Coming Up: Time-turbulence tangos into traction, as the loris looks on in ... well, hard to say, but it has big blinking eyes and is enjoying that satsuma. Adella casts her deepest thoughts into the pluslandia lethe, hoping that love can draw it back in time (because Google Help sure was no help). Will her opera return to her? Or - like love and art - will it prove treacherous and untrue? Andrew conquers a mountain or two and no post is there to commemorate it. Can he cycle on in the absence of fanfare or will his encomiums erupt in future-past?? Graduation day is here and the arches soar with squeezy stressed out stellae! Will Adella stay on the straight and narrow toward balance and hale, or will she be back in the torture chamber before the bill is fully forgiven? The loris stirs before the day begins its celestial shatter. Will time survive the disruption?
Set your clocks back, raise your glasses, and sit for a tale or two...
Ode to a Missing Post:
Dear post. I tried so hard to create you with all the love and attention due to such a bevy of adorable creatures. I analyzed Hoffman's drunken story telling, and his trinity of false loves. The "young girl" is an automaton completely unaware of her impact on the people around her and moving solely as she is programmed to do. The "artist" (also a young girl) who cannot say whether she loves Hoffman because of his music or music, most likely because their love requires they both cease to be who they are to survive. In the end she cannot keep from singing and, under the spell of a mysterious doctor, sings herself to death instead of consigning herself to a life of domestic mediocrity. And "the concubine" who knows full well what her impact is on those who love her and exploits them to steal men's souls in exchange for baubles. All of them take something from Hoffman. None of them are true. All of them are being influenced by a mysterious mephistic figure who resembles a real-life rival he has met at the bar, for a famous singer/Hoffman's "it's complicated" lover, who embodies all these three.
I tried to mention that art and love are juxtaposed in a tense relationship. They feed on each other in mystery, but ultimately vie for fealty, and art can be just as duplicitous, as illustrated by The Muse's use of alcohol, omission, and deception.
I tried to talk about the history of the production, Offenbach's adaptation of Hoffman's short stories, which required a single soprano play all of Hoffman's loves, and the challenge this presents. I was impressed that a single soprano of the silver cast carried them all in this production (a rarity in modern times).
And, when I had rhapsodized on the physical brilliance and vocal control of a very demanding opera, I allowed my attentions to return home to the land of lorises, and mention that the bike-and-chain deeply enjoyed his mountain bike mud-romp and that he made it home in one piece (plus several chunks of mud)
I did all that with panegyric pinache, but alas... GOOGLE ATE MY POST. I attempted to post my idle musings on google plus, as is my wont. I even believed that I had done so. But after posting, it vanished into the mist.
This complemented the unfurling of a weekday meant for holing up in bed. Having just started my next cycle of orange barracuda madly hormonal ladydom the evening before and having further suffered no excess of sleep in the offing, I was not entirely together through the morning, and was tarter than lemon on an open wound by evening. My honey-sweet impatience was apparently cloying by the time of our regular board meeting and I must have been somewhat sharp to inspire the president (whose intended attempt at interrupting my interruption of his interruption of my interruption of him...) to retreat back into his chair with an uneasy laugh and say "well, I am still president, Adella!"
Posting about this loss on google brought more comments than I usually get in a couple of days. Including google help's suggestion that I try "reposting" the post that was lost. Including the wiser speculation that sometimes posts are disappearing and then magically reappearing several days later. In which case, I'd have to admit that I didn't say all that brilliant stuff all that brilliantly. Dun dun DUUUUUUUN.
Golden Arches Soar With the Stars Physio Points Unlocked
I done graduamacated from PT yesterday. I know, I know, I've been planning for months and didn't invite you all? Tsk tsk. But after that string orchestra I ordered to supply the appropriate Elgarian Pomposity, the little room was just a bit crowded.
I'd been bumped from twice monthly to monthly visits last month, so I figured we were close to the end. My arch has gotten substantially better recently. Although I still feel the odd "I'm still here, let's not get crazy" twinge, I haven't had any real pain in a few weeks. And my PT exercises have all gotten much easier. So I assumed we were dialing back to zero pretty rapidly.
At 7:30 yesterday morning, my hardy healer tested out my hip/ankle/foot strength, palped the palm of my foot a bit, and declared me "on the right path." We reviewed the exercises I'd been doing one last time for tweaks and then she set me free with some paperwork and a gold star. Really! How awesome is my little toy. Yes, I know I was just saying how proud I was of resisting the lure of more promotional stress squeezy things, but this is a GOLD STAR.
In the occasional speculative office-building palaver, we talk about doing something to commemorate the end of a legal representation. Since I'm still an ephebe with a limited client list, I often write personalized letters that add to the standard "since there's no more case, we're withdrawing and here's the rest of your deposit back and/or another bill" letter. We swatted about the idea of t-shirts, but kept the shirts to ourselves.
I think a decree of dissolution is often commemoration enough, but I still enjoy the idea of an exit token. Maybe a big button that says "Englettlaw Approved: Back on the Market!" for our divorcing clients. Maybe "Englettlaw: I'm the Daddy, and I've Got a Court Order to Prove it." Or "Ask me about my Alimony" (I am quick to point out that we don't have "alimony" in Washington state, instead favoring rehabilitative maintenance provided to the less financially secure spouse for a period of time deemed suitable to get affairs into order yadda yadda yadda... but alliteration knows no state boundaries).
Of course, given how many clients tap out their initial advance fee deposits and fail to replenish them, I think our relationship with them never really ends. I think some of them will be on monthly payments for the rest of their lives (yes, a penny a month, thanks... that will definitely make a dent in the entire month we spent shutting down the office to handle your emergency trial!). And given that weird lag period between billing insurance and billing me, I guess I'll be dropping in to pay my PT bill for four or five months to come. Sure I'll have found some new injury by the time I stop getting bills from BPT.
But back to PT (or not, since I've graduated). I'm still doing the exercises and have been laden with caveats about gradually rebuilding my activities. Pilates has helped a lot as a bit of a complement to the strengthening and balance work I was doing under provenance of physio. Running is back to shorter periods. I'm noticing that my cadence does tend to slow after twenty minutes, so I will be keeping a really close watch on that as I bump up the duration of runs. Dancing is something I've mostly done in the living room with my boyfrianceband, but I am ready to do kind of a short evening out soon. Walking on coals will be forestalled until the 2024 Olympics.
Lest I feel one (hobbling) step less a medical lab experiment, I still have my regular massages with all their attendant "hmmmmm" and "oh my" comments from the massage assassin. He worked on a click-click of my shoulder. I'm totally paranoid about shoulders after my Dad's five billion rotator cuff tears, and so require constant mauling to feel certain that everything is ok somehow.
My follow up for ongoing lady-issues isn't until July, which of course causes me to speculate all the appropriately "thematic" "completion" commemorative prizes that I could receive for resolving my amenorrhea (the obvious of course would be a box of tampons with BOGA stamped on it, but I'm sure they could get way more creative verging into stress squeezy territory). I'll spare you further as I continue the highly detailed plan for my themed period party, which yes involved lots of appropriately motif-ed foods.
Given the lull, I probably should schedule a regular well-check (the one I was supposed to do six month ago) and get some of the routine tests done as scheduled. But, man, I think I have a dentist appointment soon already!
Maybe the dentist will give me a toy. I can always count on him for at least some doll-sized toothpastes. I miss the days when we could pick out any little toy from a special basket. I always got the dinosaurs. Still, one never graduates from dentistry until all the teeth are gone, so I'll hold off on full orchestra for my next appointment.
And with daydreams of stress squeezies boinging in your brain, I leave you to your hopefully delightful day! May it be full of accomplishments and little tiny tokens.
The Harpy's Chirp Begets the Dawn And other oddities of spring
Well, we are venturing into unprecedented territory here: Mr. (W)right has stirred and gotten out of bed at 5:15 for two consecutive mornings! Granted, as he often says upon those rare occasions of self-rising, that (1) he goes to bed when I go to bed (code for "early afternoon" in adult world), (2) he often does wake before the alarm goes off. However, stirring or inert, it usually takes him a good loll in bed before he is willing to brush the ivory-horned dander from his shoulders and debouch from his fortress of sleepitude.
Yesterday, the precipitant rustling of bedsheets stoked a minor panic in my ever-watchful heart. Had we been sucked into a time warp? Was downstairs travelling ever further away from the timespace trajectory of upstairs? Had I lost time? Was I late? Would Mr. (W)right rush down the stairs looking peeved and panicked that breakfast was yet raw in pans and plates?
Today, I was a veteran of surprise, and took it all in stride. It may well be that the boyfrianceband is - gasp - well-rested?? Thoroughly corrupted by his pronto-punctual partner's tamarin-type ways? Or, perhaps it's the springing of spring and the fact that some birds have been out-chirping our spunky little alarm clock starting at roughly 4:20 a.m.
Regardless, it's fascinating to observe. I have no idea what effect that has on his ultimate morning routine, except that he's light years ahead of his usual point by the time I announce breakfast is ready. Since that ranges from "just upstairs putting on clothes" to "still in bed staring at a half-imbibed brew of the black-stuff". The last two days, he's been there for the breakfast grand finales, with hands perched atop utensil and ready for the gorging. I actually lodged a request that he wait until I got my food finished so that we could eat together, because he looked quite set to vacuum the plate lickety-split!
Anyways, haven't seen any other strange looking blokes on horses, so I think we're pretty safe (knock on wood) from any eschatological shenanigans, and I'll write off the anti-ague to spring fever and chirping birds.
To sweeten the deal, the earlier rising does mean that the bike and chain is degrogged and ready for interaction before the routine "one minute before Adella has to leave" mark. And there have been no ill-effects on our evening routine from what I can tell. We had a rather splendid date night last night at one of the nearby meal-on-a-platter-fit-for-twenty mexican restaurants, with the requisite post-prandial canoodle.
I do think if this continues we might start spiraling into a bit of a pattern though. I like my little alone time in the morning and right before bed, so I tend to get up just a little earlier than I need to and go upstairs a little earlier than I need to. And that "need to" would be my generous allowance of time for the rituals attendant to "getting up" and "settling down" as warranted. As Andrew's schedule resets to mine, mine may well retrograde. I've already been stirring at 4:45 of late (blame the birds). It's only a matter of time before that turns to 4:30 or 4:20... and of course that means bedtime will similarly move back until we're both going to bed at 4:00 p.m. and rising at midnight!
Or maybe not. But one never knows...
Hope whenever the blaring birds dredged you from your sweet slumbers that you are raring to face this tippee toe Thursday as we pirouette to Friday in all its rollickin' raiment!
Post Redeemed: As promised and predicted, the post magically arrived in my google plus post lists today. Here I thought I'd really just pressed cancel. So while I mambo into the magical of a marvelous weekend (loris back to his usual sleeping in pattern, but less likely to be zonked since track was cancelled on account of rain and our usual Friday night shenanigans resumed instead!)
Back to the beginning in annularity that usually requires an MFA to accomplish. It was... as is only appropriate ... all a dream after all!
Lawrence the Loris Off and Back with Offenbach An Operatic Racetastic Sunless Sunday
Papa T recently returned and subsequently recovered from a journey to the Jersey lakes and mounts. Despite the ailing rotator cuff and the best efforts of three ebullient boys and a strong determination to "do chores" and "help out" while there, he seems to be no worse for the wear. I would venture even to posit that he enjoyed himself quite thoroughly. Ever the jealous daughter, it was incumbent upon me to reclaim the father's affection by... ok, really I just continued to bask in the generosity/my-proximity that has allowed me to be his opera date for the past several years. But of course, I schemed all along and raised several subtle intimations that my sister didn't truly love him more than words can wield the matter, nor beyond eyesight, space or liberty... And might have dropped the odd reference to our eldest nephews ties to Stalinist factions of the Anarchy-Rulz party of New-New Delhi.
It was a very exciting day for the opera: Speight Jenkin's final production as director of the Seattle Opera. Even more exciting, they chose their production of Tales of Hoffmann to commemorate the occasion. Tales of Hoffmann is easily one of my favorite operas. It blends the childhood ensorcelment of a magic show with the hilarity of Vaudeville and the exquisite catharsis of beautiful music. As in the prior production, the performers have as many tricks and tumbles as Chaplin, and follow suit with story-appropriate vocal gymnastics. The arias of love - albeit deluded and false love - are tear--jerking. The final paean to art is stirring in a way that makes almost anyone want to run off and be a poet. And the special effects have a Mephistophelian mesmerism.
Binding together a loose collection of three of E.T.A. Hoffman's short stories, Offenbach added a prologue and epilogue to tie the three into a meditation on the inherent tensions between love and art. Hoffmann, suffering for love of a famous singer tells a rowdy crowd of his three loves: the young girl, the artist, and the courtesan. He is unaware that his companion Niklaus is in reality his Muse, who has proclaimed that she shall reclaim Hoffman from her rival once and for all that night.
Each tale of love, it is revealed, addresses a separate side of his love for La Stella (the singer). In the first, she is an automaton thoroughly unaware of any possible affection as he is (beguiled literally by rose colored glasses purchased from the manufacturer of the automaton's eyes) unaware of her true nature. The second is a young singer, who admits herself that no one can say whether she loves him because of music or music because of him. Spying on heated exchanges her father and a menacing "Dr. Miracle" he discovers that the young girl will die if she continues to sing. To save her, he asks her to promise never to sing again and promises to give up his own musical inclinations so that they can marry and set up a "normal" household. Tempted by Dr. Miracle, she is unable to resist singing herself to death in Hoffman's absence. The final girl is a courtesan who takes Hoffman's reflection in exchange for a diamond bijou.
All of the girls are under the thrall of some maleficent force. The doll merely acts as she is wired to do by her creator. The singer may have "a genetic condition" or she may simply be under the spell of the magical doctor who leads her to her doom. The courtesan ruins men at the behest of her lord in exchange for baubles.
In all cases, their love is disingenuine. The automaton is incapable of love. The artist believes herself in love, but their romance has been based entirely around music, and she dies - despite her promises to Hoffman to never sing again - singing a song that Hoffmann wrote. The courtesan treats Hoffman as sport, stealing his soul and pitting him against another rival to the death.
In all cases, Hoffmann must sacrifice some essence of himself to be with "his loves". He doffs poetry and music to study science after seeing the automaton in "her father's" window. He promises to give up music to be with the singer (and yet never explains to her why he has asked her to stop singing). He cedes his reflection (soul) and kills a man in his passion for the courtesan.
In the end, the Muse reclaims her lover. Hoffmann is drunk and dejected by the time his real life love emerges on the stage. He repudiates her as a broken, dead, and damned vestige of his past. With inspirational fanfare, the Muse shows Hoffman his creations and tells him that art will never abandon him and the pain he has endured will become beautiful through his lens.
Though the story is dubious about love, it recognizes an equally dangerous and illusory quality in art. The Muse enlists the spirits of alcohol in her deceit before hiding herself. The singer "dies" through her singing. And - as we the audience are aware that the main villain has intercepted La Stella's love note to Hoffmann earlier in the opera - it is uncertain whether her love ran more true than implied through the story. The Muse herself recognizes that love's delusions in all their pain are the fodder for transcendent art.
Impressive, of course, and made all the more so by the range required of the stories' main figures. Though it is rare these days, this production had a single woman perform all four parts. Similarly, the main villain is the same bass. The strange character who aids in the deceptions of love reappears in four different guises. And the roles require a range far beyond most any singer's abilities. That our silver cast soprano managed to embody them all is quite impressive.
I left aflutter as I often do. Teary-eye with laughter, a bittersweet sadness, and that unadulterated inspiration of a full chorus and orchestra's blaring of redemption. Despite the three and a half hour run time, it felt brief and light for consumption.
As is often the case, I headed to the Opera House, while Andrew headed to a mountain (bike experience). This time to Whidbey Island for his first cross-country mountain bike race of the season. It apparently, despite all ominous indications to the contrary, did not deluge him into a mud slick. And he enjoyed himself.
Now we are back to some semblance of reality, though my sleep was implacably restive last night. And, just like Lawrence, I think it's a good day to move a little slowly...
It took Lawrence ten minutes to eat a satsuma. I'm trying for eleven :-)
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