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Seven
My own behavior puzzles me.
This is clearly a pleasure trip, but I am treating it like work. I have shunned
the spectacular vistas of the Oregon Coast for the inland cruise of Interstate
5. I am treated nonetheless with gorgeous scenery, running past a bright-eyed
Mt. Shasta, sliding downhill into southern Oregon to find the triangle of Mt. McLoughlin
knifing into the twilight. I take note, and drive on.
The
budget is tight, so I sleep at a rest stop on the flat farmlands north of
Eugene. I am well-equipped, having folded down the back seats and installed a
small mattress. The final stroke is a paper dropcloth, taped over the windows
for privacy. I sleep well and wake to a bickering Mexican family, seven idling
semis and a series of green foothills that could have been shipped in from
Scotland. In the Northwest, breathtaking landscapes are a dime a dozen, but I
don’t feel like I have earned them yet, so I sneak away to the restroom for a
Handi-Wipes catbath and a change of clothes.
The
second day goes quickly; by late afternoon I have sighted the Puget Sound and,
five minutes later, Mt. Rainier, a white fist bursting from the horizon.
Entering the strip-mall stretches of Tacoma, I spot a Motel 6. I pull in, make
my arrangements and head for the pizza parlor next door.
I
am not ready to be a tourist – not till after my work – so I spend the next day
right there in the neighborhood, taking a dozen laps around the pool and
hanging out at a surprisingly lavish Starbucks. A brief nap, dinner at Denny’s,
and I am ready to get myself prettied up.
Not
that I’ve made any changes. It’s the same black suit I wear at SFO, only now
it’s been cleaned and pressed. The same black dress shoes, only now they’ve
been shined. The tie is old, as well, but it’s got a history. An old friend got
married three years ago. The bride told the groomsmen to show up in black suits
and shirts, then handed us mint-green ties, each in a different pattern. I fix
it in place with a silver pin given to me by my father at my own wedding. I
pull out a stainless steel case and fill it with cards bearing the address for
my blog and a photo of Maddalena playing the Contessa in Figaro.
But
here’s the strange part: I have not told Maddie that I’m here. I don’t know
why.
It’s
a glorious day in Seattle, and the skyline is everything the brochure promised.
Maybe a third the size of San Francisco’s, but better organized, like the
figures in Rembrandt’s The Night Watch.
I-5 slings itself into the center of this grouping, and immediately I take a
left-side offramp to Seattle Center. Following my emailed directions, I head
for the Experience Music Project, a Frank Gehry building that looks like a
giant baked potato covered in aluminum foil, take a right and find the parking
lot. I pass through a forest of metallic palms and follow a walkway into a
large central square. Inside a concrete bowl, the Seattle Center fountain
performs tricks for a ring of onlookers. To a classical soundtrack, a 50-foot
spray gives way to 50 smaller sprays, running around the bowl like the backing
flock of Swan Lake. I’m early, so I
stay a few minutes to enjoy.
McCaw
Hall was built a few years ago at the same site as the old opera house.
Accustomed to the historical auras of San Francisco’s War Memorial and San
Jose’s California Theater, I find the modernity of Seattle’s a little jarring.
Passing an artificial creek – a thin sheet of water trickling over ridges in
the walkway – I look up to find a towering wall of glass, a terrarium of opera
patrons milling about on three different levels.
I
enter the lobby to find myself beneath a most puzzling piece of art. A tall
blue construction ladder has been crumpled into a series of bends and folds and
dangled on wires, then used as a skeleton from which to hang a phantasmagoria
of industrial objects: monkey wrenches, heating ducts, bubble wrap, shipping
pallets, motherboards. It’s like a frozen explosion in a hardware store.
I
head for will call and pick up my tickets, then I climb the wide front steps to
the second-level balcony, a spread of chocolate-brown carpet the size of a
football field. I pick up the smell of coffee and track it to a most welcome
sight: a circular table hosting three urns of Starbucks’ best, ringed by a
convoy of silver boats holding cream and sugar. It turns out to be a good-faith
construct, suggesting you drop in a buck for each cup of java. Seattle rocks.
At
the sound of the five-minute chimes, we funnel into one of five different
entrances and descend into the orchestra section, a field of plush navy blue
seats. The balconies drop down on either side against walls lit up in blood
red. The broad proscenium is free of ornament, just an enormous burgundy
curtain.
Even
as a late starter, I have seen a dozen Bohèmes, and I’m beginning to notice the
fine details. In the final scene, when Schaunard the musician enters with food
for his companions, his inventory usually includes a garish prop-fish, which
adds to the impending hi-jinks. This time he enters with a bowl containing
pickled herring. He does, however, bring the traditional baguette, which will
soon be used as a sword in a mock-duel. Perhaps this is an overlooked aspect of
opera: we see the same works so often that we can bicker over the
micro-traditions.
Otherwise,
the production is pretty standard. The
singers are magnificent. Rodolfo the poet is played by a black tenor, Vinson
Cole, which in 21st century Seattle raises nary an eyebrow. Cole is
a local favorite, blessed with a lyric instrument that carries just a tad of
that vigorous spinto edge. The Marcello is fantastic, a young American with a
robust baritone that fills the hall. (Although he is given not a single aria, I
have decided that Marcello is the secret lynchpin to this opera, and have
learned to appreciate anyone who does him justice.)
The
Musetta is nearly spectacular, a tall, willowy redhead with a voice unabashedly
high in its aspect, like the playful soubrette roles of Rossini and Donizetti.
The brilliance of her tone gives the emphasis to Musetta’s flirtatiousness –
which is really her occupation, since she’s a courtesan.
Maddalena
is Maddalena, but in a rather intriguing fashion. I will make you wait for the
details, but I will say that she plays Mimi with three different voices: a
Mozartean lyric for “Mi chiamano Mimi” and the famed meeting with Rodolfo; a
slightly heavier, late-Verdi lyric for the tollgate scene (the couple’s last
attempt at happiness before Mimi’s consumption takes over); and, I swear, a
dark, Wagnerian soprano for the low, ominous lines – the “death tones” – of the
final scene. This evening-long descent is astounding – and it’s also astounding
that Maddie continues to astound me.
The
best operas continue to reveal new treasures even after multiple viewings; my
latest discovery in Bohème is a line
that I have never noticed before. In the death scene, Musetta is warming a
bottle of medicine over a lamp, and she sings, “Oh, don’t let the flame go
out.”
The
finale is roundly ovated by an auditorium of weeping opera fans (Puccini being
lord and master of the lachrymal glands). I find myself feeling proud, either of Maddie or for Maddie.
The
crowd seeps away like a river seeking tributaries. I stand at the edge of the
second-level balcony with coffee number three. The question of the moment is, What now? How does one go about stalking
a diva?
I
stop a passing usher and say, “Excuse me, do you know how I would reach Jennifer
Lim?” (Jennifer’s the press contact, the only name I’ve got in my arsenal.)
The
usher conducts a little internal info search. “She’s probably at the VIP
reception. Are you press?”
I
stare dumbly at my folder. “Yes, I guess I am.”
“I
would bet that you’ll find an invitation in that folder. Just go to those
stairs, up one flight, and you’ll be right at the door.”
“Thanks.”
I
dig out a white square with the invitation. I hand it to a high-society blonde
– one of those 62-year-olds who looks vaguely 35 – and pass into Valhalla.
The
reception room is actually pretty plain, a high-ceilinged space with walls in
yellow fabric and tall, narrow windows that offer views of the parking garage
across the street. There are perhaps 50 patrons milling about, many of them
standing at tall tables, and a center table offering a spread of
luscious-looking fruit. I am much too nervous to eat, but when a waitress comes
by with a tray I take what turns out to be a white chocolate truffle with
key-lime filling. Life as a VIP is good. Another coffee would make me explode,
so I head for a table holding glasses of white wine.
I
work myself into a neutral position, like an airship avoiding sharp edges, and
pick up an interesting conversation to my right. A large man with a velvety
baritone is speaking with a thin man possessing a pair of stylish narrow
spectacles and a pronounced kinetic energy.
“I
don’t even know why they bother with it anymore,” says the thin man, with a
crisply enunciated tenor. “I could sing the goddamn thing myself. ‘They call me
Mimi, I don’t know why, tee-hee.’ Oh God it’s so fucking juvenile, but the hoi polloi eats it up like butterscotch pudding.”
The
large man answers calmly. “They love it because it’s the most beautifully
sculpted aria ever written. Screw the words! Look at the structure of it, map
it out. It’s glorious.”
“Bosh!”
says the thin man. (Do people really say “Bosh”?) “At least Bizet owned up to
his excesses. His melodies are openly
melodic, for all to hear. Puccini’s always trying to nudge it this way and
that, like he’s saying, ‘Look! I really am
an artist!’ And hey, Turandot I’ll give you. Fanciulla, Gianni Schicchi, Suor
Angelica. But Bohème? Tripe. Triple tripe.”
“Don’t
condemn something just because it’s popular, Larry.”
“Oh,
Cordell…”
That’s
where my eavesdropping clicks off, because how many Cordells would be floating
around Seattle? I walk over and wait for a half-second pause in Larry’s thesis.
“I’m
sorry, but… is your name Cordell?”
The
man turns my way, revealing a wide, gentle face outlined by a neat silver
beard.
“Well
yes, it is.”
I
extend a hand and derive maximum enjoyment from my next line.
“Mickey
Siskel.”
Cordell
ignores my hand, grabs me by the shoulders and gives me a big smack on the
cheek.
“Mickey!
In the flesh! Larry, this is the best
goddamn opera blogger in the universe. His stuff is so insightful. You would love it.”
Once
released, I extend a hand to Larry and am relieved when he simply takes it.
“Well,
Mickey!” says Cordell. “What on earth brings you here?”
“I’ve
been promoted. I’m the West Coast stringer for a web site based in New Zealand.
So I thought I would take an opera vacation.”
Cordell
laughs and bats me on the shoulder.
“Oh,
Mickey. That’s nonsense.”
“Bosh,”
says Larry.
“Folderol,”
says Cordell. “You’re here to see Maddalena.” He turns to Larry. “He’s dating
her, you know.”
Larry
arches an eyebrow. “Really.”
“Well,
no,” I say. “Okay. Twice. We went out a couple of times in San Francisco. She’s
probably forgotten all about me. She doesn’t even know I’m here.”
Now
Cordell arches an eyebrow. “You didn’t tell her you were coming?”
“What
kind of boyfriend are you?” says Larry, who is clearly enjoying himself. “Why,
if I was a diva, I’d be incensed!”
“Larry,”
says Cordell. “You are a diva.”
“I
prefer to think of myself as a prima donna.”
“But
honestly,” I say, trying to keep up. “I am not
Maddie’s boyfriend. She just needed some help, that’s all.”
Larry
gives me an appraising look. “That must have been one hell of a review you gave
her.”
At
this point, the only thing I can do is give up. “Fine. And you may as well be
the first to know, Maddie’s pregnant with my child. We’re having an enormous
Episcopalian wedding in January, and all of this will be revealed in a
thrilling second-act aria.”
Shocked
that a hetero could produce something so creative, Larry and Cordell fan me
with gales of laughter. We are interrupted by a man who resembles a toned-down
Andy Warhol, striking a glass with a fork. This is Speight Jenkins, Seattle’s
artistic director. The room grows quickly attentive.
“Greetings!
I am generally sent up here to tell sob stories and ask you for money, but
tonight I’m going to let the arts speak for themselves. Please welcome our
Marcello, Nicolai Janitzky.”
Nicolai
strolls out in a blue pinstripe suit and clasps his hands together over his
head.
“Our
Musetta, Gabriella Compton.”
Gabriella
appears in a slim yellow dress with diagonal slashes of cream. Her hair has
gone magically short.
“Our
Rodolfo, Vinson Cole”
Vinson
enters in brown cords, a white turtleneck and a black leather jacket. He
accepts his favorite-son outburst with a boisterous grin.
“And,
back after a brief bout of consumption, our Mimi, Maddalena…”
The
last name disappears in a melee of shouting and applause. The way that opera
people react to this woman is almost frightening. She enters in a gown of
copper-colored chiffon, every bit the diva, her mousy brown Mimi-wig replaced
by the familiar honey tresses. She smiles and holds a hand over her heart.
“And
now,” says Speight, “I will retire until the next time I am called upon to beg
you for money.”
Speight
receives a mix of laughter and sarcastic applause. The four singers disappear
into circles of well-wishers, and I go back to Cordell. Larry has absconded.
“Seriously,
Cordell, it is a thrill to meet you.
I really appreciate the way you’ve encouraged my little experiment.”
Cordell
places a hand on my shoulder and fixes me with blue-gray eyes. “There are so
few opera writers who are not completely occupied with showing how G.D. clever
they are. I would bet that most of them don’t even like opera. But Mickey, your passion and humor and humility are so refreshing. I always come away with
some new insight to share with my colleagues. You are a hidden treasure, and I
feel compelled to announce your presence to the world. I’m also rather fond of
that Devil Diva.”
I’m
relieved to be out of this thick stream of appreciation. “She is a kick, isn’t she?”
“She
really sasses things up. Uh-oh. The queen approaches.”
Maddie
storms our way, followed by every eye in the room. I am much relieved (and just
a tad disappointed) when she jumps into the arms of Cordell.
“Professore!
It is so good to see you. How are
you? How’s Dennis?”
“Oh,
um, Dennis is gone.”
She
breaks their embrace and holds him at arm’s length. “Oh, I’m sorry. What happened?”
“Got
bored of me, I suppose.”
“Oh!”
Maddie laughs and immediately covers her mouth. “I’m so sorry! I thought you
were saying he died.”
Cordell
chuckles. “Oh! God, I must work on my
phrasing.”
“Always
the voice coach. I…”
I’ve
been standing here like a mannequin, waiting for the moment of recognition, but
now that she has registered my presence, the room goes into that trendy
special-effects mode where everybody freezes in 3-D while the protagonist
wanders the room undeterred, stealing people’s drinks, squeezing women’s
knockers. Maddie’s eyes grow wide with alarm, she puts one hand to her hair,
and then she simply turns and walks away. She stops at the far end of the room,
hidden from view by a circle of elderly women.
Cordell
and I stand there and watch in silence, until social necessity demands that he
say something.
“I…
I don’t know if I have ever seen anything like that.”
“It
wasn’t exactly a glowing review.”
Cordell
covers his mouth and coughs nervously. “I’ll… Maybe I’ll see if I can have a
word with her.”
“No.
Don’t, please. You’re right. It was rude of me to just show up like this. She’s
got much more important things to worry about, and I put her in a bad
position.”
“Well.
Perhaps a bit. Listen, though. I need to chat with a few people – a matter of
keeping the voice students knocking at one’s door – but I won’t be more than
half an hour. Promise me you’ll stick around, and I’ll take you to Belltown for
a drink. I have not begun to pick
your brain.”
I
scan the crowd, every single one of them a well-dressed mystery. “Okay. I’ll
sit here and read my program.”
“Good
boy.”
My
reading is completely ineffective. The words bounce off my eyes and fall into
my wine, forming a white verbal fuzz. I am rescued by Jennifer Lim, who finally
figures out my identity and quizzes me about the New Zealand website. Before I
know it, Cordell has arrived at my shoulder.
“All
right, young Rodolfo, let us away to some fine booze.”
“Falstaff!”
I exclaim.
“Prince
Hal!” says Cordell.
“Well.
We both know our Shakespeare, at least. Thanks, Jennifer.”
“Thank
you,” says Jennifer. “Come back for
The Flying Dutchman.”
“I will,” I say, meaning not a word
of it.
Cordell
takes me by the elbow and we flee the room. “I know a divine little bar on
Second Avenue. And don’t worry, it’s not one of those bars.”
“Ha!”
We
walk past the artificial creek and into the great square. The fountain is done
with its dancing, each of its sprays locked in a steady outpour, colored blue
by a ring of muted spotlights. We stop at a waist-high wall.
“I
never tire of this crazy thing,” says Cordell. “I always like to check in after
a performance. Something about the water helps the music settle into my brain.
Well,” he claps me on the back, “I’ll be seeing you.”
He
walks away, in the direction of the Space Needle. I assume it’s some kind of
gag, but he keeps going, disappearing into a dark walkway.
“Cordell?
Cordell? Where the hell are you going?!” At this point, I am suffering serious
abandonment issues, and I feel the need to express them vocally. “What the
bloody fucking hell is going on here!?”
“Really,
Mickey. It’s a family park. Watch your mouth.”
I
turn to find a blue water nymph, wearing a hooded cape like a goddamn princess.
She attacks me with a kiss.
I
escort the internationally famous opera singer Maddalena Hart into Belltown, a
former industrial zone now filling the city’s constant need for hip new
neighborhoods. We discover a bar called Balls, whose every table is constructed
from the glass-covered play area of an antique pinball machine. We settle next
to a machine featuring circus figures: the bearded woman, the strong man, the
lion tamer.
“This
clown looks alarmingly like a Pagliaccio I worked with in Baltimore.”
I’m
still a little unnerved by my deliverance, so I take a first sip from my
microbrew. It’s a light hefeweizen, but it still delivers a pleasant bite.
“So,”
says the diva. “Do you forgive me?”
I
take a long look at her, glowing in the red light from the bar. She’s still
wearing the copper gown.
“What
for?”
“For
the gross snub. For the Cinderella-at-midnight.”
“I
took my chances.”
“You
certainly did, you bad boy.”
“I
thought you just hated me or something.”
Maddie
laughs, her mouth open like a puppy dog’s.
“Or
something! Or something! Here is Ms. Hart, being the friendly performing arts
professional amongst the important Seattle donors, and suddenly here’s Mickey
Siskel, hunky opera critic softball stud with the sad eyes that can’t decide
whether they want to be blue or green. But that’s not how it happens. It
happens like this – “ she squeezes my name into one-syllable bullets of sound –
“Mickey! Mickey! Pheromones attack
like killer bees. I am fighting this urge to tear the clothes from your body.
The conflict between desire and obligation becomes so intense that Ms. Hart
locks up – Maddie Hart, who has negotiated a thousand social minefields, who
has improvised her way out of a hundred onstage catastrophes. I freaked out. So
– fight or flight. I chose flight.”
“You
wanted to tear my clothes off?”
She
seems to have difficulty with this question. She chews on her lip, then grabs
my necktie and yanks me forward so she can scour my mouth with her tongue. Then
she pulls away, pats my tie back into place and says, “Yes.”
I
like this game very much, so I decide to play along. I take a long swallow from
my beer.
“So,
Mimi. When does Rodolfo get a look at that fine white ass of yours?”
“Ooh!”
She squirms in her seat. “I would really
like that. How’s Wednesday?”
Double-take.
Double-take. “Wednesday? Really?”
“Sadly,
yes. Right now, I shouldn’t even be doing this.
If we did that, we’d be looking at
some major lack of sleep, and I’ve got performances Sunday and Tuesday. I can’t
take the chance.”
“Wow.”
“It’s
the opera life. Constant health paranoia. The human voice is a fickle
instrument. I wish I was a nice sturdy cello.”
I
gaze at the pinball ringleader, top-hatted, redcoated, frozen in a grand
gesture.
“It’s
not the wait so much. I had only planned a certain amount of time and money for
this trip. I gotta get back.”
Maddie
sits back and taps a fingernail against her teeth.
“Former
nail chewer?”
“Oh,”
she says. “Terrible. I can’t help you on time. Wednesday is non-negotiable. But
Wednesday is the Fourth of July,
you’ll recall, and I think your boss should show a little respect for his new
country.”
I
laugh. “I’ll be sure and tell him that.”
“But
money-wise, I think I can get you free lodging, and a little spending cash.”
“Really?”
“That
is, if you know anything about staining decks.”
“Boy,
do I.”
I
am now the exiled boyfriend, and a bit of a CIA operative. I spend a second
night in Tacoma, and then, following detailed instructions, I tootle northward
up the Kitsap Peninsula to Bainbridge Island. I end up in a jolly little harbor
town called Winslow, where I head for the waterfront, and a brick coffeehouse
called the Pegasus. I order an Oregon chai, settle onto a chair and give my La Bohème program a prominent place on
my table. (This is my “tell,” or my “marker,” I forget my film noir lingo.) A
short while later, I am overshadowed by a bald, burly man in a motorcycle
jacket and riding chaps. He’s got a finely trimmed silver goatee, the kind worn
by operatic villains. Perhaps Sparafucile, the hired assassin from Rigoletto.
“I’m
guessing you might be Mickey Siskel.” His voice is remarkably clear and
resonant, a high baritone that would do well for a radio DJ.
“And
you are most likely Bill Harness.”
“Good
to meet you,” he says. “I find it hard to believe that Maddalena Hart is acting
as my general contractor. Perhaps Placido Domingo will do my taxes.”
“I
think Maddie could do anything she sets her mind to.”
Bill
gives me a crafty smile. “Especially when she’s in love.”
“She…
She said that?”
“No.
But I’m familiar with the symptoms.”
“Oh.
Okay. Should we get going?”
“No,
no. Finish your drink first.”
“That’s
why I got it in a paper cup. I’m feeling pretty restless.”
“That’s
another of the symptoms.”
“Okay.
You got me.”
I walk
with Bill to the parking lot, then drive behind him as he leads the way on his
Harley. We stay along the eastern edge of the island, the Seattle skyline
peeking through the trees, and pull to the side just before the road swings
left. Straight ahead, down a steep decline, is a beachside park spotted here
and there with tents and RVs.
Bill
takes off his brain-bucket and walks me through a gate in a split-rail fence.
Past a wide front lawn is a sprawling ranch-style house with conspicuous
Italianate touches: a Romanesque arch over the front door, a statue of Cupid
next to a fountain, and a wysteria-covered arbor supported by scalloped
pillars. Across from the main house are four small cottages, painted in shades
of pastel.
“Nice
place,” I say.
Bill
smiles. “We like it. It’s the Villa d’Umbra, an home for wayward opera singers.
Maestro d’Umbra was Gabriella’s voice teacher. Once worked with Puccini. Passed
away five years ago and gave me the task of running his estate.”
“Gabriella?”
“Musetta,
yes. She’s certainly my Musetta.”
“She’s
amazing.”
“Preaching
to the choir, son. That girl saved my soul. I’ll tell you about it sometime
when we have six or seven free hours. Meanwhile, why don’t we visit the
patient?”
Bill
leads me behind the house to a sprawling field covered in wild grass. At the
far end is a low line of cedars, and beyond that the Puget Sound. There’s
something vaguely unusual about the field – some man-made presence.
“That’s
it,” says Bill.
“Umm…”
I shade my eyes and look harder. “That’s what?”
“We
call it Maestro’s labyrinth. Although I’m proud to say that I built it myself.
Let’s get closer so you can make it out.”
Twenty
feet further, we arrive at a small circular deck.
“People
get the wrong idea about labyrinths,” says Bill. “They’re not designed to get
you lost. That’s a maze. Labyrinths are designed to get you found. By forcing
you to focus on a tightly proscribed path. Maestro had his students walk it
before each lesson.”
The
circular deck is, in fact, a starting point. A narrow walkway of planks leads
away and then veers into a series of loops and meanders that seem to culminate
in a second circle, capped by a belvedere. The reason I couldn’t see all of
this before is that it’s gray with age, and is blending with the surrounding vegetation.
“They
say that the center of a labyrinth is the meeting place of heaven and earth. I
always know when Gabriella arrives there, because she celebrates by bursting
into song. And that is not a sound
that one is likely to miss.”
“Not
at all.”
“We
put some sort of sealant on it, but obviously we’ve let it go far too long.
Maddie tells me you’re just the man to bring it back to life.”
“At
last count, 600 decks.”
“Egad!
In any case, we can take a trip to the store later to get the stain and any necessary
equipment. But if you’re up for it you can start right away, because I borrowed
Cordell’s pressure washer. Cordell is rather fixated on that thing, actually.
He says it’s that final spurt when you shut it off; it reminds him of
ejaculation.”
The
image sends me into a fit of laughter. “Oh my god! I know exactly what he
means.”
“Well,”
Bill chortles. “I suppose you’re familiar with the equipment. Both kinds.”
“That
I am.”
It’s
a sunny day, small clouds scudding along like a herd of white bison, and I am
full of energy. After loading my clothes into the guest cottage, I don my
oldest pair of shorts and the Wellies (feeling very fortunate that I decided to
bring them along) and I set to work. The wood is fully oxidized and mossed up,
creating a marvelous transformation under the spray. I wash the labyrinth in
the same way that it’s walked, and I do feel a sense of its meditative powers.
At the end of four hours I’m finished, and I celebrate at the meeting of heaven
and earth by breaking into the cooler of beer that Bill has generously
delivered.
It’s
only four o’clock, and Bill is off on errands, so I decide that it’s time to
get to that review. I pack a notebook, a couple of pens and Grove’s Book of Opera and take a drive
to the Pegasus, where an enormous iced coffee offers all the right categories
of refreshment.
I’m
not usually into public writing – being prone to distraction – but the Pegasus
has a tree-shaded back patio, and if you crane your neck you can see the
sailboats in the harbor. The seclusion enables me to lay down a sloppy-quick
first draft. The number-one cause of writer’s block is the attempt to write
golden prose on a first foray, and I swear I’m at my best when I’m at my worst.
What
happens next causes me to believe that I have become one of those people who
can conjure people from thin air simply by writing about them. Out walks a
tall, willowy woman with freckles and short red hair.
“How
did I make out?”
“Musetta!”
“Marcello!”
she sings, and laughs. “I didn’t want to interrupt you, but it looks like
you’re wrapping up.”
“Yes.
Pull up a chair.”
She
sits across from me in blue jeans and a green T-shirt, and extends a hand.
“Gabriella.”
“Mickey.
But… how do you know me by appearance?”
She
smiles shyly. “Maddie was pointing you out at the reception. Acting like a
little schoolgirl. She’s got a thing
for you.”
“Yes.
I get a lot of that. And I wish someone would explain it to me.”
Gabriella taps a finger on her
temple. “This may be hard for you to understand, but even though we do this
glamorous thing, it’s still a J-O-B. And afterwards, we’re normal women, and
we’re attracted to certain men for all the same inexplicable reasons as other
women. Apropos of nothing, the deck looks fantastic.”
“Thanks!
Wait till I get some stain on it.”
Her
eyes settle on the high evergreen ridge above the harbor.
“It
actually makes me a little sad. Maestro loved that labyrinth. He was 97 when he
passed away, so I can’t be too sad,
but… I miss him.”
“He
must have had a profound effect on you.”
“Oh!
Everything. When Puccini was dying of throat cancer, he hired Maestro to
demonstrate vocal lines to his students. So really, every line I sing in this
Bohème comes directly from the composer.”
“Wow.”
“I’ve got several of Maestro’s old
scores, with notes from Puccini in the margins.”
“Can
I see them?”
“Sure!
I’ll show you tonight. But only if you tell me what you wrote about me.”
I
laugh nervously. “You remind me of this Jewish lady in Palo Alto. She comes up
to me at intermission and says, ‘So, Mister Opera Critic – what do you think?’”
“Nice
try, Mickey. Now tell me what you wrote.”
“Man!
You’re tough.”
“All
sopranos are tough.”
I
take a sip from my iced coffee.
“I
wrote that your voice has a shimmering brilliance, and I like the fact that you
sing Musetta with an unabashedly bel canto canary-voice, an approach that is
needlessly underrated.”
She
slants her eyes at me. “And yet my signature role is Tosca.”
“Really?”
“Yes.
Too many sopranos are bent on being Butterfly or Tosca or Aida all the time.
They seem to view Musetta as some kind of audition for those heavier roles, so
they try to turn her into a goddamn Brunnhilde. Let’s face it, Musetta is a
high-priced hooker, and utterly superficial – so why not sing her that way? And
later, when she takes off the courtesan stage-face and turns into a true and
caring friend, the contrast is that much deeper.”
“Like
a well-weathered deck.”
“Huh?”
“I
mean - absolutely!”
“Let
me tell you a Maestro story. Puccini was obsessed with America. That’s why he
turned Pinkerton from a Dutch sailor to an American sailor, why he inserted the
Star Spangled Banner into the score for Butterfly.
And why he wrote The Girl of the Golden
West. When Maestro came to the United States, he felt like he was living
out Puccini’s cowboy dreams. And why he built an Italian ranch house, for God’s
sake, and put those split-rail fences in the front yard. So one time I asked
him, ‘Why doesn’t Fanciulla del West
get produced more often?’ And he said, ‘Because the soprano must have eight balls.’”
She
says this with a deep Italian accent and the face of a basset hound.
“You are quite the mimic.”
“Maestro’s
voice is part of me. I hear it when I’m performing.”
I
lean back and hear Gabriella singing Musetta’s Waltz – the final cadenza,
ending with one of those marvelous accelerating trills, like she’s cranking it
with a gas pedal.
“So
where does Bill fit in?”
Gabriella
lets out a chirp of laughter, just like Musetta.
“I
get that a lot. He was a tenor. Sang
Trovatore at the Met. But his career was cut short by family tragedies. The
last of those tragedies left him a mess, and that’s when I met him. My voice
was the light at the end of his tunnel. I needed his tragedies. I needed
something to feel when I sang. This Hell’s Angel phase is only a couple years
old. When his hairline got down to that Friar Tuck thing, he said, ‘Screw it,
I’m shaving it all.’ When he saw how cool he looked, he sorta bunched that
together with all his emotional scars, and next thing you know he’s buying a Harley.”
“I
like the combination. I do some of that tough guy/sensitive guy thing myself.
It really messes with people.”
“Well
I can’t wait to see your review. Maddie says they’re like little opera poems.”
I
raise my hands like I’m fighting off giant mosquitoes. “Pressure! Pressure!”
“Do
Lucia di Lammermoor and then talk to me about pressure, buddyboy.”
“No thank you. Speaking of, do you
know of a library hereabouts with computers?”
“Bosh!
We have a computer at the villa. Especially if you’re going to write nice
things about me.”
“Gabriella,
if I wasn’t so gaga for Mimi, I’d be asking you to dinner right now.”
“Actually,
I’m taking you to dinner.”
Bill
has a light Italian dinner waiting for us: chicken parmigiana, bowtie pasta
with herbs and butter and assorted greens with raspberry vinaigrette.
Afterwards, I grab a cup of coffee and retreat to the computer room. Here’s
what I come up with:
Doria
Manfredi was a teenage housemaid at Giacomo Puccini’s villa in Torre del Lago.
In the summer, when it got too hot, she would do her ironing in the evening, as
Puccini worked on Fanciulla del West.
One evening, the composer took a break to enjoy a cigar, and had a brief chat
with Doria in the garden. Doria lost her father early in life, and probably
enjoyed the company of an older man.
Elvira
Puccini heard the voices beneath her window and made an enormous assumption.
She became convinced that Doria was staying late in order to make love to her
husband. Her suspicions were not entirely unfounded; Puccini’s philandering was
well-known. Elvira fired Doria, and spent the autumn publicly denouncing the
girl as a slut. What’s worse, everyone believed her. Puccini tried to get his
wife to stop these accusations, but with no success. On Christmas morning,
Elvira confronted Doria at mass and threatened to kill her.
Haunted
and sick, Doria purchased a bottle of mercuric chloride, a corrosive
disinfectant, and swallowed three tablets. The stomach cramps began
immediately, followed by five days of riveting pain. In her suicide note, she
asked for revenge on Elvira, and clemency for Puccini, who had done nothing
wrong.
The
town gossips disagreed, and concluded that Doria had died of a botched
abortion. The authorities ordered an autopsy, to be conducted in the presence
of witnesses. The autopsy revealed that Doria died a virgin.
For
a composer who gained his greatest success in the tender destruction of his
heroines – Butterfly’s hari-kari, Tosca’s leap from the parapet, Mimi’s slow
wasting away – this murder-by-rumor must have been a crushing blow. It’s
interesting to note that his two remaining prima donnas – Turandot and Fanciulla’s Minnie – remained alive at
the final curtain.
The
first of Puccini’s beloved victims – Mimi of La Bohème – was apparently based on a friend from his own
starving-artist period in Milan, a friend who also died young. In Seattle
Opera’s production, soprano Maddalena Hart portrays Mimi’s decline in a
profoundly intelligent fashion, using concrete musical choices to play on the
heartstrings of her audience, almost on a subterranean level.
[Track
5]
Hart
is well-known for the range of her roles – from the creamy lyricism of Manon
and Figaro’s Contessa to heavier
figures like Lady Macbeth and Tosca. As Mimi, she begins with a shimmering
lyric tone that accentuates the optimism of “Mi chiamano Mimi” and the duet
with Rodolfo, “O soave fanciulla.” By the second act at the tollgate, as she
and Rodolfo fight off the specter of her sickness, her tone is more of a lirico spinto, darker, edgier. By the finale,
with its ominous lower range and monotone “death lines,” Hart’s voice is as
deep and sultry as a mezzo’s. It’s almost as if Seattle has hired a trio of
identical sopranos to play three different Mimis.
[Track
6]
Seattle’s
Musetta, Gabriella Compton, achieved a similar end by using utterly opposite
means. Known to possess a palette of tonal colors almost as expansive as
Hart’s, Compton intentionally limits herself to a light Rossinian lyric, which
emphasizes the superficial charms that make Musetta, after all, so much fun.
This serves to increase the contrast between Musetta and Mimi, and to make it
that much more poignant when the superficial courtesan reveals her true self, a
dedicated and loving friend. Among the Parisian artists of La Bohème, Friday’s performance offered a virtuosic display of
vocal painting.
As
I punch the review into my blog – accompanied by a photo of Musetta comforting
Mimi on her death bed – I hear a startling sound, and I look out the window to
find Gabriella, her hands raised to the sky. Having achieved the center of the
labyrinth, she has burst into song. I search my data banks and come up with the
Ave Maria from Otello.
The
comments crew is a little slow in responding. Perhaps they have all gotten
lives. A half hour later, as I’m composing an email to Colin requesting a
vacation extension, Cordell chimes in.
C: Mickey! I am amazed at this story – even more
amazed that I have never heard it before. And with your thoughts on coloration
you are once again yanking thoughts from my subconscious and giving them
definition. I thank you, I thank you.
M: Fantastic meeting you in person, Cordell. And
thank you for that special delivery at the fountain.
C: Ha! I picture myself as Rigoletto, hauling Gilda
in a burlap sack. Anything I can do to help out a couple of lost heteros. Oh,
and try not to think too much about that pressure-washer thing.
M: Every time I shut it off, I get the urge to light
up a cigarette. Seriously, though, thanks for letting us use it. That extended
wand is a real back-saver.
C: Oh, length is always
good. (I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.)
Another
45 minutes go by. I have discovered an antique pint of ice cream in the
freezer. I think it’s mint chip. I am just about to dig in when the chime goes
off again.
Mad Huntress: Great. Your Doria story has me crying
all over again. Perhaps this is payback for all the weeping I will be causing
tomorrow. Your insights are as brilliant as ever – and yes, my tonal intentions
were just as you described. I cannot wait to see you. I cannot wait. Did I
mention I cannot wait?
M: Bless you, Huntress. I am your happy prey, and
your ecstatic listener.
Cordell: Shew! Getting a little thick around here.
M: Screw you, old man!
C: Promises, promises.
The
weather over Sunday and Monday is overcast but not wet, absolutely perfect for
decking. I assemble the proper combination of trolley, tray and
thousand-bristle brush and set to work. During my breaks, I find blackberries
going purply ripe on the vine, and I spot several garter snakes. I even manage
to catch one, until he employs that lovely garterish trick of urinating
himself.
At
seven o’clock on Monday, I arrive at the meeting of heaven and earth. I stand
before a three-foot center plank, sweep it with a second coat of golden tan,
turn to take a full survey of my finished product, and I sing “The Joker” by
Steve Miller.
On
Tuesday, the final day of my Maddiefast, I take a drive toward the Olympic
Mountains and split off north to Port Townsend. It’s a divine little town, with
a shopping district of historic brick buildings. I check in at a restaurant for
a meal of grilled trout.
Wednesday
rises under patriotic sunshine and I wake at six, wired by hormones. The only
thing to do is hike to the Pegasus for a cappuccino, but it turns out they’re
closed for the holiday. So I hike along the harbor to the ferry station, watch
a couple of ships come in, then make my way back to the villa. When I return, I
find Bill on the front lawn, wearing white shorts and a white golf shirt like a
cast member from Gatsby: The Musical.
Having seen him only in riding leathers, I find this pretty amusing.
“Mickey,
old boy! Help a bruthuh out, would you?”
“Sure.”
“I
need to lay out a croquet course for the party.”
“Croquet?
How Kennedyesque.”
“By
the way, the deck is astounding.”
“Glad
you like it.”
“I
want you to accept this.” He hands me a bill featuring Benjamin Franklin.
“No,
no really, I was happy to…”
“Not
my money, Mickey. The foundation’s. And, this little barter of ours saved me a
thousand bucks. And, you probably
need gas money to get home.”
“You
are right on all counts.” I fold Ben in two and stick him in my pocket.
We
manage to construct a decent course and give it a trial run, having no idea of
rules other than shooting the ball thingies through the hoop thingies. Having
some facility with the striking of balls, I give Bill a sound thumping. As I
strike the ball thingy against the final stake-thingy, I turn to discover
Maddalena Hart, the opera star, ascending the front walk in a white sundress
and one of those goofy, floppy wide-brimmed hats. She stops three feet away,
fixes me with an irritated stare, and holds out a hand.
“Give
me that mallet.”
I
stand there, blank.
“Now!”
I
hand it over. She takes it and tosses it over her shoulder.
“And
they say opera singers can’t act.” She gives me a lengthy kiss, then peers at
something past my shoulder.
“What’re
you looking at, Harness?”
“A
woman in love,” says Bill.
“Maybe.”
“How
was the opera?” I ask.
She
smiles.
“Fantastic!
But you saw the cast. Nothing but blue-ribbon performers. Makes things so easy. But let’s see your work.”
We
walk through the courtyard and around to the back. She lets out a gasp.
“Darling!
It’s magnificent. It’s… golden.”
“Golden
tan,” I say. “Cabot stain. A blue-ribbon performer. I’ve never quite been able
to figure out, but it makes old redwood look like new hardwood: oak, pine,
maple.”
“It’s
like a big piece of Celtic jewelry. Is it too early to walk on it?”
“Not
at all.”
“Come
with?”
My
answer surprises me. “No. You should walk it alone. You’ve got a lot of Mimi to
shed. One thing, though. When you get to the center, you have to sing
something. That’s what Gabriella does.”
She
laughs. “Great! More performance anxiety.” She gives me a kiss and steps up to
the first circle. Bill comes up next to me.
“She
walks in beauty like the night of cloudless climes and starry skies.”
I
can play this game. “And all that’s best of dark and light meet in her aspect
and her eyes.”
“You,”
says Bill, “are the luckiest man on Earth.”
“I
know.”
“Uh-oh.
More guests. I’d better go play master of ceremonies.”
[Track
7]
I watch Maddie until she
achieves the center and sings the first section of Doretta’s Song (more
Puccini). After several smooches under the green pods of the wysteria, we
return to the front yard and encounter a majority of the cast: Marcello,
Colline, Rodolfo, Musetta, Schaunard, Speight Jenkins, plus Cordell and a young
friend. We while away the afternoon drinking planter’s punch, dining on finger
sandwiches, deviled eggs and chocolate chip cookies, and playing a drunken
bastardization of croquet. Groups of two and three take off at regular
intervals to walk the labyrinth, and every few minutes we’re treated to a new
aria. Marcello and Rodolfo sing the entirety of that famous duet from Bizet’s The Pearl Fishers, and Maddie leans over
to whisper the title: “Au fond du temple saint.”
The
sun is nearing the jagged tips of the Olympics. The members of the party break
into squads of three and four and car-pool to the harbor, where we navigate a
few lengths of pierage to a mid-sized yacht called the Cavaradossi (the name of
Tosca’s painter-lover). Bill takes the wheel, backs us out of our moorage and
steers us into the Puget Sound.
Maddie
and I find a bench and settle in, alternating between dreamy gazings at the
Seattle skyline and old-school teenage makeout sessions. The mist and wind make
it a chilly spot, but the seclusion is well worth the price.
As
the sunlight fades into stripes of orange and royal blue, we slip into a long
channel north of the city and join the nautical equivalent of rush hour
traffic. We pass through the city of Ballard, wait for a good long time at the
Fremont drawbridge and pass under a soaring span between the Fremont and Queen
Anne hills. Trying to orient myself, I recall that the southern side of Queen
Anne abuts the Seattle Center and its lovely new opera house.
The water widens to a lake,
and it seems that we are sailing directly into the city: the downtown
skyscrapers and Space Needle to our south, Capitol Hill directly before us, and
the I-5 bridge, taking its long shot north toward the University of Washington.
In a citifed sort of way, it feels tremendously cozy, a sensation intensified
by the wide field of boats, shuttling into place like Christmas shoppers in a
parking lot. Directly to the north, pedestrians mill the fields of a park,
bursting forth here and there with do-it-yourself explosives. Maddie pulls me
to the prow, the wind whipping through her hair.
“This
is Lake Union. Man-made. There’s a tremendous lake on the east of the city:
Lake Washington. They dug a channel from there to the Puget Sound, and Lake
Union was a lovely little by-product.”
“It’s
gorgeous here.”
“Wait’ll
you see it with fireworks. Speaking of…”
She
leaves her words dangling like a through-composed aria (trust me on this) and
leads me to a side door, which opens on a set of steps descending to a cabin
lined with wooden panels and bunks. Maddie nudges me inside, then locks the
door behind us.
“Okay,”
she says. “I have an unusual request. I want you to stare at my chest.”
“Really.”
“Stop
looking at my eyes! Pig.”
I
do as instructed (why the hell not?), bending my knees in order to bring
Maddie’s tits to eye level. She slips a hand behind her back, undoes the clasp
of her bra then slips it out through the top of her sundress.
“Now,”
she says. “Don’t touch until I say so.”
She
releases the straps from either shoulder and slips the dress slowly down. Her
breasts are medium-sized (half a casaba), milk white, modest enough that they
have retained a pleasantly round shape. Her aureolae are peach, size of a
Kennedy half-dollar, her nipples pink and distinctly erect. She crosses her
arms beneath them, holding her dress at waist level, then cups her hands beneath
each one, offering them like gifts. I am going mad taking in visual
information.
“Do
you approve?”
“Bravi!”
She
smiles, her face flushing.
“Then
touch them.”
I
run my pinkie around a nipple and then cup a breast in my palm, taking in the
warmth, the spongy texture. I do the same with my left hand, then I bring her
breasts toward each other and take turns sucking each nipple between my lips.
Maddie
takes in a gasp of breath. “I will give you three hours to stop that. You can
be rough with them, if you want.”
I
squeeze a breast, then I stuff it between my lips as deeply as I can, using the
suction at the back of my mouth to pull at her nipple.
“Oh
Jesus!” she sings. “Oh fuck! You’re good.”
After
a minute of this and other manipulations, I take a time-out to enjoy Maddie’s
lips. I’m surprised to feel her hand on my crotch. I grab her hair, run a
tongue into her ear and whisper, “I think it’s time for you to meet someone.”
“Yes,”
she says, and kneels on the floor.
“Now,
don’t touch until I say so.” I undo my belt and lower my pants. My penis is
about as hard as it gets, glowing white in the faint light from outside. Maddie
brings her face inches away and runs her eyes along its length. Now I know how
she felt, this sense of being observed but not touched.
“My,”
says Maddie. “It’s lovely.”
I
am of average size, but blessed in matters of aesthetic quality. My dick looks
like the one in the textbook.
“Thanks,”
I say. “I got it from Mom and Dad on my birthday.”
Maddie
is panting; her breath is wafting over my cock.
“May
I?” she asks.
“Be
my guest.”
She
places a finger at the tip and runs it all the way to the base, then circles
the shaft with her fingers and runs them back to the helmet.
“You
can be rough with it, if you want.”
She
tightens her grip and strokes downward, which feels divine. Then she leans
forward and kisses the tip, pulling it slowly into her mouth like a crescendo
sustenato (trust me on this) till I’m four inches gone. Then she clamps down
with her lips and swirls that virtuosic tongue all the way around. Ec-stasy.
Out of / body. She squeezes my balls and pulls my cock all the way in. Jesus
Christ, Buddha, Krishna and the Seven Dwarfs. I am fucking the album cover.
Then
I hear a gunshot, and I see colors: emerald, lavender, cherry. Maddie pulls me
out and giggles. “Fireworks.”
“Should
we go see them?”
“Don’t
you want me to finish you off?”
“It
takes me a long time to come, honey.”
“Ooh!”
she says. “That could prove beneficial.”
“Smart
girl. I truly hate to say this but, Unhand my penis!”
She
gives my dick one last kiss and addresses it as a separate personage. “Bye,
honey. See you soon.”
I
try my best to tuck myself back into my boxers, and am grateful to know that it
will be dark outside. Maddie has quickly reattached her bra, and is redoing her
lipstick.
“Are
we ready?” she asks.
“One
last thing,” I say, and I give her ass a squeeze. She returns the favor, and we
re-enter the civilized, fully clothed world to explosions of blue and gold.
It’s
me and Maddie Hart, walking the loops of the golden labyrinth. The moonless sky
winks at us through pinholes in the dark blue fabric.
“So
extraordinary, watching the fireworks against the hills of the city. I’ve never
really seen anything like that.”
“It
really was beautiful,” she says. “And absolutely brilliant of Bill to cook up
that bratwurst for us.”
“Good
thing we both had one. Otherwise one of us would have bad breath.”
We
attain the center. She turns to me and grins.
“Are
you going to sing something?” I ask.
“No.
I’m going to take you to our cottage and strip you naked.”
We’re
there in seconds, and take turns removing each other’s clothing. Maddie’s body
is just as I had dreamed: white skin, luxurious curves, a modest layer of fat
to make her fleshy and grippable. I lay her down on my bed and I introduce my
tongue to every square inch, working from face to breast, down her abdomen to
her kneecaps and back to her pubis, covered with a down of blonde. I pull her
legs apart, place a thumb on either labium and part them like the petals of a
flower. I’m running my tongue along her clitoris when she places a hand on the
top of my head.
“Ooh!
Okay. There I’m a little sensitive.”
I
back off and reinitiate by blowing air on her, then giving little flicks with
my tongue. I run my tongue between her labia, gathering her musk, and then I
happen upon the key combination. I take a labium into my mouth, then use
suction to run it in and out between my lips. Maddie begins to moan. I insert a
finger, then two, and she begins to gasp obscenities. Then her legs start to
quiver, she begins to pant, and yells her way into a bucking orgasm. I am
inundated by a rush of moisture; she grabs my head with both hands, signalling
me to slow up. I run my tongue all around, as if I’m licking a wound. A minute
later, as her breathing subsides, I rise onto my elbows and wipe the fluid from
my face.
“Maddie!
Brava!”
She
pulls me forward and gives me a sloppy kiss.
“Is
there anything you’re not good at?”
Funny
she should ask. The penis is a fickle instrument, and right now, distracted by
all the focus on Maddie’s privates, mine has decided to go on strike. These are
the joys of being a fortysomething male with a circumcised cock. Sometimes the
erection doesn’t come back. Katie and I have worked up a repertoire of nasty
maneuvers to get around these occasional bouts – mutual masturbation, private
porn shows – but you can’t just pull out the whole freak show on a first
encounter. I really don’t want to sacrifice the romance quite so soon.
“Mickey?
What’s the matter? Are you… disappointed in me?”
I
curl up next to her and kiss her on the cheek. “Now let’s not even start that. It’s just one of those
things. I find it’s best to go with the flow.”
“But
I’m leaving tomorrow,” she says. “And I so
wanted to fuck you.”
“Stay
here,” I say. “We’ll try in the morning. It’s all right. This is a great start.
I enjoyed feeling you explode.”
She
smiles. Good. She has purchased the gambit.
“That
was awful nice.”
I spend some time spooning, fondling
her breasts, and we drift off to sleep.
I
wake in the morning with my cock in Maddie’s mouth. I’m erect, which gives me
hope, but there’s something about her eagerness that loads me up with anxiety,
and my cock subsides. (“What the hell
is wrong with you?” I want to ask him. He’s like an ornery, ill-performing
employee who refuses to be a team player.)
I
talk Maddie into the kind of gynecological finger-bang that I performed on
Katie, hoping that the sight of my digits surrounded by that broad white ass
will inspire other parts. The nastiness of her position brings Maddie to
another orgasm, but not to the fucking she had so looked forward to. What’s
worse, the clock is running; we have to get to her hotel by noon.
We
both take quickie showers, bid our farewells to Bill and Gabriella and take the
ferry to Seattle. I’m grateful for the crossing, which gives us the luxury of
some stillness amidst the rush, a chance to stand at the rail and slip back
into the romantic gestures of yesterday. I drive into the circle at her hotel –
in the middle of the downtown retail district – and kiss her for as long as I
can. Tourists stream past, completely unaware that I am kissing the world’s
best opera singer. I decide to ignore my failure completely; I thank her for a
wonderful visit, I tell her that she’s a lovely woman, that I am crazy about
her, and that I will see her again soon. I lead her to the elevator – one of
those exposed, glass-walled models, and I watch her rise to the heavens until
the lobby ceiling cuts her off.
I’m
not due at work till Monday, so I take the ferry back to Bainbridge and drive
the long loop of 101 around the Olympics. In the tiny town of Sappho, near the
northwest tip of the contiguous U.S., I stop at a roadside stand and buy a bag
of Rainier cherries, yellow orbs with streaks of red. I chew them down, one by
one, and toss the pits out the window.
Heading
toward a town called Queets I spot the incredibly late nine o’clock sun
hovering over the Pacific and take down the last cherry, having long before
lost my taste for them. I feel my blood vessels filling with regret. Call the
male gender silly, but penetration matters, completeness matters. I had a
chance to be inside of Maddalena Hart, a goddess with whom I may be in love,
and I failed. I am the grasping, opposable-thumbed homo sapien, and I don’t
care about the plateau under my feet, I want that one up there, just out of my
reach. This will bother me all the way down the Northwest coast of the United
States.
Photo by MJV
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