For just one minute, for just a few hours, I want to live in a land far away, filled with myth and magic, perhaps, too, a place where the women are women and the men do manly things. Like slay dragons.
And, for just one minute, I’m going to escape into just such a fantasy world, and I’m going to pretend that all of this opera stuff means something. Or maybe it’s just a good excuse to avoid reality, but whatever works? Works.
At the end of the second opera, Brunhilda was put to permanent sleep until some kind of a bad boy braved the wall of flame, and woke her warrior-ass up. She was a mean god-ling, you know, the one who sings, “Kill the wabbit, kills the wabbitt!”
She disobeys her daddy, and naughty children, even they don’t spring from the loins of the god’s wife, you know, daughters should always obey their daddies. Always.
So she’s passed out and the world is headed into hell in a bucket. Siegmund and Sieglinda tried to elope, but her husband killed Siegmund, but not before he managed to knock up Sieglinda. Love child, daytime TV style, even – Sieglinda and Siegmund are brother and sister. Confused? Stay tuned.
Brunehilda hauls the pregnant Sieglinda away, and for doing so, Brunehilda is put to sleep. Remember, she’s sleeping in a ring of fire.
So Siegfried (the opera, #3) opens with the love child of Seigmund and whatshername, the brother and sister deal, and Siegfried is raised by a horrible dwarf. Siegfried tells the dwarf to bugger off, and Siegfried himself forges the broken shards of the magic sword into a single blade. The dwarf never could do this. In effect, in a symbolic way, the young Siegfried is overcoming childhood adversity, symbolic taking his daddy’s sword and putting it back together again?
Act II, Siegfried slays the dragon. Makes young Siegfried “Siegfried the Psychic.”
Act III, Siegfried climbs the mountain, goes through the wall of fire, finds the girl, kisses her, and she wakes up. They live happily ever after. Curtain.
One cousin was a voice of dissension, “Hey, she gets to be his house wife? That’s happily ever after? I don’t think so. What’s happy about that? She used to be a warrior, her daddy’s favorite, now she cleans up after Siegfried? Again, how’s that happy?”
It’s fiction. Made up story. They were in love. Live happily ever after. End of story. Until later, of course. Anything that appears to end happily? Rarely is it over until ….
Zombies!
Time for a break. Of course, you’ve heard it before, I’ve used it, I’m sure, the familiar refrain about needing a break from vacation?
The zombies note? What was that from, something to do with the plot of the opera, too. If I write long enough, I’ll figure it out. Maybe not, either.
According to family lore, the concept that a body needs a day off from the Ring Cycle, in its entirety, isn’t such a bad idea. I passed on a “family lunch with a Valkyrie,” some kind of a fund-raiser, I’m sure, and when it comes to fund raising, I’m notoriously poor.
I wandered off towards Pike’s Market, and I was in search of a particular place. I think I’ve seen this destination before, and it was more like I was searching for some kind of connection – the first Starbucks. Seriously, back from a time, maybe not so long ago, when the idea of a coffee shop was more like a little local place, an afternoon stopping point to pause and reflect, perhaps share in conversation. Or just eavesdrop, as I do, typically. I did hit the original, and I noted, through a couple of pictures, that the logo is slightly different from the Starbucks’ chain’s ubiquitous logo. A little less sanitary? Looks like very naked breasts on that goddess critter in the original logo, not covered up, nips and all.
Plus, although it was served in the usual paper cup, the espresso itself reflected that slightly smoother “Seattle” roast. I’m not sure what it is, but the concept caught up with me in Dallas, a few weeks back, and I took note. Then, over and over, in a number of Seattle spots, I’ve discovered that there is a definite character to the way the local coffee is served, in its most special form: espresso.
The market place was alive with colors, fresh flowers being as primary product. And fish. And there did seem to be a disproportionate number of book dealers, too. All items to warm the heart, “No pictures, please,” said the sign.
Visible from the plane, winging in, I recall seeing the Seattle Opera’s sign. Right by the Space Needle. Which dates to 1962, not 1964, as I was trying to recall. And then, from the space needle, I took the monorail to downtown. Round trip ticket? $3.50
Ticket to the top of the space needle? $13. I was wondering if they had a discount on one-way tickets on that space needle ride, too.
Just a little north, maybe just blocks, of downtown, the district is heavy into the arts. I was thrilled when I wandered into chain record store – a huge section was devoted to Opera. Two patrons were discussing the previous evening’s performance, the relative merits, the strength of Wotan’s voice, and the director’s decision to put a certain scene in a particular setting. On the sound system, in-store? Flying Burrito Brothers.
Moon’s in Aquarius? Think that’s it? I’m guessing, but the concomitant full-moon-mania is stirring. The locals are restless.
Wednesday afternoon, the sun burned a hole in a Seattle’s clouds. I think the folks here owe me one. I left sunglasses behind – on purpose – just so this would happen.
