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."