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Stuff I have to do:
Most immediately, add up my receipts, in anticipation of my tax appointment on Tuesday. Steve’s went “well” yesterday, according to him, though he emerged from it owing the government roughly $10,000; he has various plans to deal with this situation, and as long as they don’t immediately affect all the crap I personally have to deal with on a daily basis, I’m perfectly willing to simply not think about it. Also, it’s possible—probably, given other years—that I might get some money back as a refund, so I’m hoping I’ll be able to put that into ING immediately and live off it for a while, as the inevitable roster of expenses grows every more immediate.
Up my daily wordage on Book of Tongues, because Chapter Eight (much as I’m enjoying it) should be fucking done by now. This may be difficult—more difficult than it otherwise might be—because my shoulder, arm and (believe it or not) collarbone ecosystem has been so amazingly thrown off by this stupid burn, which is STILL in the process of healing. OTOH, the difference between how it is now and how it was is monumental; OT(other)H, it continues to look like a lovely cross between pizza (albeit a far smaller piece) and a rotting hole in the top of my hand. Not having to wrap it quite so consistently is definitely helping, though, because even that relatively minor separation between thumb and hand was making my shoulder feel like it was trying to corkscrew out of the flesh surrounding it. The last damn thing I need right now is carpal tunnel (or whatever), especially since I feel like I’m going to have to raise the bar to 1,000 per day, minimum, just to keep up.
Stuff I’d like to do, instead:
Talk about the amazing version of Puccini’s Madama Butterfly my Mom took me to see, via the Scotiabank’s Saturdays at the Met programme. It was directed by Anthony Minghella, just before he died, and combined a gorgeous sense of operatic spectacle with a very cinematic sense of emotional intimacy. In an attempt to get around the whole M. Butterfly, this-is-a-white-people’s-story-about-Japanese-people-ness of the basic concept, they made sure to put as much “actual” Japanese culture in it as possible—it began, for instance, with a geisha fan-dance so simply, elegantly beautiful that tears began leaking from my eyes for no reason whatsoever—I find it difficult to think that anybody aside from a deluded Frenchman could ever exit this narrative thinking Pinkerton is anything but a complete ass at best, asshole at worst; this is very much Cho Cho San’s story, and Patricia Racette makes her a real Gong Li part, feisty and driven and totally out of her depth. Her spasmic attempt to escape her own hidebound, sexist culture by attaching herself to a guy whose culture (while excitingly “young” and willful) turns out to be jejeune, exploitatively imperialistic and equally sexist is the heart of the tragedy, but she goes down fighting all the way. (I also loved how Cho Cho San’s servant, Suzuki, becomes a constant presence, sometimes silent but never absent, whose open face tells us the things Cho Cho San’s increasingly inflexible Noh-mask won’t.)
Also: Two instances of bunraku puppetry, used to brilliant effect—one where Cho Cho San dreams a version of her marriage to Pinkerton (played by a male dancer), in which her tiny, stiff fragility and his overwhelming rude strength are parodically stripped to their most disturbing essence, and one in which her son is played by a puppet whose three supporting puppeteers fade from the memory with startling swiftness. It’s such a sweet, human illusion, and reminds me of my Dad telling me about an Australian stage version—Butterfly as Brechtian musical—in which the younger Cho Cho San was also a puppet, and at the climax of their wedding night, the man playing Pinkerton literally ripped her apart.
So yeah, that was a really great post-birthday present, even though I cried almost constantly (particularly in Act II, which starts with "Un Bel Di", for Christ's sake). And then Steve and I went out for Moroccan food and Mom took Cal overnight, and today we visited friends, and I bought two alternate bras. Good weekend.
Next: Organize the Golem poem response. Make my 1,000.
Amended to add: Forgot about J.G. Ballard dying. I guess it's sort of creepy that I immediately thought of what effect that might have on whatever I do with later iteration of the "Emperor's Old Bones" fallout 'verse, but I did want to say that I had mad respect for the actual man himself, his apocalyptic dreams and tiny, pornocentric obsessions alike. What a true poet of the odd and absurd. I miss him already.
Most immediately, add up my receipts, in anticipation of my tax appointment on Tuesday. Steve’s went “well” yesterday, according to him, though he emerged from it owing the government roughly $10,000; he has various plans to deal with this situation, and as long as they don’t immediately affect all the crap I personally have to deal with on a daily basis, I’m perfectly willing to simply not think about it. Also, it’s possible—probably, given other years—that I might get some money back as a refund, so I’m hoping I’ll be able to put that into ING immediately and live off it for a while, as the inevitable roster of expenses grows every more immediate.
Up my daily wordage on Book of Tongues, because Chapter Eight (much as I’m enjoying it) should be fucking done by now. This may be difficult—more difficult than it otherwise might be—because my shoulder, arm and (believe it or not) collarbone ecosystem has been so amazingly thrown off by this stupid burn, which is STILL in the process of healing. OTOH, the difference between how it is now and how it was is monumental; OT(other)H, it continues to look like a lovely cross between pizza (albeit a far smaller piece) and a rotting hole in the top of my hand. Not having to wrap it quite so consistently is definitely helping, though, because even that relatively minor separation between thumb and hand was making my shoulder feel like it was trying to corkscrew out of the flesh surrounding it. The last damn thing I need right now is carpal tunnel (or whatever), especially since I feel like I’m going to have to raise the bar to 1,000 per day, minimum, just to keep up.
Stuff I’d like to do, instead:
Talk about the amazing version of Puccini’s Madama Butterfly my Mom took me to see, via the Scotiabank’s Saturdays at the Met programme. It was directed by Anthony Minghella, just before he died, and combined a gorgeous sense of operatic spectacle with a very cinematic sense of emotional intimacy. In an attempt to get around the whole M. Butterfly, this-is-a-white-people’s-story-about-Japanese-people-ness of the basic concept, they made sure to put as much “actual” Japanese culture in it as possible—it began, for instance, with a geisha fan-dance so simply, elegantly beautiful that tears began leaking from my eyes for no reason whatsoever—I find it difficult to think that anybody aside from a deluded Frenchman could ever exit this narrative thinking Pinkerton is anything but a complete ass at best, asshole at worst; this is very much Cho Cho San’s story, and Patricia Racette makes her a real Gong Li part, feisty and driven and totally out of her depth. Her spasmic attempt to escape her own hidebound, sexist culture by attaching herself to a guy whose culture (while excitingly “young” and willful) turns out to be jejeune, exploitatively imperialistic and equally sexist is the heart of the tragedy, but she goes down fighting all the way. (I also loved how Cho Cho San’s servant, Suzuki, becomes a constant presence, sometimes silent but never absent, whose open face tells us the things Cho Cho San’s increasingly inflexible Noh-mask won’t.)
Also: Two instances of bunraku puppetry, used to brilliant effect—one where Cho Cho San dreams a version of her marriage to Pinkerton (played by a male dancer), in which her tiny, stiff fragility and his overwhelming rude strength are parodically stripped to their most disturbing essence, and one in which her son is played by a puppet whose three supporting puppeteers fade from the memory with startling swiftness. It’s such a sweet, human illusion, and reminds me of my Dad telling me about an Australian stage version—Butterfly as Brechtian musical—in which the younger Cho Cho San was also a puppet, and at the climax of their wedding night, the man playing Pinkerton literally ripped her apart.
So yeah, that was a really great post-birthday present, even though I cried almost constantly (particularly in Act II, which starts with "Un Bel Di", for Christ's sake). And then Steve and I went out for Moroccan food and Mom took Cal overnight, and today we visited friends, and I bought two alternate bras. Good weekend.
Next: Organize the Golem poem response. Make my 1,000.
Amended to add: Forgot about J.G. Ballard dying. I guess it's sort of creepy that I immediately thought of what effect that might have on whatever I do with later iteration of the "Emperor's Old Bones" fallout 'verse, but I did want to say that I had mad respect for the actual man himself, his apocalyptic dreams and tiny, pornocentric obsessions alike. What a true poet of the odd and absurd. I miss him already.
