Tonight, the sun sets.

Two years ago, A Far Cry was about to play a program I'd designed, called "Sunset", when the world came crashing down. We all remember that week - the steady buildup, the twists in the gut that came again and again, the moments of cancellation, and then the sudden onset of - time. Time at home, time in isolation, time that stretched out and out, with no sense of how long it might last or what might come after it. A new sensation, to share collectively in that ambiguity, that horizontal feeling, with everything that came with it. 

This week, we returned to rehearsing Sunset and tonight it'll take its place as A Far Cry's season finale. The inspiration for the program came from a Respighi work, "Il Tramonto", which was based on a Shelley poem that follows two lovers through a moment of tragedy. The man dies suddenly. The woman does not. She stays, she lingers, and comes to terms with her grief over the agonizing space of years. 

I've always found this piece, and this poem, to be astonishing because it focuses on the very thing that most narratives avoid. Instead of the dramatic moment, it's all about the space that follows, in which you can mourn, suffer, heal... but in which, whatever you do, you continue to exist. The clock keeps turning forward. Time expresses itself on the canvas of your life. 

It's almost too much to think about how that idea has been explored in our collective life over the past two years. I find that I can't think about it for very long; I touch the thought and then go away again. We all know what it was like, and it's not something that can be quickly or easily summed up. 

Nor does this season finale, as wonderfully cathartic as it will be to play, feel like an end. It may nicely close this one particular narrative - from one Friday the 13th to another! - but the story itself continues to flow forward, and we continue to adapt to it and interface with it. 

Two years ago, after the cancellation of Sunset, I wrote a blog post here that addressed as much of the situation as I could imagine at that time. Here's the end of that post: 

"There's uncertainty and fear about what comes next, as much as we're resolved to do what we can to help. I just don't know what the next days will bring. I can't offer much, but I hope that in some small way the trajectory of this crazy program might just help a little. We're in the tough part, and we don't know how much tougher it's going to get, but there is no doubt that the sun is waiting on the other side of it to shine again."

Even though we remain in the midst of SO VERY MUCH uncertainty at this time, even though two years ago I had no idea what was to come, or what it might mean to be on the "other side," despite all of this, we will make music tonight, and it will be beautiful. 

And that action will mirror what we've been doing for each other during this entire pandemic time. We never stopped reaching out to each other, we never stopped creating art, we never stopped believing in the power of connection. When I look back over the last two years, that's what I see. When I look forward, no matter what else awaits us, I see the same. This is what we do, and who we are. 

Earlier this week in rehearsal, we were looking at a spot late in the Respighi, by which point the woman has lived through a long period of grief that has transformed her, inside and out. She seems to be a shadow of herself, and yet... there is still something of her that remains, despite everything. Krista read the line out loud to us, and then quietly said "She's still in there." 


Still here. 

Looking forward to making music for - and with - you tonight. 


Sarah