By Kristin Idaszak
& I walked out, summoned by the siren song into darkness pricked by shivering stars & I stepped onto the frozen lake, boots crunching in the snow, my footprints ampersands leading away from the drowsy warmth of the fire crackling inside the cabin & the wisps of clouds overhead mingled with my shaggy breath & at first it was disorienting, I couldn’t locate the source of the sound which seemed to be coming from everywhere and nowhere, an aural aurora borealis & it was low & moaning & inhuman; the only way I can describe it is like the whalesongs I sometimes play when I have insomnia, but this bellow was nothing like the tinny recordings emanating through my headphones & then there was rending and splitting as though the tectonic plates were talking to each other, deciding where to go after their shift, let’s try that new noodle place in town & what can I tell you about the moment I realized the music was coming from the lake itself, the ice settling in its wintry bed, pulling the covers over the fish & kelp (I've always wondered how they sleep through the long night) & suddenly I was wide awake & would you believe me if I told you that the music entered me & I became a being made of pure sound & frozen beauty &
Kristin Idaszak is an internationally produced playwright, essayist, and accidental cultural critic whose work excavates the intersection of chronic illness and climate change.
Photo by Shane Kelly.
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