White snow. Green uniforms. Red blood. Merry {censored} Christmas.
Soon after I uttered those words, I was given leave. Ordered actually. To the coast, a small village south of Calais. Took a room to the sea with a stone balcony. Me, a notebook and Puccini. Libation could be purchased, as it would, as he could not.
As the needle flows within the groove, I listen. Over and over, like the sturgeon waves pounding the beach. Relentless cracking slaps, of beach, of memory, of a night when I was sand. I listen into the whiskey. Into her voice, the lyric. Reclining on the balcony, crystal ambered in one hand, holding tight with the other. I wore a long, thin pleated skirt, legs spread as before, hair dancing with the sheer curtains, into the room, into the aria. Alone. As the beach in winter. As that night, into the static . . .
O mio babbino caro
Mi piace, è bello, bello
Vo' andare in Porta Rossa
a comperar l'anello!
Sì, sì, ci voglio andare!
e se l'amassi indarno,
andrei sul Ponte Vecchio,
ma per buttarmi in Arno!
Mi struggo e mi tormento!
O Dio, vorrei morir!
Babbo, pietà, pietà!
Babbo, pietà, pietà!
translation:
Oh my dear papa
I like him, he is handsome, handsome
I want to go to Porta Rossa
to buy the ring!
Yes, yes, I want to go there!
And if my love were in vain,
I would go to the Ponte Vecchio
and throw myself in the Arno!
I am being consumed and I am tormented!
Oh God, I'd want to die!
Papa, have pity, have pity!
Papa, have pity, have pity!
6 comments:
Puccini. I listen to Puccini (and a few others) on Sunday mornings while preparing gravy for my half-Italian teen-aged bambinos, both of whom really don't like gravy very much, but it's tradition, and traditions should always be upheld, like promises, so...
There's a decadence mulled into this post, and while I'm convinced it wasn't intended, still, I'm rather enjoying those particular bits.
Beautifully written...
S., I know these Sunday traditions. Growing up, my grandmother would made spaghetti and meatballs every Sunday and the whole family would gather for lunch. The recipe came from Sicily, passed down from generation to generation. Before she passed away, I had her show me how to make it. Telling didn't work. So now, the recipe lives with me. I don't make it but a few times a year--takes about six hours. But when I do, there is never a plate not empty. :-)
I think I see what you see in this post. If we see this bit of writing, this scene, in color, I see it in blues/grays pushing against yellow/gold/amber and autumn. No other hues. Thank you dearly for the kind words. :-)
Thank you for sharing this. There is nothing quite like Puccini (or your writing.)
When I was studying vocal performance I wrote a paper on Puccini. He was quite a deep soul... and quite the ladies man.
Athena, listening to this piece, I couldn't imagine Puccini any other way. :-)
I think Mary, the character here, would agree. :-)
Ethereal ambience, music and writing interlacing, response surging as the music is released into the scene that has appeared. It is the quality of exposure, of word (emotion) and of sound (reverberation) that reflects within the other, in the reflection that the music, known, finds a second home and in the finding it is enhanced, personalized, intimate. Listening to this piece of music one can only appreciate the beauty of it, but it is in watching Mary listen to it over and over, listening into the whiskey, into the voice, into the lyric that the influence flows not just directly, but through the soul of another too. The thought of what strings within her soul the music is moving. Just as every note within the voice reverberates along every nerve sending messages, sensations that reach far beyond the need for definition, clear lines, so to does every shiver of the wind moving through her hair, every swirl deep inside the amber, every wave rushing forth to the beach, every breeze that rode those waves. Those waves, and the way you wrote of them, reminded me of the passage from A Woman in Berlin, where the author writes of their fate rolling in, here instead those waves seem like echoes of events that have taken place, of answering calls even to the many she has heard, of all the voices that no longer can be heard, and of his. Echoes of space too, of his absense, in the groove, in the pleats,.., the strands of her hair dancing, seperating, the wind moving between. Wind and space, melody and word, she and he, life and death, then and now, what was and what will never be. Over and over, for them as for so many. Reading this post and listening to this music the first time brought such a rush of emotion, of thought, I've only managed to write of a little of it here, but the one point that needs to be clear is the vividness of the scene, not in concrete detail, but in presence, in impression, in aura.
Ms Storm, I read this post and I want to get drunk and take advantage of our forlorn Mary. :-D
Your comment is nothing short of magnificent. Inspired. Inspiring. As always, your devotion is noted and deeply appreciated.
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