Heat wave
Meanwhile, there in France, the Bouche du Rhone is on flood alert and Julian has a dream about wandering around a swelling group of musicians far from home clutching a piece of road.
The crazed weather patterns have, apparently, to do with the warming of the deeper layer of the ocean, thus affecting it's inability to cool the water's surface and maintain equilibrium. A similar phenomenon seems to be affecting the orchestra as we draw near the end of this infernal tour: A hot pressure is descending on our sanity and tendencies are emerging for tempestuous outbreaks and floods of tears.
Violists sit icily at separate breakfast tables whilst in the bar at night oboists and flautists are starting to touch each-other. People are exchanging books, email addresses, lingering kisses and even fluids. We're all horny, lonely, desperate for home and partners, cats and kids, yet panic about the end seems to be breeding an almost unnatural warmth towards one-another as we prepare to amputate ourselves from this temporary family.
Crushes are ballooning out of control and I have discovered I have a fan:
Ever since the initial rehearsal period three eternal moons ago, one of the fourteen Mozarts has been boring his Vesuvioid eyes into me and last night, all whited and wigged up in his Amadeus costume, he plucked up the courage to talk to his Goddess:
"May I speak with you?" (he asked in his rolling Italian accent)
"Of course you may" (said the Goddess)
"Last night the concert was so beautiful...and you....YOU!!!!... To see you playing the cello" (and here I have to stop to tell how he lingered on the double l of cello like a surfer on a great wave) " you playing the cello is so beautiful! You are bringing me so much gioia!!!! Thank you, thank you so much for the 'appiness!"
"Silly willy" said Julian when, still in the flush of my star moment, I told him on the phone. "It's not real. Why do you need this adoration so much?".
"But I want it to be real, I like being adored" I protest inwardly, and suddenly I am overwhelmed with loneliness.
"I need it because I have been on the road and away from my love for almost five months. I miss him and I want to come home."
The crazed weather patterns have, apparently, to do with the warming of the deeper layer of the ocean, thus affecting it's inability to cool the water's surface and maintain equilibrium. A similar phenomenon seems to be affecting the orchestra as we draw near the end of this infernal tour: A hot pressure is descending on our sanity and tendencies are emerging for tempestuous outbreaks and floods of tears.
Violists sit icily at separate breakfast tables whilst in the bar at night oboists and flautists are starting to touch each-other. People are exchanging books, email addresses, lingering kisses and even fluids. We're all horny, lonely, desperate for home and partners, cats and kids, yet panic about the end seems to be breeding an almost unnatural warmth towards one-another as we prepare to amputate ourselves from this temporary family.
Crushes are ballooning out of control and I have discovered I have a fan:
Ever since the initial rehearsal period three eternal moons ago, one of the fourteen Mozarts has been boring his Vesuvioid eyes into me and last night, all whited and wigged up in his Amadeus costume, he plucked up the courage to talk to his Goddess:
"May I speak with you?" (he asked in his rolling Italian accent)
"Of course you may" (said the Goddess)
"Last night the concert was so beautiful...and you....YOU!!!!... To see you playing the cello" (and here I have to stop to tell how he lingered on the double l of cello like a surfer on a great wave) " you playing the cello is so beautiful! You are bringing me so much gioia!!!! Thank you, thank you so much for the 'appiness!"
"Silly willy" said Julian when, still in the flush of my star moment, I told him on the phone. "It's not real. Why do you need this adoration so much?".
"But I want it to be real, I like being adored" I protest inwardly, and suddenly I am overwhelmed with loneliness.
"I need it because I have been on the road and away from my love for almost five months. I miss him and I want to come home."
posted by ruth at 11:31 AM
2 Comments:
:-)
Bah. Who wants real? Real is a mess. But we all want to be adored. Even brilliant painters with beautiful cellist wives want to be adored, I bet.
Phew, it's hard being a cellist with a distant painter. I work with my wife Sarah (in a small business) and it's hard in a different way altogether: stress, pressure, robust debate.
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