The beautiful, grey, cool walk to the subway along Congress, the two lilacs on the way in bloom.As I write Joan Sutherland is singing the Mad Scene from Thomas' Hamlet, now on repeat: it suddenly swept me up (or down) and back, as I sang along with her...and I was very sad. Weeping. I haven't listened to opera or Herself for a very, very, very long time. Because how does one describe it? The voice as soul, as unbidden power, and its leave-taking, and reasons. I'm not really maudlin'. It's just been a very long time since I listened to Joan Sutherland singing everything that I sang.
So thank God for lilacs.
They smell as lilacs ought. Which is the way the pale pink one in Bloemfontein smelled, at the front door.
The plane trees from the window at work. Very new. The Deathstar beyond. Also very new. But not in the same way.
:-(
ReplyDeleteI would have loved to hear you sing.
ReplyDeleteAy madre de dios, cuando canta esa mujer, mis povres pellets se parecen a pescado fresco... Me da piel de gallina, a mi, un gato!
ReplyDeleteEstorbo! You are such a liar! When I sing you bite me!
ReplyDeleteBeence - dont' worry, I snapped out of it.
ReplyDelete^^
Ay caramba. Pobre, not povre... :-)
ReplyDeleteMusic will do that to you. And long-ago things.
ReplyDeleteEstorbo, when did you get so coy about your spelleen', I mean spelling. I hardly know you, :-)
ReplyDelete