December 2006

December is here. New Years' Eve is approaching swiftly and in its haste has blown Winter's icy winds across the narrows of New York. It is a festive time of the year, when dawn comes late and dusk sets early - a seasonal trait, I am particularly fond of. But my nocturnal nature is not the topic today.

On a recent weekend, Pattu visited from Cornell and we went for 'Il Barbiere Di Siviglia' (The Barber of Seville) - a most fantastic and highly recommended rendition featuring everyone's favorite Opera character - Figaro. Directed by Bartlett Sher, this performance featured the delightful and sultry voice of Diana Damrau (playing Rosina). Now, generally, I am rarely impressed with female leads -but she was magnificent. Her presence and antics on-stage uplifted the performance in a very natural and noteworthy fashion. Though I didn't care much for the set, the actors and orchestra functioning in total congruence was truly remarkable. Peter Mattei plays the lovable Figaro, and immediately involved the audience with his famous entrance on his mobile barbershop, led in by a donkey. I want to take a moment to harp on the appreciation I had for this cast to execute each dialogue, verse and action in perfect harmony with the Orchestra, all the while making it seem effortless and obvious. There is natural talent and overall brilliance at work here that one can't even fathom.

The only point in this performance which I had major issues with - came at the conclusion. Now, I happen to be a fan of 'Romantic Comedy', especially from the late 18th/early 19th century, but I find the concept of "profession of love", as I call it, absolutely unbearable. Close to his exit, Almaviva professes his undying love for the beautiful Rosina. Almaviva, then, professes his love for Rosina... again. Almaviva, then walks across the stage and professes his love AGAIN! Juan Diego Flórez must have lost his mind playing Almaviva's most annoying conclusion solo, especially after 3 hours! DUDE! You love her - I got it the first time! SHUT UP! This profession wasn't even a poetic ensemble of metaphors - that might have been bearable -this was the same thing over and over again! 30 minutes of it and I had my playbill rolled up into a tight, solid structure as I mapped a trajectory to deliver a deafening blow to Almaviva's skull. I had already considered that before his unconscious body would hit the wooden floor, I would have dived across the audience with remarkable strength and veracity to reach him and ensure that his head fell on a pencil. And I would bask in my glory, bathing in his blood, spouting from his impaled, lifeless body. Then Pattu came up with a better option - "FUCK! - lets leave before I kill myself). That was Friday.

(I have issues - believe it or not - so do you... so F off!)

Saturday presented itself in a predictable manner - as we drenched ourselves in alcohol and engaged in lies, deceit and superficial conversations. Amidst all this, the "bumping into" never ceases as I found myself in unforseeable situations with avoidable individuals. Hearts a-poundin'... I've found my existence to be marred by the habitual occurrence of 'The Weekend'. Its incessant need to throw me into a degenerate new stance, while I defile my being and celebrate new levels of decadence. And on Sunday mornings, I find myself cross-eyed, covered in gloss and confetti - as the celebrations have passed. I hide myself from the sunlight.

Monday rolls around, coffee and cigarettes to make this pass - and I can't wait for the weekend again.