Daydream of a Heavenly Chorus

One of the first thoughts to break the horizon this morning was what I imagine is a stunning heavenly chorus, complete with artwork, writing and yes…even angel wing-styling. This notion is prompted by news of the death of singer Robin Gibb, and just a day prior of Donna Summer.

Internet stories abound, but for those like me, who lived through the era of the Bee Gees and disco, we already know the history. Nonetheless, I clicked on CNN’s report, though admittedly, Rolling Stone‘s coverage might be more appropriate in this case.

Surfing a series of links and clicks, I found myself perusing pictures of other singers and celebrities who died in 2012.

I imagined a picture, a vision, a daydream – a spiritually artistic collaboration of back drops created by the likes of Maurice Sendak and Thomas Kinkade, a full set-design realized by their mere thoughts and the freedom of expression and movement that comes with a fully released soul, no longer limited by the body.

Then, as if on cue, a silky smooth, acapella voice begins, “Oh I could hide, ‘neath the wings, of the bluebird as it sings,” as Davy Jones enters from the shadows followed by Robin, Maurice and Andy Gibb who provide a heavenly harmony. A childhood memory drifts by, a flash of a single sunny day in suburbia. The ditty fades to capture another warm male voice but the male chorus remains giving rise to something new.

The flow changes to an American song, captured on albums aptly titled, “Rock of Ages” and “Before the Flood.” A bright back light creates a silhouette of singer Levon Helms who croons as the drums he sets to rhythm rise in a natural fog:

Virgil Caine is the name and I served on the Danville train

‘Til Stoneman’s cavalry came and tore up the tracks again

In the winter of ’65, we were hungry, just barely alive

By May the tenth, Richmond had fell

It’s a time I remember, oh so well

*

The night they drove old Dixie down

And the bells were ringing

The night they drove old Dixie down

And the people were singing

They went, “La, la, la”

The song is sung with such precision; images of civil war soldiers form apparitions as if to honor its sad melody. The final chorus fades, and from a place in the distance, a lonely saxophone echoes reminiscent of The Big Man. It brings with it a lightning powered blues guitar. A twinkle of chrome with the initials S-R-V flashes only for an instant as the deep sultry voice of Etta James, and two familiar divas chime in.

The refreshed, polished-crystal clarity and perfect pitch beyond that of earthly youth grace the stage. Spirits of Donna Summer and Whitney Houston rise to a crescendo as Etta joyously strikes a final, “At Last.”

To the side stands a radiant Vidal Sassoon, having just completed final touches of angels wings, so white and with such perfection, only One could have made such a light. I peer down into my morning java to find a tiny feather. Where it came from is anyone’s guess. I believe it fell from the heavenly chorus.

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