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the valkyries
fly
"Did it last?"
you ask. If you were reading yesterday, all it took was a certain quality
of light to reach down and get me out of the doldrums. I think it faded.
But then this morning I downloaded the pictures and made an entry for
yesterday and suddenly it worked again.
Even a meeting that
I knew would be frustrating didn't get me down. It was scheduled to start
at 8:30AM. I didn't believe it for a second. I usually look at my e-mail
at home and get to work a little north of that.
I didn't rush, but
still got there before 8:45AM and the conference room was dark. I left
a note and went back to my desk. It did finally convene and my attitude
helped lower the frustration.
I decide to work
at home in the afternoon and to pop by and see the parents and have lunch
on my way. They were doing fine, lunching on baked chicken thighs, green
bean casserole, baked sweet potatoes, toast and gravy. Oh, and salad and
baked apples, too. You always have lots of choices at their house.
This is my first
Wagner Ring event. Die Walküre. The tapes have made
me look forward to it. It starts at 6:30PM.
Forrest and I get
off by 5:30 and get a good parking place. The first intermission is 45
minutes. They are selling box lunches. One group of people is having a
picnic in the back of a pickup by candlelight.
The opera is great.
The long interchange with Wotan and Brunehilde is a little tiring. But
a lot of the thing soars. I love the music. The soprano soars effortlessly
and the crowd loves her. In the curtain call, Wotan and Brunehilde and
even Hunding are trying to hog some individual acclaim and Sieglinde gives
the a sidelong glance. When she steps forward, the bravas are there for
her.
I wrote
this in New York. It's an end of winter tale, in a way. (Spring is EVERYWHERE
here. Whoa!)
<warning...bad poetry here><\warning>
<poem>
Lost
in the City
A
pair of black wool gloves.
Neatly aligned under a table.
At the deli we've adopted.
I don't mention it.
The occupants gone,
maybe to return.
For the gloves.
A burly policeman waits for 'WALK'.
His boot near a lonely man's glove.
Leather or Synthetic,
in the street.
A woman's glove.
Leather.
On the dirty snow.
Contorted like a claw.
On the Upper East Side.
A baby at leisure in its stroller,
with fat round cheeks blushed with cold.
Insists on holding, not wearing,
pink mittens, one in each hand.
Her mother fusses, afraid they will be
lost.
But does not take them away.
<\poem>
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