Ticket to Venus
My name is Crystal and I grew up in an alternative community in Kansas called the Fort Hill Community. I lived in the Back House, along with the other children, where we were all raised together, without the company of our parents. I barely knew my mother, although she lived a few meters away, in the Big House, with the other adults. You may not believe me, but I had a dream childhood, full of games, music and nature. Even my schooling was done at home. We rarely left the commune or had contact with our neighbors. It was usually just us, the children, our pets and our guardians. This only changed on special occasions and on days when there were musical soirees
Ah, the musical soirees! From an early age I was the star of these small private concerts where we spent hours singing together. Everyone seemed to admire my voice, especially Mel, who looked at me with his deep, static gaze and stroked my hair for a long time as a reward for my gift. Every time he explained to us that a beautiful voice is a divine gift, because singing is speaking the language of angels. "Without training our voice, we won't be ready when the time comes," he warned us.
Until then, my life in Fort Hill had been one long happy, routine period, but everything changed at the turn of the lights in 1973. January 5, 1974 was approaching and with it, the moment we would board the spaceship that would take us to live on Venus. The atmosphere in the community was one of pure excitement. There was no more time to waste on day-to-day tasks: we spent the whole day practicing our songs. That's why, on the feast day, there was practically nothing to eat or drink and the house was immersed in unimaginable chaos. But nothing earthly disturbed us. Gathered in the back garden of the house, we swayed to the rhythm of the music under the soft moonlight. That night, imbued with a mystical feeling of communion with others and with nature, I put my whole virginal soul into the song I sang. Gradually, everyone fell silent to hear me sing, captivated by my ecstasy.
When the song ended, I noticed that everyone was staring at me in awe. No one uttered a sound for fear of breaking the magic of the moment. Even Mel gave me a special smile. Later, I would be chosen as the coordinator of our musical exercises for the time we had left on Earth.
That night he asked me to come with him to his room, where he sang to me in his nasal voice a song without words, which sounded more like a moan. After a while he confessed to me that his dream was to be a singer: "A beautiful voice is the greatest gift God can give to any of us," he repeated once again. However, the critics hadn't been able to understand the new musical concept he was proposing, full of dissonant melodies, he said. They preferred the blues and country music he played on his banjo every Wednesday in the busiest bar in town.
After an endless session of singing and caressing, he asked me, a teenager with no musical training or malice, what I thought of his voice. I, who had never known how to lie, preferred to omit. "I don't know anything about music. How could I judge your voice?" My refusal to pay him compliments was poorly received and his caresses were interrupted. He turned on his side and placed a small seal under his tongue. Without understanding what was going on, for the first time in my life I saw someone consuming LSD.
After a few minutes, he no longer seemed to be aware of my presence next to him on the bed. I was then able to relax and began a detailed investigation of the photos, records and books scattered around the room. Gradually, however, I began to notice the words he was saying. He seemed to be confusing me with another woman, to whom he repeatedly asked forgiveness for his mistakes. "Don't cry, please, I promise I won't lie anymore. I won't betray you or abandon you. Please don't leave me alone, I'm afraid". He then curled up on the bed in a fetal position and began to emit a wail, like a child's cry, which reminded me of his songs. A little later, I would manage to sneak back to my room in the Back House and join five of my childhood companions who were sleeping soundly and innocently in the same bed.
You may not understand why we attached such importance to music, but Mel taught us that the inhabitants of Venus don't talk like us, they emit song-like sounds, which are capable of conveying emotions and intentions in a pure way, without harmful interference from words. So my fellow community members and I spent the next few days meeting under my baton, so to speak. In fact, we had known each other for so long and so intimately that one look from me was enough for them to understand my commands. We all felt interconnected by invisible lines, and it was up to me to pull them to one side or the other, like in a puppet show. Never again in my life have I felt so closely connected to any group.
Although we spent the days singing, everyone wondered in their hearts if we were ready for the trip. We decided to take a tour of the Big House's attic to find the Ouija board and organized exoteric sessions to ask the spirits about the future that awaited us. Despite our insistence, the board remained mute, giving us only evasive answers. Just as we were about to give up, a message came to me: "Crystal, your mother won't be going to Venus". Everyone looked at me in amazement. I had no idea what to say, as my mother had never crossed my mind, such was our lack of contact.
January 5th came and went without anything exceptional happening. Mel explained to us that the Venusians had concluded that we weren't ready for the trip yet. Although nothing was said, I felt that everyone blamed my mother and me for the failure. But what had we done?
That night, Mel took me back to his room, but this time there would be no singing or LSD. The next morning, I was curled up in the corner of the mattress when I was awoken by the sound of light knocks on the bedroom door. When the door opened, I saw that his two teenage wives had come to get me and give me a bath. I would soon feel their hands rubbing my back and arms with circular, compassionate, soothing movements. My freshly washed hair was decorated with flowers from the countryside and, shortly afterwards, I was taken to the kitchen, where I would work with the other women making bread, preparing meals and the endless task of washing and drying the dishes. From that day until years later, when the community dissolved, my days were spent doing household chores in the community and, occasionally, going to soirees. But my singing had lost its magic.
P.S.: This story was freely inspired by accounts of the Fort Hill community and its leader Mel Lyman. The facts reported here are not true.
Voltar