjustments to the wooden framework, he made handholds, and flaps so he can steer with his feet. One last minute addition allowed him to stow his violin and a blanket under the frame. And so, Anthony quelled his impatience, and waited, for a clear night and a gently passed out father, to set sail and embark.
* * * * * * * * *
Tonight, it just happens, all the necessary conditions are perfect. The customized kite has gone unnoticed all week. There is a full moon in the sky, and Dr. Winston Lord is quietly snoring on the floor of his study beside an empty bottle of scotch. Anthony goes over his pre-flight checklist with a bold red crayon, ensuring that nothing will go wrong. Everything is ready to go and a slight shiver of excitement runs down his spine.
He drags the kite into the back of the vegetable garden, knocking down a row of peonies, though he hardly notices. The runway is a clear, straight 200 meters to the edge. This is the only part of his plan that has gone unpracticed. He will have to rely upon his royal luck—his life depends upon it. Lord Anthony dons Mordecai and hops onto the seat of Svetlana. He can feel the added weight and wind resistance. Anthony must achieve critical velocity before he reaches the edge of the cliff. Then, he must brake suddenly, and literally fly off of his bike.
He stoically turns on his headlights and listens as Mordecai’s feathers ruffle in the wind. “Pfffffffffffthhhh. Pffffthh.” He begins to pedal and struggles to keep the bike going straight.
100 metres to go and still not enough speed. Anthony’s breathing speeds up and his little heart begins to pump faster and faster.
50 metres to go and he can feel the lift under his wings. Faster still, and the air seems to strip him of all earthly weight. He is pure lightness and pure being now, and he is going to wait until the last possible second.
10 metres….
5….
1….
Lord Anthony pulls the brakes as hard as his tiny hands are able, and leaps off of Svetlana. The air flows quickly under the kite and he is shot straight into the void of night. He grabs ahold of the kite and fears the worst. He falls quickly and suddenly, nose first. Mordecai plunges down the face of the cliff, trailing behind a wake of poorly glued feathers. The wind is powerful, and forces little tears up the corners of his eyes. Anthony screams into the abyss, not out of terror anymore, but sheer excitement.
* * * * * * * * *
Then, out of nowhere, as if an invisible hand grabbed him from the clutches of oblivion, the kite buoys up. The free-fall is over, and Lord Anthony is now in control of Mordecai. He tests his steering, first left, than right, and is relieved by its effectiveness. The powerful flashlights on top of his curious head scan the unexplored wilderness of night.
Suddenly, Anthony sees a flock of tiny reddish-orange Owls hunting by moonlight. The birds could easily fit into his tiny hands. Who knew such strange creatures existed! They spot Mordecai—dozens of little red eyes flashing in panic–and then make their escape, filling the air with a chorus of “eep! eep! eep!”.
* * * * * * * * *
Tonight, it just happens, all the necessary conditions are perfect. The customized kite has gone unnoticed all week. There is a full moon in the sky, and Dr. Winston Lord is quietly snoring on the floor of his study beside an empty bottle of scotch. Anthony goes over his pre-flight checklist with a bold red crayon, ensuring that nothing will go wrong. Everything is ready to go and a slight shiver of excitement runs down his spine.
He drags the kite into the back of the vegetable garden, knocking down a row of peonies, though he hardly notices. The runway is a clear, straight 200 meters to the edge. This is the only part of his plan that has gone unpracticed. He will have to rely upon his royal luck—his life depends upon it. Lord Anthony dons Mordecai and hops onto the seat of Svetlana. He can feel the added weight and wind resistance. Anthony must achieve critical velocity before he reaches the edge of the cliff. Then, he must brake suddenly, and literally fly off of his bike.
He stoically turns on his headlights and listens as Mordecai’s feathers ruffle in the wind. “Pfffffffffffthhhh. Pffffthh.” He begins to pedal and struggles to keep the bike going straight.
100 metres to go and still not enough speed. Anthony’s breathing speeds up and his little heart begins to pump faster and faster.
50 metres to go and he can feel the lift under his wings. Faster still, and the air seems to strip him of all earthly weight. He is pure lightness and pure being now, and he is going to wait until the last possible second.
10 metres….
5….
1….
Lord Anthony pulls the brakes as hard as his tiny hands are able, and leaps off of Svetlana. The air flows quickly under the kite and he is shot straight into the void of night. He grabs ahold of the kite and fears the worst. He falls quickly and suddenly, nose first. Mordecai plunges down the face of the cliff, trailing behind a wake of poorly glued feathers. The wind is powerful, and forces little tears up the corners of his eyes. Anthony screams into the abyss, not out of terror anymore, but sheer excitement.
* * * * * * * * *
Then, out of nowhere, as if an invisible hand grabbed him from the clutches of oblivion, the kite buoys up. The free-fall is over, and Lord Anthony is now in control of Mordecai. He tests his steering, first left, than right, and is relieved by its effectiveness. The powerful flashlights on top of his curious head scan the unexplored wilderness of night.
Suddenly, Anthony sees a flock of tiny reddish-orange Owls hunting by moonlight. The birds could easily fit into his tiny hands. Who knew such strange creatures existed! They spot Mordecai—dozens of little red eyes flashing in panic–and then make their escape, filling the air with a chorus of “eep! eep! eep!”.
Like a feverish gust of wind, the tiny Strange Owls carried Anthony and Mordecai far out into the open air of the ocean currents, well beyond the borderlands of little Anthony’s dreams. Higher and higher—these yet undiscovered migratory owls lifted them—up into the upper limits of the stratosphere as they began their bicentennial circumnavigation of the globe.
These tiny Strange Owls could never survive this majestic trip if it weren’t for their mysterious knowledge of jet streams and atmospheric phenomena. On only a tiny stomach full of insects and fruit, these wild-eyed owls carried Anthony and Mordecai on a dizzying tour of the world. When it was all over, the Strange Owls dropped out of the skies and descended on the Amazon jungles of Brazil to begin a frenzied feast of tiny owl fruits.
However, Anthony and Mordecai were nowhere to be found on land or in the sea. They were left floating far above in the upper-reaches of the atmosphere—a tiny, winged figure stranded in an endless sky. At the mercy of the fierce polar jets, he became a ghost on feathered pinions, blown countless times around the world. If it was night on the ground below, the light from his helmet made him appear to those below as if he were a shooting star or some sort of celestial body.
Listen. If conditions are just perfect and the night is just still enough, we can hear Lord Anthony playing his little violin from on high. Like a lost balloon, he wanders the skies, and sometimes graces us with the presence of his music.
THE END
These tiny Strange Owls could never survive this majestic trip if it weren’t for their mysterious knowledge of jet streams and atmospheric phenomena. On only a tiny stomach full of insects and fruit, these wild-eyed owls carried Anthony and Mordecai on a dizzying tour of the world. When it was all over, the Strange Owls dropped out of the skies and descended on the Amazon jungles of Brazil to begin a frenzied feast of tiny owl fruits.
However, Anthony and Mordecai were nowhere to be found on land or in the sea. They were left floating far above in the upper-reaches of the atmosphere—a tiny, winged figure stranded in an endless sky. At the mercy of the fierce polar jets, he became a ghost on feathered pinions, blown countless times around the world. If it was night on the ground below, the light from his helmet made him appear to those below as if he were a shooting star or some sort of celestial body.
Listen. If conditions are just perfect and the night is just still enough, we can hear Lord Anthony playing his little violin from on high. Like a lost balloon, he wanders the skies, and sometimes graces us with the presence of his music.
THE END
