Age of Aquarius
Sky is watching the sun come up. She loves the dawn, even if she is bleary eyed and ragged from another night without sleep. She sips from a mug of chamomile tea. The warm, sweet liquid is supposed to be calming her nerves, but it isn’t. She has the radio on as a distraction. But it’s all politics and wars and how much money people are making. She wonders what happened to the dreams everyone had in the Sixties. This isn’t the future it was supposed to be.
She switches the radio off; but the room isn’t silent.
Something has been happening to Sky. A physical thing. A loud hissing noise in her ears that will not go away. Some days it’s so loud she can hear nothing else; other days it’s quieter. But it never stops entirely. The sound itself is something like the static buzz you hear when you flip through the dial of a radio. It’s hard to ignore.
She’s been told that it could all be in her mind and she accepts that – it’s an explanation at least. After all, how can she expect people to believe her when she says she hears a noise that they cannot hear, and that she hears it every minute of every hour of every day?
She’s been to the doctor, but he couldn’t help her. He took her blood pressure, looked in her ears and offered her beta-blockers (which she refused on principle). Then he said it could be tinnitus and that she should come back in a week if it did not clear up. Sky didn’t go back.
Now as Sky looks through her patio doors, the sun is almost up. It’s sending out golden rays, like messages of brightness, across the back garden and into her sitting room so she blinks and screws up her eyes. She pulls the blinds across. Didn’t a friend say something about people dying if they went without sleep for a week? In that case, she should be dead three times over.
“I’ll ask Eve, she’ll know,” mutters Sky, but softly as there is no one else in the room.
Eve is Sky’s daughter. She has been popping round most mornings to see how her mum is doing. She’s looked up tinnitus on the Internet and found support groups, coping strategies and self-help treatments. But so far nothing has been able to touch her mum’s condition.
Even though Sky knows her daughter will be round soon, she’s feeling anxious. Last night something changed; it wasn’t just the hissing noise – she thinks she heard voices in the noise and now she’s really scared. She wonders if she’s going mad. Sky picks up her tarot cards.
When Eve arrives she lets herself in. She sees her mother in the sitting room, looks at the tarot cards and her face changes.
“What are you doing with those Mum?”
“I don’t know,” says Sky, “I thought they might tell me what to do.”
“Bad night?”
“Yes.”
“Did you try the lavender oil to help you relax?”
“Yes, yes. But there’s something else,” says Sky. She crosses her arms and won’t look at her daughter when she speaks. “I heard a voice last night. Well, actually, I mean voices, lots of them – all in unison.”
“Are you sure?” says Eve.
“Yes. They’re saying ‘Haaaaa’…” says Sky.
“What do you mean ‘Haaaaa’?”
“That’s what it sounds like: ‘Haaaaa’. Maybe it’s Harm or Heart. It went on for hours. And then I heard ‘money’; I’m pretty sure that’s what it was.”
“Are you worried about money, Mum? Is that what all this is about?”
“No. I’m not worried about money, or anything in particular. Just this bloody noise and now these voices.”
Eve looks at her mother: she is still in her night clothes. She looks small and fragile.
“Oh Mum, why don’t you let the doctor give you something to help your nerves?”
“No Eve. I don’t want drugs.”
“That’s rich, considering what you used to take in the Sixties,” says Eve.
“Well, it was the Sixties for heaven’s sake.”
“Age of Aquarius?” says Eve and rolls her eyes.
Sky sighs. It is a subject the two of them normally skirt around.
“I’m making myself a cup of tea,” says Eve. “Do you want one?”
“Hold on a moment,” says Sky, raising her hand, “there’s something coming through… ‘staaaaandiiiinggg’. Standing, that’s what they said this time.”
Eve sits back down on the sofa.
“You look very tired Mum,” she says, “I’m going to call the doctor and see what he has to say about these voices. Maybe what you need is a nice long break away from it all. A rest – wouldn’t that be good?”
“A rest would be good,” says Sky. She knows that it must look bad. The voices – that’s what happens to schizophrenics. And with the lack of sleep these past few weeks, she has to admit that she is feeling strange and disoriented.
“If only I could sleep!”
“I know Mum. Let’s just see what the doctor has to say,” says Eve as she picks up the phone.
***
With an act of supreme concentration and will, Sky is opening her eyes. She’s focusing on the lids, slowly, slowly lifting them up, and now she is allowing the room to swim into focus. She looks down and sees that she’s holding some fluffy pink material. It’s been cut into the shape of a teddy bear and she’s stitching it to another identical piece. She’s not sure where she is. Maybe she’s dreaming; maybe she’s fallen asleep at last.
Then she remembers: she’s in occupational therapy. She likes it here because she gets to be creative, even if it is just a silly little stuffed toy she’s making. The only problem is that her medication makes everything blurry and soft and she’s forgotten what day it is. She’s feeling much calmer, but the noise hasn’t gone away. Neither have the voices; they are just slowed down like a tape recorder that’s running low on batteries. But she hasn’t told the doctors, she feels sure they won’t like it.
There is a radio playing somewhere. The DJ announces a “sound from the Sixties” and music drifts into the room, carrying a memory on a wave: “This is the dawning of the Age of Aquarius…”
Sky opens her eyes a little wider, albeit very slowly.
“I know that,” she says.
“What do you know?” says a young girl with scars on her wrists sitting next to her.
“That song. We used to play it all the time back then,” says Sky.
“Back when?” says the girl.
“The Sixties, of course. Listen… harmony and understanding…”
Sky sings along and as the song continues, something begins to take form in her mind. She remembers a summer’s day when she was 17; it was the summer before she changed her name. A party at a friend’s house. It was her idea to do a “thought experiment” – she led the whole group of them. The idea was to make contact with higher beings in outer space. They were aiming at Sadalmelik, the alpha star in the Aquarius constellation. How naive they were. They thought anything was possible, back then – even world peace.
“Come on everyone, open your hearts and send your love to the stars!” She remembers saying it – how funny. They all sat down on cushions and held hands. Then they meditated for what must have been an hour or more; beaming out their love into the universe.
By the end of the song Sky has decided to hide the next dose of pills and by the evening of the third day everything is sharp-edged and clear again. The noise and voices are still playing in her ears; but now she understands what they are saying.
***
Now Sky is blinking in the hot studio lights. Beyond them is blackness but she can hear the applause of the audience. She feels conspicuous under the spotlight and the white leatherette chair is making her sweat. A man with orange-coloured skin is talking to her.
“Welcome Sky,” he says. “You have a remarkable story to tell, don’t you? You’ve been getting messages from outer space.”
The audience gasps and people all over the country turn up the volume on their TV sets.
“Well, I suppose so, yes,” says Sky.
“Tell us how it happened.”
“At first all I could hear was a loud hissing noise. It went on for weeks but then I began to hear voices – I thought I’d gone mad…”
“Well that’s understandable,” says the presenter, touching her hand in exaggerated sympathy so the audience laughs.
“But I remembered that back in the Sixties some friends and I sent thought messages to the stars,” says Sky.
“Thought messages? Sounds a bit weird,” says the presenter.
“It was the kind of stuff we got up to in those days. But I never really thought anyone would reply.”
“You did this in the Sixties you say?” says the presenter. ”What took them so long?!” The audience laughs.
“They are a long way away – and it may have taken time for them to understand what we were saying.”
“So what do these extraterrestrials have to say for themselves?”
“At first it was ‘harmony’ and ‘understanding’.”
“A bit boring,” says the presenter.
“But these were the words we had been sending to them, you see.”
“Oh I see!” says the presenter as he rolls his eyes. He makes a wink into the camera on his left, his good side. “And how did you choose these words?”
“They’re from the song ‘Aquarius’,” says Sky.
“Isn’t that from the musical Hair?” asks the presenter, even though he knows the answer.
“Yes, it is,” says Sky.
“Well, have we got a surprise for you tonight!?,” says the presenter rising to his feet as several men and women begin filing onto the stage wearing nothing but strategically placed fig leaves (this is prime time television, after all).
“A warm (very warm) welcome please for the original cast of Hair – or at least those who needed the money and the, um, exposure!”
The audience obediently applauds.
“We’re going to send our own thought message to the stars!” announces the presenter. “Isn’t it exciting? I want you all to join in.”
Sky is amazed at the spectacle and before she can say anything she hears the upbeat opening bars of “Good Morning Starshine”. A screen drops down from the ceiling, displaying the words to the song:
“Good morning starshine! The earth says hello,
You twinkle above us, We twinkle below…”
The audience are on their feet and singing loudly. In the midst of all this uproar, Sky is receiving another message. She has become skilled at interpreting the voices. They are saying something new this time, although it sounds familiar:
“Give peace a chance.”
She repeats the words over and over in her mind and smiles. She will tell the world tomorrow – now that people are listening.
She switches the radio off; but the room isn’t silent.
Something has been happening to Sky. A physical thing. A loud hissing noise in her ears that will not go away. Some days it’s so loud she can hear nothing else; other days it’s quieter. But it never stops entirely. The sound itself is something like the static buzz you hear when you flip through the dial of a radio. It’s hard to ignore.
She’s been told that it could all be in her mind and she accepts that – it’s an explanation at least. After all, how can she expect people to believe her when she says she hears a noise that they cannot hear, and that she hears it every minute of every hour of every day?
She’s been to the doctor, but he couldn’t help her. He took her blood pressure, looked in her ears and offered her beta-blockers (which she refused on principle). Then he said it could be tinnitus and that she should come back in a week if it did not clear up. Sky didn’t go back.
Now as Sky looks through her patio doors, the sun is almost up. It’s sending out golden rays, like messages of brightness, across the back garden and into her sitting room so she blinks and screws up her eyes. She pulls the blinds across. Didn’t a friend say something about people dying if they went without sleep for a week? In that case, she should be dead three times over.
“I’ll ask Eve, she’ll know,” mutters Sky, but softly as there is no one else in the room.
Eve is Sky’s daughter. She has been popping round most mornings to see how her mum is doing. She’s looked up tinnitus on the Internet and found support groups, coping strategies and self-help treatments. But so far nothing has been able to touch her mum’s condition.
Even though Sky knows her daughter will be round soon, she’s feeling anxious. Last night something changed; it wasn’t just the hissing noise – she thinks she heard voices in the noise and now she’s really scared. She wonders if she’s going mad. Sky picks up her tarot cards.
When Eve arrives she lets herself in. She sees her mother in the sitting room, looks at the tarot cards and her face changes.
“What are you doing with those Mum?”
“I don’t know,” says Sky, “I thought they might tell me what to do.”
“Bad night?”
“Yes.”
“Did you try the lavender oil to help you relax?”
“Yes, yes. But there’s something else,” says Sky. She crosses her arms and won’t look at her daughter when she speaks. “I heard a voice last night. Well, actually, I mean voices, lots of them – all in unison.”
“Are you sure?” says Eve.
“Yes. They’re saying ‘Haaaaa’…” says Sky.
“What do you mean ‘Haaaaa’?”
“That’s what it sounds like: ‘Haaaaa’. Maybe it’s Harm or Heart. It went on for hours. And then I heard ‘money’; I’m pretty sure that’s what it was.”
“Are you worried about money, Mum? Is that what all this is about?”
“No. I’m not worried about money, or anything in particular. Just this bloody noise and now these voices.”
Eve looks at her mother: she is still in her night clothes. She looks small and fragile.
“Oh Mum, why don’t you let the doctor give you something to help your nerves?”
“No Eve. I don’t want drugs.”
“That’s rich, considering what you used to take in the Sixties,” says Eve.
“Well, it was the Sixties for heaven’s sake.”
“Age of Aquarius?” says Eve and rolls her eyes.
Sky sighs. It is a subject the two of them normally skirt around.
“I’m making myself a cup of tea,” says Eve. “Do you want one?”
“Hold on a moment,” says Sky, raising her hand, “there’s something coming through… ‘staaaaandiiiinggg’. Standing, that’s what they said this time.”
Eve sits back down on the sofa.
“You look very tired Mum,” she says, “I’m going to call the doctor and see what he has to say about these voices. Maybe what you need is a nice long break away from it all. A rest – wouldn’t that be good?”
“A rest would be good,” says Sky. She knows that it must look bad. The voices – that’s what happens to schizophrenics. And with the lack of sleep these past few weeks, she has to admit that she is feeling strange and disoriented.
“If only I could sleep!”
“I know Mum. Let’s just see what the doctor has to say,” says Eve as she picks up the phone.
***
With an act of supreme concentration and will, Sky is opening her eyes. She’s focusing on the lids, slowly, slowly lifting them up, and now she is allowing the room to swim into focus. She looks down and sees that she’s holding some fluffy pink material. It’s been cut into the shape of a teddy bear and she’s stitching it to another identical piece. She’s not sure where she is. Maybe she’s dreaming; maybe she’s fallen asleep at last.
Then she remembers: she’s in occupational therapy. She likes it here because she gets to be creative, even if it is just a silly little stuffed toy she’s making. The only problem is that her medication makes everything blurry and soft and she’s forgotten what day it is. She’s feeling much calmer, but the noise hasn’t gone away. Neither have the voices; they are just slowed down like a tape recorder that’s running low on batteries. But she hasn’t told the doctors, she feels sure they won’t like it.
There is a radio playing somewhere. The DJ announces a “sound from the Sixties” and music drifts into the room, carrying a memory on a wave: “This is the dawning of the Age of Aquarius…”
Sky opens her eyes a little wider, albeit very slowly.
“I know that,” she says.
“What do you know?” says a young girl with scars on her wrists sitting next to her.
“That song. We used to play it all the time back then,” says Sky.
“Back when?” says the girl.
“The Sixties, of course. Listen… harmony and understanding…”
Sky sings along and as the song continues, something begins to take form in her mind. She remembers a summer’s day when she was 17; it was the summer before she changed her name. A party at a friend’s house. It was her idea to do a “thought experiment” – she led the whole group of them. The idea was to make contact with higher beings in outer space. They were aiming at Sadalmelik, the alpha star in the Aquarius constellation. How naive they were. They thought anything was possible, back then – even world peace.
“Come on everyone, open your hearts and send your love to the stars!” She remembers saying it – how funny. They all sat down on cushions and held hands. Then they meditated for what must have been an hour or more; beaming out their love into the universe.
By the end of the song Sky has decided to hide the next dose of pills and by the evening of the third day everything is sharp-edged and clear again. The noise and voices are still playing in her ears; but now she understands what they are saying.
***
Now Sky is blinking in the hot studio lights. Beyond them is blackness but she can hear the applause of the audience. She feels conspicuous under the spotlight and the white leatherette chair is making her sweat. A man with orange-coloured skin is talking to her.
“Welcome Sky,” he says. “You have a remarkable story to tell, don’t you? You’ve been getting messages from outer space.”
The audience gasps and people all over the country turn up the volume on their TV sets.
“Well, I suppose so, yes,” says Sky.
“Tell us how it happened.”
“At first all I could hear was a loud hissing noise. It went on for weeks but then I began to hear voices – I thought I’d gone mad…”
“Well that’s understandable,” says the presenter, touching her hand in exaggerated sympathy so the audience laughs.
“But I remembered that back in the Sixties some friends and I sent thought messages to the stars,” says Sky.
“Thought messages? Sounds a bit weird,” says the presenter.
“It was the kind of stuff we got up to in those days. But I never really thought anyone would reply.”
“You did this in the Sixties you say?” says the presenter. ”What took them so long?!” The audience laughs.
“They are a long way away – and it may have taken time for them to understand what we were saying.”
“So what do these extraterrestrials have to say for themselves?”
“At first it was ‘harmony’ and ‘understanding’.”
“A bit boring,” says the presenter.
“But these were the words we had been sending to them, you see.”
“Oh I see!” says the presenter as he rolls his eyes. He makes a wink into the camera on his left, his good side. “And how did you choose these words?”
“They’re from the song ‘Aquarius’,” says Sky.
“Isn’t that from the musical Hair?” asks the presenter, even though he knows the answer.
“Yes, it is,” says Sky.
“Well, have we got a surprise for you tonight!?,” says the presenter rising to his feet as several men and women begin filing onto the stage wearing nothing but strategically placed fig leaves (this is prime time television, after all).
“A warm (very warm) welcome please for the original cast of Hair – or at least those who needed the money and the, um, exposure!”
The audience obediently applauds.
“We’re going to send our own thought message to the stars!” announces the presenter. “Isn’t it exciting? I want you all to join in.”
Sky is amazed at the spectacle and before she can say anything she hears the upbeat opening bars of “Good Morning Starshine”. A screen drops down from the ceiling, displaying the words to the song:
“Good morning starshine! The earth says hello,
You twinkle above us, We twinkle below…”
The audience are on their feet and singing loudly. In the midst of all this uproar, Sky is receiving another message. She has become skilled at interpreting the voices. They are saying something new this time, although it sounds familiar:
“Give peace a chance.”
She repeats the words over and over in her mind and smiles. She will tell the world tomorrow – now that people are listening.
First published in Takahe magazine. c Celia Coyne
