(no subject)

[xinjinmeng]

:
Perhaps the soft banks of my shores have eroded into stone buttresses that repel the incoming waves with stoic defiance.  Once ships may have landed here and known peace, tranquility and bounty.  Once the island welcomed visitors, now it stands in the path of inevitability.  Today the trees remain, but their fruit is bitter and not sweet. 

There are those who I had thought to be worldly and sophisticated, but now I find them sheltered and petulant.  Their conversations are peppered with great ideas and bon mots, but their philosophies are unexamined.  To them, every challenge is a threat.  Some are thick to let it go -- those folks, I envy.  Others rush back to a safe distance, to hiss and to bark at their foes while in the safe, giant arms of masters.

For the longest time, I had wanted to be those arms.  Now I find I cannot bear this burden, my emotions are not strong enough. I cannot play the maiden, I have no innocence of the enormities of civilization.  I am losing strength to play the mother, to produce the safe warmth for those who are not even my brood.  I find myself uncomfortable in the role of crone, while I would hope I would still be bearing ripe, glistening fruit.

Of course, in the business of the theater, one can rationalize all the mollycoddling as good business.  When our contralto has a fit that her colorist has advised her not to be seen in the color red, one smiles, one assumes the voice, and one summons the costumers and makes the change.  Or one dismisses her on the spot and puts the under-study in the role.  (Yes, this is my confession that I was indeed Magdalene in the last few performances of Nürnberg. It would please me to write that said contralto had eaten her crow on the plate of her empty threat, but the truth betrays me.  A few calls made, and now there is someone much more tractable wearing the crimson dress, even if she has difficulty with the D above low C.)

I meet so many fresh faces, winsome cheekbones with hints of baby fat, with voices loud and lilting without the scratches from the hoarse yelling at the injustices of the world, with lean limbs and quick fingers.  Three seasons ago, I had wanted to be in their number.  Two seasons ago, and I had wanted to keep them safe.  Now the desire to clout them with a ringed finger is not unknown.  What am I becoming? What future will the tradewinds bring me, and what must I do to make myself worthy?

Comments

[garudina.livejournal.com]

I must seem so terribly vain, to always think that your vague statements have anything to do with me.

I am, as usual, available to inject perspective into your outlook, like so much caustic venom.