Well, I’ll be leaving Philly tomorrow after a month of Russian opera.
I guess when you’re not paying attention to time, it slips away, like a thief in the night, or something similarly slippery… this is really contingent on whether or not (and why) said thief is slippery.
Ah, yeah, so, whatever. I’m tired, I’ve been reading for the past few hours, I walked around this city all day, and I haven’t showered (not going to until the morning, either, take THAT, Routine). And yeah, so please forgive me if the metaphors aren’t as strong as I’d like.
In other news, I’m going to have to be all business when I get home. I know Michelle is excited to have someone else at home, but I guess she might have to work (???) mid-day, and that means I have to drive her down: joy and happiness. I’m pretty sure that falls right in the middle of my “read and eat lunch” portion of the delightfully color-coded schedule I made myself. I really only wanted to have to head downtown once a day: for lessons, around four. And that would be all… oh well. I guess that’s real life? Run errands, pay for gas, cry when you used your gas money on a Giulio Cesare score, beg pitifully to parent A or B for gas money and/or ask Grandma to invent some yard work. I’ll reiterate, joy and happiness. Not. (This is not that I mind yard work, for the record. I just hate asking for things.)
Oh, and the yard work portion of the program brings me to the next hot and sunny streak of weather: we’ll be doing hay. AKA, Dad will be tractoring, and Michelle and I will be doing hay before Mom gets home so she (hopefully) won’t have to do very much. I’m pretty sure we’re just baling the south field, and not putting it up in the barn, which would be cool, although admittedly not as great of a workout.
I should probably spend some quality time with Buddy once I get back, too. That poor horse has it made– doesn’t have to do a damn thing but eat, sleep, and shit– but he doesn’t get many visitors, unless you count the cats (who could care less), and dad, when he feeds him and cleans stalls. Yeah, I could probably clean the stall when I get back, too… If I find the keys to the tractor you can bet I’m moving that out of the barn and cleaning the actual barn, too. That place is disgusting, and I get that no one wants to hang out in there– too many memories of Poco, and Molley Grace– but come on. We can’t sweep once in a while?
But who am I to talk, really? I spent maybe a couple of hours a week down there last summer, tops, and when I was home in the fall I barely set foot inside. Ghosts of animals, I guess, stick around the longest.
I’m trying to think what else I have to ramble about. That’s what this is– actual rambling, because I’m tired, because I’m sick of stupid facebook and twitter, and especially because I’m sick of netflix. And the light in this dorm room is too crap to read by; in any case, my eyes are tired. Judging by their super-easy fatigue lately, I think I’m going to have to start being more careful about my reading light, and how long I stare at the computer in the dark. Just– yeah.
Speaking of writing, though (even though I’m technically typing of writing… oh, whatever)– I have a June journal nearly completed. It originally started the day I got here, because I wasn’t sure if my roommates were going to be psycho soprano bitches or not, and because I was exhausted from the Happening, and I missed home a little. So I hid out in my room, meticulously organized my stuff, and set up Pages to write.
Six pages later, I went to sleep, and later awoke to discover my awesome roommates, the awesome program and (lack of adjectives, sue me) this awesome city. I started the journal, though, with the intent to show my grandmother what I get up to, once I’m back at home. I still might show her, if she’s interested in reading about it, but I’m pretty sure I’ll have to edit some of my language… doubting she’d appreciate the Fuck word. Still, I tried to be strictly facts unless something about the program upset me (which only happened once or twice, thankfully) or excited me (which happened rather frequently).
Like tonight! (There, I can ramble about Francesca.) Tonight was great. Seriously. It was a story, finally, and it was the coolest thing to see it start to take shape. I found myself wondering why, if Lanceotto loved Francesca so much, why couldn’t he be completely honest with her? I guess he was too prideful– she made him weak, and although he acknowledged that, it made him feel unmanned in the same breath (boys and their penises, whatever). I also wondered why he couldn’t confront his brother directly. As in, “Hey man, I’m pretty sure my legal wife is in love/having a hot, steamy affair with you… Can you confirm? And if you so confirm, can you maybe be polite enough to get the fuck out of here? Thanks, bro.” Or something along those lines.
And Francesca: there is a character that Rachmaninov (or Modest) could have dug into. I’m not saying they didn’t do a great job, because, well, holy shit, the part is awesome. And I guess one could choose to portray her a variety of different ways: demure, stone-faced, pretentious, desperate; she’s really in a tough spot, though. What could have been her options? Run away with Paolo, perhaps– don’t leave your husband to languish in the wake of your infidelity for long. Just like ripping off a band-aid or something. Or, potentially the more honorable thing to do might have been to break things off with Paolo and tell him to get lost, and try to love her husband. I get that she fell in love with Paolo because he was the one sent to greet her, but if she had pushed those feelings aside right off and, I don’t know, tried– maybe it’s just me, but I would have liked a happier ending for these characters.
And, okay, the rambling is going to have to end (forgive me, and thanks, if you’ve gotten this far without rolling your eyes and calling it a day). I walked over four miles today and I’m about ready to call it a day myself. Or a morning, rather, as I suppose it’s closer to one am. Dobrye utra? 
my love like a voice 