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.