On things

I like writing blogs. Why? Bloging is the ability to write in the hopes that others will read it. Not that someone will understand it, just read it, allow others to see something about you, or at least share and see your views, your thoughts, which are after all among the most important things.

The moon was shimmery copper, we have cast our shadow upon it. Darkened it with our presence, but it fights back. The brilliant subdued reds and oranges, the shimmer mixed with bright white framed by blackness. We cast a long shadow, but it is in such a shadow that beauty shines throw like a candle behind a stained glass window. No better picture could be asked. It is important to stop and wonder at the small things.

Why do not people admire and love opera. Some say it is an acquired taste. Well, maybe. You do need to acquire a taste for a great deal of things, especially the refining of the palate. Ask yourself if you would drink (or eat) something of the things you consume now if you had but one taste of them and had to decide. Tosca is coming to Clemson. Hooray for the arts. This is the best season for the arts in Clemson, I must say, sub-par NSO performance and Tosca presented by a real Italian Theatre Troupe, amazing, exciting, excitable.

To opera. I have listened to opera for a long while. I do not know what initially attracted me to it, or it to me. I always have found the vocals to be powerful, some element, some graininess that just felt real. You knew exactly what they were feeling and singing, it mimicked life, but in a surreal sense, a kind of time slowed down (not Wagner here, he is good, but give me Puccini or Verdi and even Bizet any day). Opera is a surreal expression of those emotions that define us. The music can only add, the soundtrack to life, coupled with lyrics, if they can even be called that, which are pure poetry. Love is a rebellious bird (Carmen). Can something be better said, or even better sung. I love it. I shall end with my favourite scene from Puccini's La Boheme...Rudolpho looks for a candle and asks Mimi for one, she drops her key and the light goes out, they search for it, their hands meet in the darkness and thus they sing.

RUD. (holding Mimi's hand, with emotion)
Your tiny hand is frozen,
Let me warm it into life;
Our search is useless,
In darkness all is hidden,
'Ere long the light of the moon shall aid us,
Yes, in the moonlight our search let us resume.
One moment, pretty maiden,
While I tell you in a trice,
Who I am, what I do,
And how I live. Shall I?

(Mimi is silent.)

I am, I am a poet!
What's my employment? Writing.
Is that a living? Hardly.
I've wit though wealth be wanting,
Ladies of rank and fashion
All inspire me with passion;
In dreams and fond illusions,
Or castles in the air,
Richer is none on earth than I.

Bright eyes as yours, believe me,
Steal my priceless jewels,
In fancy's store-house cherished,
Your roguish eyes have robbed me,
Of all my dreams bereft me,
Dreams that are fair, yet fleeting.
Fled are my truant fancies,
Regrets I do not cherish,
For now life's rosy morn is breaking,
Now golden love is waking.
Now that I've told my story,
Pray tell me yours, too;
Tell me frankly, who are you?
Say, will you tell?

MIMI. (_after some hesitation_)
They call me Mimi
But my name is Lucia;
My story is a short one--
Fine satin stuffs or silk
I deftly embroider;
I am content and happy;
The rose and lily I make for pastime.
These flowers give me pleasure
As in magical accents
They speak to me of love,
Of beauteous springtime.
Of fancies and of visions bright they tell me,
Such as poets, and only poets, know.
Do you hear me?