Only in New York, part 2

Last night I took my cousin Anna to the Met. Placido Domingo was singing Orestes in a new production of Iphegenie en Tauride by Gluck, and it was sublime. However, experiencing the actual opera is only half the reason to go to the Met. Really, you go to the Met to get dressed up and drink champagne on the grand tier and look over and see Renee Fleming.

Anna had never been to the Met, and she enjoyed every minute - especially since she herself had played Iphegenia in one of her acting classes. However, the air was thin at the top of Olympus and rather than retire to an elegant lounge across the street, we decided to go downtown and see what interesting things we could find....

And what did we find? Lesbian burlesque (OH MY GOD...she's making a vulva out of balloons)...bisexual soldiers on leave (is he flirting with you or with me? If we're drinking the same drink and he bought only one, who is it for?) ...a blues bar where the musicians wore French maid outfits and sang in German... the best 2 dollar cheese pizza ever(okay...we're only getting one more slice, but we have to share) .... limousines parked in front of mountains of garbage.... and, last but not least, a situation where a police officer stopped the car and pointed a gun at us...well, really they pointed the gun at the hoodlums BEHIND us, but I digress.

Overheard on Madison Avenue

Woman 1: "Oh! I love your dog...how much does she weigh?"
Woman 2: "About 15 pounds....why do you ask?"
Woman 1: "Well, we're looking for a dog - one that can handle the rigours of constant international travel on our jet. I think the limit is 15 pounds, actually."
Woman 2: "Really? I thought it was 20...well, I guess we'll have to start monitoring Bridget's diet. Thanks for the tip."
Woman 1: "Oh, no problem at all. Lovely to meet you... (in a cutesy voice): Bye Bridget!"

Food, Glorious Food!

Here is an email that I sent to my friend Rebecca - gustatory goddess and foodie extraordinaire....

Oh my God. New York is just, well,aaaaaaaaaaaahhhhh... I don't know where to start, so I will start with food. This is what I have eaten:

bruschetta with gorgonzola cream sauce - served piping hot...
Linguini with oven dried tomatoes, chicken, garlic oil, spinich, pine nuts and goat cheese - this was at an Italian place near Lincoln Centre - and guess who was sitting at the next table? Kramer from Seinfeld!
BRUNCH AT PASTIS! We saw Curtis Stone - that cute chef from from Australia who has a show on the Food Network.....we started out with Champagne cocktails that were bright pink and flavoured with rosewater...than a basket of baked goods that included:

raisin cardamom sticky buns
brioche with orange zest
VALROHNA CHOCOLATE BREAD - eaten with bitter orange marmalade
dense fruit-nut bread with dried cherries and walnuts....
then I had "eggs hussard" which were poached eggs over toast with ham and mushrooms and hollandaise, covered in SAUCE BORDELAISE (brown sauce with wine and shallots)...SO GOOD
wild mushroom ravioli with truffle oil
frangelico chocolate mousse
skirt steak served with arugula and shaved Parmesan
hot chocolate with ancho chillies and cinnamon!!!!!
the best cheese pizza...ever....
BAGELS.... with like a foot of cream cheese.
and I have only been here for 2 days.
I also went to this gourmet food market that had artisanal butter from france and more kinds of fish then I could ever imagine...and a black transsexual hooker buying fillet mignon???? And women in fur coats buying lobsters and
oozing brie and cherries in December and I went to Williams Sonoma where they have copper fish kettles and a candy floss attachment for a kitchen aid....and a demonstration kitchen where you can watch them make marshmallows.

Tomorrow I will slow down in the food department. Jackie O used to subsist on broth and fruit after she had overindulged. That seems sensible...and one should emulate Jackie O while in New York.

Anyway, lots to tell.... I have seen a lot, and experienced a lot... I had a lesson the morning after I got here at 2 in the morning! AAAAH...it was very cool, though....New Yorkers are very friendly and direct and they talk to you on the subway...about a great many things. My cousin is wearing a mini dress and stiletto boots and a vintage fur coat and is going out for tea at midnight ...she is very Sarah Jessica Parker. I think I am going to a concert of Medieval Christmas music tomorrow.... and then maybe to see some paintings by Klimt? Or my cousin and I may stay in bed and watch Annie Hall..... who knows!

love to you...

-b

Only in New York?

I knew I loved New York within 5 minutes of landing at JFK. I knew I loved New York because because by the time I had collected my luggage, more people had talked to me then in my entire time in Vancouver, or so it seemed. People asked me the time, people commented on my new coat - people smiled and looked me in the eye asked me where I was from.... I told them I was from Canada, and they wondered aloud why I didn't add "eh" to all my sentences. One woman selling Hot Chocolate asked me if pot was legal back home, and told her that you could get high just walking down the street. She wants to move - but I don't see why, because New York is everything you could ever wish for. In fact, as I was walking down 5th avenue last night, arm in arm with a friend, I said to myself "this is how I always imagined life should be"...for I always imagined that life should be loud and crazy, and clothed impeccably. I always imagined that life should be full of people, and full of good things to eat. I thought that life should be direct and honest and laughing and perhaps even a bit pushy.

Most importantly, life should have windows at regularly spaced intervals: Windows full of light that illuminate the darkness - windows with beautiful things in them that cause you to dream.

Today I feel like I never want to leave New York - I know that I will have to eventually, but I will always look for the New York in every place I happen to find myself - I will seek out that which is original and causes you to stop in your tracks; that which is unconventional and beautiful -- that which is real...

I will look for these windows wherever I go.

Please leave a message

Ah, the joys of being 28 and temporarily unemployed. I have found myself at a crossroads - I am at the juncture of the diverging paths of the beginning of the rest of my life! I am the one less traveled by, and that has made all the difference.

Actually, I have no idea what the hell I am doing. And in situations like the one I find myself in, it is best to skip town. So, I have bought at ticket to NYC, the city that never sleeps - and since I am not sleeping right now, it seems like a perfectly logical destination to me. It beats drinking warm milk.

You know, they always say that you should not call on New York - that you should wait until New York calls you. Very wise. To be perfectly honest, I think there MUST be something wrong with my phone, because I think New York has been trying to get through. I have just been out so much these days, and it is such a huge burden for a city of 9 million to leave a message after the tone. I will just have to contact information and patiently explain to them that I am expecting a call and that they should do everything in their power to ensure that ALL of my correspondence gets through.

One must take care of one's correspondence. One must take infinite care with messages of all sorts, methinks.

Let me just go and make that call.

Make your own season brochure....

If you go to www.parterre.com, you can make your own "mad lib opera brochure" by filling in the blanks and submitting your responses. Here is what I came up with:

The 1944 season for Scranton Grand Opera promises an eclectic mix of Voluptuous and Dynamic works, as well as a gala Palpitations featuring the Intelligent personality Carol Channing as special bidet.

The thoughtful classic, Hindemith`s "La agilita di Poughkeepsie" boasts a new production directed by Britney Spears, with costumes by L. Ron Hubbard. This flatulent staging updates the action to turnpike in the early part of the 666th century. Soprano Leonie Rysanek stars as Lashawndra, a virginal bird bath who for most of the opera is disguised as a mysterious moped. Leonie Rysanek is perhaps best known from Wife Swap where she sang the lilting melody Sexy Back.

The neglected masterpiece "Der kaputschlechtbumsen" will be revived for only 57 performances. You probably already know the famous "viper Chorus" which was used on the soundtrack of the Academy Award winning film Bring it On. Due to the length of this work, all performances will begin at dawn.

Finally, the company will present the Lagos premiere of the opera "The Life and Times of Bob Barker" in a co-production with Opera Oregon-Pacific Sacramento (oops) and Opera Sous-Sol. The libretto is by Jeb Bush, based on the play Equus, and the music is adapted from the works of Schonberg by maestro Pierre Boulez. Exciting newcomer Deborah Winger makes her operatic debut as the flaccid heroine, and the men in her life are portrayed by Rush Limbaugh, Jon Stewart and Lassie.

Generous support for Scranton Grand Opera`s excrement was provided by the Delta Burke Foundation and the National Endowment for the dildo.

....

Blessed is he
who comes in spite of the Lord
Blessed is he who is not
ashamed.

Blessed is the exile
standing steadfast with himself,
who curses and casts scorn --
who will not compromise.
Who will not yield.

Blessed is his anger.

Proverbs

(1)

Between the lines is a narrow space with openings.
Between the spaces are narrow lines which are openings.
Between the words there are spaces that are not openings but are between openings which lead to opening.
Between the letters are spaces which must end because we choose to do that.
Between the heart and the head there is space.
Between two hearts there is space and opening.
Between space and opening there is the heart.
Between the heart and opening there is space which is not empty.

(2)

Not empty is not full.
Not full is empty and also not empty
Empty can be quite full
which can also be empty.

(3)

Also can, also ran.
Also could, also would.
Also much also soon
also muddling, also moon.

Jealous Mistresses

A few months ago I went to the gracious apartment of a writer who agreed to talk to me about "the craft". I knew this was a dangerous proposition, because I have never considered myself to be a "writer". I know that to name yourself invites all sorts of problems... I am no fool.


We sat there and nibbled on biscuits from a silver salver. We drank sherry and listened to Schubert - it was hard not to feel at peace. And then we started to talk about anxiety. Not that I was surprised. I have come to discover that a confluence of sensory distractions is a sign of hidden, gnawing fear -- happy is the person who
revels in debauchery just because they feel like it.

He (the writer) asked me about my "writing process".
I told him I just wrote.
He asked me what inspired me.
I told him I was inspired by most everything. Or nothing. Depending on the case.
He asked me how I just "did it".
I told him that I already had an artistic outlet that caused me endless amounts of
anxiety. Writing was just something I did.

At one point, it was the same with singing -- it was just something I did.
Then I started to learn about "how to sing" and the whole process became much more difficult and far less satisfying.

When I asked him what I could do to "improve" my writing, my writer friend told me that I should just go to a writing group and share my work with others. I felt an immediate twinge of angst. I thought to myself "oh shit... now I am going to have to try to understand what I do".

I prefer to live in ignorance and to embrace all the words that come out of me. There is a lot of chaff among the wheat to be sure...I can live with that.

But I cannot bear to try and understand. I vow to hold on to one thing in life that "just happens".

All the difference

I believe it was Euripides who said that the wisest among us chooses his own path.
Now, lest you think I am profound or something, I should tell you that I read this quote on a fridge magnet. But I should also tell you that I am rather egalitarian when it comes to the acquisition of wisdom, and I don't believe that the sentiment would have been any more profound if I had read it from a dusty tome in a silent room far away.... Rather, I read it in the kitchen of a dear friend who had recently moved down the street. I remember that when I was reading it, I was laughing about something, and I was happy.

To be happy! And to laugh....and to do them both at the same time! - It was rather like rubbing your stomach and tapping your head concurrently: Very difficult to coordinate but rather amusing once achieved - something you just had to run to the mirror and see.

But there was no mirror, so I just smiled to myself and continued chopping garlic - content in the knowledge that I was surrounded by people who loved me very much, and whom I loved in return.

To love! And to be loved in return... at the same time....Very difficult to coordinate but amusing once achieved.

- Something you just have to see.

Wednesday's child is full of.....

There comes a time when one wants to shed one's puppy fat and be lithe and lean like a jungle cat - ready to pounce; sinewy and dangerous. Of course, there are some who are more predisposed to such a state than I, but I am careful what I ask for and have decided that I am meant to be built like a tank and perhaps it is better to just go on steadily and run things over if need be.

That being said, I have decided to make economies for the benefit of my pocket book and figure. I know that I will never look good in a Speedo (so few do), but maybe some day I shall be able to see my toes while standing upright. It is good to see where one is rooted - if only for the peace of mind it brings.

My first measure was to forgo my monthly bus pass: If I walk everywhere, I will become fit. However, it was raining this morning and my umbrella broke...and I can always walk to work tomorrow. Having no bus pass and no change, I took a cab. Strike one.

My second measure was to give up my morning coffee. Coffee disagrees with my stomach, and I put far too much cream and sugar in it ( I dare not tell you how much - suffice it to say that it is rather like melted coffee ice cream).... So, I didn't make coffee today and felt very virtuous -- until I started work at 7 AM and a woman started screaming at me because her passport wasn't ready. Realization: There are some things that just cannot be borne without caffeine. Strike two.

Then I thought that I should eat more sensibly. Always a good idea. The body is a temple, and my body feels like a debauched shrine to Bacchus after the weekend I had. So last night I made brown rice and decided to have it for dinner with some vegetables. But then I came home to find that my roommate had bought scallops,
and there is this recipe for Coquilles St. Jacques that I have always wanted to try (now mix the butter and reduced cooking juices with a goodly amount of heavy cream
and two egg yolks...)! Strike 3. Strike 3 way out in left field...strike 3 "I missed the ball and it went over the stadium wall and is rolling in a gutter somewhere 5 miles away."

I can always have brown rice tomorrow. Tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow.
And the sun will NOT come out tomorrow, because I live in Vancouver, where there is a moratorium on the sun because it causes global warming (if this is not true, I am sure there is someone in the deeper recesses of Patchoulia who has thought it should be)...


Sigh. I think there are some more scallops in the fridge.

Poke

We live in an age where one can engage in frivolous pursuits that, while immediately gratifying, offer little fuel for the imagination or the soul. What I am talking about is our society's increasing dependence on things which are not genuine. A person can pass an entire day without doing anything real. I could wake up and eat some sort of low fat cereal bar - composed of chemicals (it would of course be low fat and high in omega 3 acids and every time I bought one an international conglomerate would give 35 cents to educating inner city youth in Bangladesh....so they could read the instructions on the sewing machine when they got a job at the local Nike factory making a pittance so we can buy new shoes). I could then log on to my computer and interact superficially in any number of ways with any number of people... I could poke my long-lost sandbox playmate on Facebook... I could instantly message my brother... I could chat with strangers from around the world... I could email/text/blog/post/download/post from sun up to sun down and not even leave my desk... not even go for a walk. I would not have to experience new things or compromise who I was because I would not be interacting in a real way with any living thing.

And for what? Would any of that communication be real? What would I learn from it?
What would I gain? The other day, I decided to turn off my computer and read a book.
And it seemed like an unusual thing to do... I decided to turn off my cell phone for an afternoon last week and everyone wondered where I had gone. I decided NOT to check my email for a day, and it seemed as though I was completely disconnected from the larger world. But was I? I went for walks. I went out for coffee with my friends... I learned music and made dinner and laughed.

Indeed, I vow to have an interesting life that is not connected to some technological device. I intend to have meaningful communication with people I care about, rather than surface chatter with a thinly spun web of "friends". Starting now. If that makes me unpopular, I don't care. If people don't understand, I don't care. I have left the building. I am not reachable right now. I am not online. I am not live. I am not hosting. I am not "at home". I am a human being with a right to a private life.

I was listening to the radio the other day and someone said that every email we write - every picture we post is saved on the central memory of the internet. This means that everything we do online is recorded for posterity, whether we like it or not. What does this mean?

The Nazis recorded everything they did for posterity with alarming detail, even though they did not have computers. They never thought that they would lose... they thought that their documents - their actions - would never see the light of day. But things did not turn out as expected, and their documents were seized, and now we know what happened. And yet, there are still those who deny.

What happens when our collective actions see the light of day? What happens when this mammoth collective online memory falls into different hands? What will we have to show for it? What happens if the power goes out and we actually have to rely on each other... actually have to interact - to compromise, to fight, and to grow?

Will we be able to handle it?

The other day I was reading a book written by a woman who survived the bombardment of Berlin. She was a journalist, and recorded her thoughts anonymously. This is what she had to say:

" We have been spoiled by technology. We can't accept doing without loud speakers and rotary presses. Handwritten placards and whispered proclamations just don't carry the same weight. Technology has devalued the impact of our own speech and writing. In the old days one man's call to arms was enough to set off an uprising -- a few hand-printed leaflets, ninety-five theses nailed to a church door in Wittenberg. But today we need more, we need bigger and better, wider repercussions, mass produced by machines and multiplied exponentially."


These thoughts were written over half a century ago.

I wonder: What is the power of our words now?

I am logging off.

False Economies

"Part of the secret of success in life is to eat what you like and let the food fight it out inside."

- Mark Twain

Sometimes one feels as though one has lived a lifetime in a day... Yesterday morning, I awoke in Powell River, which is a sad place... one that time forgot. The houses hug the cliffs as though they are children afraid to jump in the water, and there is little to do but gaze upon the sea and imagine you are Andromeda chained to the rocks, waiting to be eaten. This could be a delightful experience, I imagine, but I suppose it would depend on one's proclivities.

And speaking of eating, I decided that this being spring I should amend my nutritive intake and subsist on inexpensive seasonal produce. I had visions of stirring applesauce and preserving asparagus - of serving forth delicate concoctions of herbs and embryonic vegetables for my delight and pleasure. I also had visions of fitting into a bathing suit and paying my rent. And so upon my return from the rocks on the sea, I bought spinach and tomatoes and made a healthful salad, which was enjoyed with a bottle of Perrier and the company of my friend Mike. We looked at the cherry blossoms outside my window and felt smug in our congruence with the turning seasons.

Alas, my delicately constructed sense of thrift and health were immediately shattered when, during our post-prandial walk, we decided to investigate a new restaurant called "Lift".... How could we not go in? It looked so inviting -- what with a marble bar and businessmen discreetly chewing rack of lamb in solitude. And how harmful could it be to order a chocolate souffle for two? Really, they are as light as air and we were so good at dinner. And it couldn't possibly hurt to order some Tawny port to sip while gazing at the twinkling lights of the city ... and one couldn't possibly imagine such an experience without a double espresso to add a final inky coda to the day.... And so, as I slipped further and further into a gastronomic haze, I thought

"Fuck it"

and gave the waiter my credit card, not looking at the bill.

Intermezzo

As I was sitting on a couch which I had bought from a man who I loved, but who did not love me, I thought about love, and the meaning of it, and the desire for it.

Every day I wake before dawn and go out onto the stage. This is sheer lunacy, for the stage, any stage, is fraught with dangers and pitfalls. Or so I thought. I have come to realize, perhaps, that in my earnestness to create something - to finely hone a character or simply sing a phrase as best I can, I have imposed the impossible upon myself: I have tried to make people love me. I have tried, and still try, to convince others that I am worthy of their affection and adulation. I felt compelled to act on the stage because I wanted people to look at me and to feel love. For a long time I did this because I felt that if I were myself, and not playing a character, I was not worthy of love. But people do not love you because of what you do. They love you because of who you are. And everything you do, therefore, must spring out of an authentic sense of self, and then must be let go. And this is acting, I guess. But what is the difference between doing and being and acting?
And is not the development of an authentic self just narcissistic method-acting?

A part of one's personality is like a limb. It can be shaped and honed and sculpted and painted and even discarded. However, it does not mean anything more than mere flesh and bone. Which is to say it means nothing, and everything.

In this realization comes the freedom to try and to fail. In this comes the freedom to not care. And when you cease caring about yourself for even a moment, you can grasp the infinite, which is far more then flesh and bone and even love, for that matter.

Something greater than love, you ask? There is indeed. Peace.
But can there be peace without love? There can be indeed --

Respect.

The Stadt of the Art

Hello Dear Readers,

Here is a report from my friend Soula in Berlin about some operas she has seen there:

"So I see a lot of show here in ol' Berlin thanks to my Young Classic Card - anyone under thirty can see a show for a tenner, any seat in the house.

The Magic... Flute?
the magic flute itself is a long, brown, three foot phallus. Papageno's bells are a tree of balls...yes, THOSE ones. The Queen of the Night rips our her own breast at the end of Die Hölle Rache. Sarastro is a cripple in a wheelchair who is pushed around by three lions. Those are just the highlights. To see more, go to Komische Oper website.

The Tales of Hoffmann
first off, auf deutsch dass klingt ein bisschen WEIRD (In German that sounds a bit weird) but whatev. Hoffmann takes a table with the MUSE at a chic Berlin eatery and proceeds to get drunk at lunchtime. Everything is in 60's mod style, and it is actually rather attractive. SO:
The Doll gives birth to a cat during her aria.
Antonia, well pretty normal.
Giulietta is dressed in a red patent pleather floor length dress with a slit up to Papagena's bells and five inch heels - well, she is a hooker. Quasi lesbo-action with the Muse during the Barcarolle. Oh, and one girl gets her dressed ripped off leaving her in her skivvies, and then her face gets crammed in Schlemiel's crotch for what seems like an eternity of ten seconds.

Actually, the shows here are pretty amazing. But sometimes I would just like to enjoy say, Simon Boccanegra without a Tom and Jerry cartoon interlude during what is seemingly the most important scene in said opera.

PS: a friend of mine singing her first Traviata has to take off her panties during the Brindisi and give them to the doctor who then proceeds to sniff and drool. Now that is art."

Tales from the Road: Carpe Per Diem

"Throughout the world sounds one long cry from the heart of the artist: Give me the chance to do my very best."

-Isak Denesen, "Babette's Feast"

Whenever we go on tour, the opera gives us a lovely allowance with which we are meant to sustain ourselves while out of town. How this is spent is entirely up to the recipient. There are those among us who ration their money carefully - full of the knowledge that an artist never knows when the next engagement will come his way. Others pool their resources: They stay 4 to a room and devise artful meals from a can of tuna.

I, on the other hand, have just checked in for a three night stay at the Kingfisher Spa and Resort. I am writing you from my ocean-view room, clad in a terry-cloth robe and fuzzy slippers. I am drinking Perrier from room service, and recently returned from a calming head and neck massage. As Birgit (or was it Ingrid?) kneaded my tired muscles, I could hear the contrapuntal interplay of seagulls and the crashing surf. Afterward, spent, I repaired to the dining room for an anise-poached pair and a glass of late harvest Riesling. I have never known such peace.

As an ardent student of the method, I view it as my responsibility to inhabit my characters. As I am currently playing the part of a prince, I think it is incumbent upon me to see how a Prince would live. This is how I rationalize my sojourn here.

And what have I realized? That true nobility, if there is such a thing, comes from within. A prince is not a prince by virtue of his birth, but by virtue of his deeds and how he treats others. Would I have realized this great truth if I had not been swaddled in 500 thread count sheets and sated with grilled scallops? Probably not.

Is that not perhaps the greater truth?

Tales from the Road: You know you're in BC when....

As many of you know, I am part of a touring group that brings opera to the masses.
This morning I awoke to find myself in Nanaimo. I thought it was perhaps a nightmare, and that the sensation would pass, but it didn't. Fortunately there was coffee, and as we were waiting in line I noticed that my cast-mate Raphael was wearing a lovely new dress. Here is an excerpt from our conversation.

"Raphael, I love your dress!"
"Thanks.... it's "Lotuswear" -- I got it at this place called "Karma". I was there the other week buying yoga pants, and I had to have it. Did you know it's made from 100% soy?"
"I didn't... hey Raph, coffee's on me - do you know what you want?"
"Yeah - can I get a grande non-fat latte with sugar-free vanilla syrup?"
"Sure... did you buy anything else on the weekend?"
"No...well, I did buy a pink camouflage rain jacket for my dog..."

Being Alive

Ah, the deliciousness of a night in. Outside, the rain is pounding mercilessly against my window panes.... but I will not be reminded of the brutality outside. Here, all is warm and bright, and I am drinking Hungarian Tokay out of a hand blown glass that looks as though it might be seen at a party given by the Princesse de Lamballe for Marie Antoinette.

You know of course that the Princesse de Lamballe and Marie Antoinette used to dress up in the sheerest muslin and retreat to their hamlet where they would pretend to be milkmaids. In the midst of the baroque splendour that is Versailles, they chose to be rustic and earthy. It was not unlike the citizen of Vancouver who in the midst of privilege decides to wear homespun cloth and eat organic food in order to distance himself from the exploitative nature of his very existence... it is no good to take little where there is plenty. If a rich man eats only coarse bread, he will expect the poor to eat stones.

I do not expect anyone else to change anything about themselves.. that is folly. I, flawed and imperfect and miraculous can and will change. And to do so I will make choices. Of course, choices are easy for me - choice is the prerogative of the privileged. I do not expect those who are less privileged than I am to hate me any less because I choose to live in a way that I think less materialistic -- less exploitative.

For when you come down to it, I am where I am because of an accident of birth.
And I do not dare to think that I deserve to be anywhere else. I wholeheartedly accept my life as it is. In fact, I embrace it. I cannot say I have always done that.

I am drinking Tokay out of a hand-blown glass. And I know that there are millions of people who don't even have clean water. I don't know what to say.

15 minutes

Ordinarily, I wait until I have something to say before I write it down.
But I am in an experimental mood, and for the next 15 minutes or so, I will write whatever comes into my head and not edit it at all. I guess you could call this "stream of consciousness" writing. Although, to me "stream of consciousness" evokes a little Confucian brooklet somewhere rather than a literary form. If my mind is indeed a stream of consciousness, I would venture to say that there are rapids and currents and that I cannot navigate them. Or perhaps I think I cannot. Or perhaps it is not important to navigate at all and I should resign myself to just close my eyes and float along - like Anne of Green Gables did in that little dinghy while reciting "The Lady of Shalott". Of course, her boat sprung a leak and she had to be rescued by Gilbert Blythe.

I however vow not to be rescued, even though I would like to be from time to time. And I must admit I do have an overactive imagination, like Anne Shirley (surely) did.

And so, I will now retire to my room and light a candle and listen to motets by Mendelssohn and look out the window at rain brushing against the bare trees. Oh God. I am so pretentious sometimes.

For Simon, Wherever You May Be

When I was 17 I gave you the flowers I had picked in the wild.
They were cornflowers I think, and they stained my hands.
I wanted to place them on the windowsill so that everyone could see them
but we both knew it would have been unsafe to do so, so
I put them in an empty bottle and placed them in your closet
so that nobody would ask any questions.
But when I came to you in the middle of the night, I would take the flowers out and
put them in the centre of your room, and
we would stare out the window holding hands --
defiant in the darkness.

And the night before we parted I took you to a party
where everyone was dancing. I wanted to dance with you so,
but I knew that too would have been unsafe.
So I took you to the forest where the water ran clear
and we danced alone, in silence.

And when I left you you would not kiss me on the lips
and everywhere there were eyes, and everywhere there is injustice
still.

Dear God, this night I pray
that there is now music for your dancing,
Simon, wherever you may be.
And witnesses to your love,
and flowers
in the centre of your room.

A Rosenkavalier by any other name.....

"All art is at once surface and symbol. Those who go beneath the surface do so at their peril. Those who read the symbol do so at their peril."

-Oscar Wilde, Preface to Dorian Gray

In the opera world of late, there have been numerous attempts to update classic works to make them more "relevant". There are those who think it is a good idea to "interpret" works of art that are already complete in themselves and which come with prescribed instructions about how they should be performed. I often wonder at which point, in our attempts to make opera more accessible we forget the original intentions of the composer and librettist.... However, if respecting these intentions means that opera as an art form will die out, shouldn't we be compelled to shake things up?

Is there a way to look forward while respecting tradition?

I don't know. But at the rate things are going, you might very well see the following creations at a theatre near you:


I, DOMINATRIX

Mozart's classic opera Idomeneo is updated for our licentious age. Follow the story of Idominatrix, "Mistress of Crete" as she makes a fatal deal with her pimp, Neptune. All will suffer, but this doesn't faze our heroine. She likes it.

COSI FAN BOOTAY

Another re-interpretation of a classic, if dated Mozart Work. Cosi Fan Tutte is now set in Harlem. The set will utilize authentic graffiti art and sections of an abandoned subway station. The text has been translated from the original Italian into ebonics... to make it more accessible. There will still be surtitles.

LA CLEMENZA DI JOSEF BROZ TITO

Ancient Rome becomes 1970's Zagreb in this heart-warming tale of forgiveness.
"Decadent and bourgeois, but slightly more acceptable than the original". - Pravda

THE AILS OF HOFFMAN
Listen to the story of Mr. Hoffman, a patient at Mount Sinai hospital, as he talks about his various medical conditions. "Touching...prodding even. A veritable prostate exam of art. Who knew?" - Canadian Jewish News.

MANON LETS GO

This timeless classic takes place in Kitsilano, where our eponymous heroine has opened a yoga studio. Featuring the heart-rending aria "Adieu, notre petite tabla". "Soothing" - Canadian Yoga Journal

DIE HALFWAYHOUSE

Johann Strauss' operetta as you have never seen before. Fin-de-siecle Vienna becomes Vancouver's Lower East Side.

TOSK'WA

Puccini's jealous heroine reappears on Haida Gwaii.

DIE DAL-PURI

Siegmund and Sieglinde find themselves in Little India.

DIE MASTURBATERS VON NURNBERG

- Starring EVERYONE (even those who deny it).

Vin Jaune

It is said that the ingredients of an authentic peasant dish will be prohibitively expensive outside their country of origin. I told this to Phillipe the other day over coffee, as he was describing the food of the Jura region in his native France. One of the dishes he liked to prepare was Coq au Vin Jaune aux morilles. Now, in order to make this you need an organic grain fed chicken. In France, these are pretty easy to come by, and are so revered that they have special tricolour cockades attached to their still-intact claws to show their provenance and eclat. They kind of look like skinned sans-coulottes.

You also need morel mushrooms- morilles - which are the most expensive kind of mushroom. At Urban Fair (or as I like to call it Urban Unfair) dried morels go for 50 dollars per 100 grams. This greatly upset Phillipe - he could understand paying 1000 dollars a month for an apartment in a city that wasn't even Paris, but that much for morels was criminal. You see, where Phillipe comes from you can just walk out your back door and pick them for free. I suggested substituting another kind mushroom, but he would not hear of it - "the morel mushroom has tiny pockets that soak up the sauce in a very unique way" he explained , as if I were some sort of stone-age creature who dines on raw mammoth. We bought the morels.

Coq au Vin Jaune would not be Coq au Vin Jaune without Vin Jaune. And what is Vin Jaune?
Yellow wine. Duh. That is what I said. But Phillipe said that the taste of Vin Jaune was absolutely distinct - like lifting up a rock and licking moss. He picked up a stone and told me to smell it. I just laughed. But he was serious, so I smelled it. The rock smelled like a rock, and spearmint (there was some gum stuck to the rock). Apparently, Vin Jaune is fermented in the same way as sherry. It comes from a temperamental grape that must be handled gently. So I guess you could say that if I were a drink I would be Vin Jaune.....

Unfortunately, we were unable to find Vin Jaune, as apparently people here do not appreciate its earthy flavour. We made do with Chablis, but Phillipe insisted it was not the same.

It never is.

Should old acquaintance be forgot and never brought to mind?

Happy New Year.

I don't particularly like the phrase, to tell you the truth. If the new year was meant to be happy, why would it begin with the futile downward spiral that is January?

And as for New Year's resolutions. Well, I don't believe in them.
I came to this conclusion after spending a few days reading Proverbs while doing cardio and eating celery sticks. "Why am I doing this to myself?" I thought. "What exactly am I trying to improve in myself?" I was lifting weights, but what for? My clothes don't fit anyway due to my abnormally developed sternum. If I work out, I'll have to buy new ones, and I can't afford them (because it is January). Besides, no matter how much I exercise, I will never be lithe nor limber. I will never have a torso long and lean like the Baja peninsula. I am destined to face the brutal winds of time like a monolithic, mesomorphic plinth. I am not willowy, nor wispy. My build suggests one who was made to walk against the current head on... not smile, sylph-like, while being carried with it. I do not consider the lillies of the field who neither toil nor spin. Clumsily, I mow them down. And move on.

This is what I was thinking when I was on the treadmill. And after I left the gym, I went and bought myself some blue cheese and went down by the ocean and gazed at the water and thought, maybe I do have a resolution. And it is this: I resolve not to resolve. I will be a series of contradictions all my life, and there is nothing I can do to escape from the body or the mind that I have been given. Pope John XXIII, who was not willowy either, said: "See everything, overlook a great deal, correct a little". I like that.

And so I give thanks for the things that I have, and I give more thanks for the times I am free from wanting more than I have. And I give thanks for breath, and for bread and butter.

I give thanks for every second that I am alive.

Happy New Year.