It was a hurting tune, resigned, a cry of heartache for all in the world that fell apart. As ash rose black against the brilliant sky, Fire's fiddle cried out for the dead, and for the living who stay behind to say goodbye.
The magician seemed to promise that something torn to bits might be mended without a seam, that what had vanished might reappear, that a scattered handful of doves or dust might be reunited by a word, that a paper rose consumed by fire could be made to bloom from a pile of ash. But everyone knew that it was only an illusion. The true magic of this broken world lay in the ability of things it contained to vanish, to become so thoroughly lost, that they might never have existed in the first place.
For example, because I'm a lapsed geologist, I followed the eruption of Icelandic volcano Eyjafjallajökull in 2010 in great detail, amassing a huge number of links to news articles, blog posts, scientific papers, web cams, video and photos. That archive came to the attention of Chatham House, and they then commissioned me to research the way in which the media responded to the ash cloud crisis. I think that's the only time that my degree and my career have fully intersected, and it really was a lovely moment!
Popular music is slowly being laid to rest in every conceivable way... the ashes are already about us if we could but notice them.
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