(no subject)

[xinjinmeng]

:
I must apologize for the long delay since my last journal.

I am sometimes an impulsive creature.  I spent all of three days with an s-group, in their micronation hideway located somewhere in the North Sea.  I do not have much to report about the experience, save that I am glad I went, and I am even more glad it has concluded.  The children were reasonably well-behaved, but seeing the rapport between parent and child only made me feel the more isolated, and I have no need for a matrimonal arrangement.  Making a hasty excuse, I departed for Munaka, where I imposed upon the hospitality of a former patron.  He was unprepared for visitors, and I wore out my welcome sooner than I had hoped.  Making a hasty excuse, I borrowed a sufficient amount of funds and then spent some time wandering about the countryside.  I had hoped to find the ruins of Forua, but I had my directions mixed up and instead found myself at the typical tourist traps of medieval castles.

Watching the nitre collecting on the wet stones, seeing a sky dimmed by the omnipresent electric pollution, it all made me feel lonely and angry at the same time.  Why was I so frustrated?  Had not the Ibsen revival been successful?  Did we not sell out three performances of Neibelung?  What more did I have to prove?  I experienced a great moment of crisis, where I wondered what the purpose of all this artifice was.  Why opera? Why anything?  I craved oblivion.  I wanted to drown my sorrows in dulling liquor, or to float my concerns away on opiate clouds ... and the desire for such escape only made me the more angrier.  And it was not the empowering kind of anger, it was a frustrating and exhausting anger.

With my head bowed, I slunk back to my little hole in the wall, bracketed by the empty abodes of bohemians who had moved on, while complete strangers went about their business all around me.  There was no home here, there was no home anywhere.  The universe is open to me, and I cannot believe I already feel defeated by it.

Then, I thought of the words of the Reverend: "Fuck all that." 

Within the hours, I had drafted the proposal to perform T___'s twenty-first century opera.   Within the day, Reverend M___ was ready to write; by the next sunrise, G___ was able to direct.  This production will be ramshackle at best, and it will probably lose money hand over fist.  But I will see it made.

The last few weeks saw more compositions.  T___'s opera is only half an idea at best, so we are combining it with anothef half-complete work of M___'s, and perhaps some more synthesis will come along.  It feels good to be working again. It feels good to measure only by my own yardstick, and no one else's.

Comments

[ff00ff.livejournal.com]

You want oblivion but you put together plans for another opera. A western creature like me sees you in an existential conundrum, but I'm sure a more eastern perspective like yours has a different interpretation. Personally, had I been returning from the North Sea and in need of oblivion I would have made a stop in Amsterdam to see how far I could get before growing terminally tired of selling my body and numbing my brain. From there who knows? I'd probably end up fronting a death metal band who's goal would be to be banned in America.

[frostbytepb.livejournal.com]

Thank you again for letting me reprise my role as Siegfried. A letter on your stationery was just what I needed on that day, and it had been too long since I sang sincerely.

I'm glad you've found a new drive. I hope it carries you far.