My Buddy and Me

It was last fall when someone insisted that I look into opera. I had a passing interest in it, as it certainly was cherished by people I knew and loved, as well as those I admired. But this British girl I spent a weekend in Burgandy with was nuts for opera; she was one of those people who saw regular opera tickets as a yearly expense that had to be accounted for. Indeed, these are yearly budget items as the tickets go for 150 dollars, which is a steep fee even for lazy intellectuals.

Lo and behold, the crew of the Metropolitan Opera is bringing itself out and into the parks of all five New York Burroughs, as well as a couple of cities in New Jersey. For ten days, you can put yourself on subways and trains and be delivered to free opera music. If you have no special plans, this could be your salvation to an interesting and heartfelt weekend.

Friday's opera took place in Pehlam Bay Park, way up in the Bronx. It's at the end of a subway line, taking about 35 minutes to get to from central Manhattan. It was the perfect opportunity to see opera and to visit a corner of this city that I would usually pass over.

Well, there's nothing like reading a subway map wrong to make the journey longer. Beceause of this and because of the 2 hours on the phone with customer service people, I was running quite late. When I arrived at the last stop, I was the only one in my subway car. I had to fight back the feeling that I had read the schedule wrong, that the opera was coming there on Saturday. This would not be out of place, as I had missed several events in the last couple of years due to a carelessness with dates and times. Since I had rode the subway to the end of the line, though, I was going to march through the park listening for the sounds of opera. After a few uncertain minutes of marching, I was sure I could see lights and hear a couple strains of music. Then, I finally saw the back of the stage and could see where I needed to go.

At that moment, there was a woman in front of me getting advice from a friendly looking character. I don't want to sound vague, but I couldn't tell the advice giver's sex or sanity until I asked him which way I should go. It turned out that he was a he and was living in the park, picking up trash and taking donations from anyone who cared. A portly young man with a heavy step, he had moved up from Little Rock, Arkansas a week before to settle in this far off part of the Bronx. He said it would be nice to have a few dollars to eat something. He said this a couple of times. Since I had brought a full meal with me, I told him I'd split it with him, and in turn he would show me where the opera was. When we got to the opera he decided to sit there with me and talk about his comings and goings while I passed food and drink to him. Honestly, I didn't know what I felt like more, listening to him or the opera, so I divided my interest and appeared only half-concerned with each one.

It's about reactions versus observations. Normally at a musical event, whether it's a hyped up band, a jazz combo, or an opera, is something I observe and then maybe carry some of the chords with me for days to come. It doesn't often stir the core of my being. Reactions, though, are out of my control and they come and leave me baffled. For instance, several winters ago in Lawrence I was walking to the record store and happened to pass by a homeless guy lying in a doorway with a rough blanket wrapped about him. The thought went through my head that there was hardly difference between me and him, that without family support I would be capable of nothing more than to find places to lie, hoping for sleep. With this came a powerful , frightening feeling that made this idea seem undeniably true. It ruined the rest of my day, ruined the date I had that night, and made everything difficult for a few months. Since then my feelings on this have never changed. Ever since I can remember, I am marked with more instability than stability, my feelings are out-of-control, and I have few social skills that allow me to progress in culturally defined ways. I am not a productive, interactive member of society, but I am always hanging on the edge. I even hang out with a large, successful family, and even there it's by social graces that I'm let in the door.

Opera didn't really interest him, but he was glad that it was for free. He had a lot of concerns for a person so unbound to the usual burdens of life, and he informed me or the park staff about them. He told me about the high security that the opera must've had because the instruments were so expensive, then he turned to a passing parks worker to warn him about a fire someone built. He was keeping active and including everyone else in on it. Then he showed me how he made his money: selling glo-necklaces and little blinking charms. I couldn't very excited about it so I asked him how the sales were and if he had a good pitch. I have always held that the best sales people are loud, funny, and sometimes sing songs, but he eshewed those ways by standing in front of people and steadily stammering out how he had some things that might be of interest to them. With the opera going, though, I didn't feel like talking business. Besides, I was starting to think that I should be selling trinkets on the street. I'm not a successful salesperson, why should I get to be in such a lucrative sales job? Society should pull me back down to the ground floor, imploring anyone and everyone to take a look at what I have in my hand. Seeing as how I wasn't going to buy one of his doo-dads, he carted off, saying he'd be back. The opera was ending, and a chord jumped out of the finale that made hold back some tears. This is a problem with music that I often forget about: sometimes it catches me off guard, upsetting the balance and making my dull broodiness shake with new life. It's the pain that makes you feel in with the suffering of everyone on earth.

When I write in the blog, it's usually things I've kept secret from most people. I feel like everything needs to be expressed, and the only way that seems to work, where people tell me that they understood, is through writing.

posted by Wellsmus @ 11:52 PM