all alone

 as the snow closes in.  Has it begun? Yes  it has---I can see it outside my window. That means I am just here for a while. With the computer and books, lots of choices--an all day Beethoven chamber music festival, or some Met old broadcasts or---actually I think I would really like to get back to The Wars of the Roses---Dan Jones' history is clearest of all the ones I have read on the subject. Also I have Emma Smith's Shakespeare book. I have only read one of her critiques---on Much Ado About Nothing. She centers her vision on the male bonding in the play, and how that basically eliminates the women. Reads well, good points. In this book she critiques about twenty of Shakespeare's plays---should check out one or more, soon.

I have just watched the first act of Lohengrin, as it was performed at the Met in 1986. I am amazed at the grandeur and energy of Wagner's music. I have not thought about this opera for a long time. Still, watching it brought back two memories, one from 66 and the other from May of 67. The first was being at the opening night of the Met's new production of then opera in December of 66. It was directed by Wieland Wagner, the composer's grand son, who at that time was artistic director of the Bayreuth festival and was known for his spare, light driven stagings---stripped down so that the contact between the individual characters was pushed forward on the stage. Line readings were really important. The production had a center where all the action took place, surrounded by what looked like stadium seating where the chorus sang from. The chorus never moved. I liked the production---other then placing the chorus the way he did, it was pretty straightforward. Ironically enough, Wieland had died in October of that year---the opera was staged by one of his assistants--it was, to my knowledge, the only production of his that was staged in America. He was only in his late forties when he died--a really sad loss for the world of opera and for someone like me, who was fascinated by  his directing choices.

Late 1966 was not a great time for me. I had left my job with the Department of Welfare, and was trying to figure out my next move. I left because I thought I was ready to audition full time as an actor---but by December I realized that this life style did not work for me. Too many empty days---not enough structure---some part time jobs that were silly or demeaning. It was a great idea---but it just did not work. A few weeks later I became a part time worker at the Post Office--yes, believe it or not, a "great scholar" like myself reduced to sorting mail for a living. But I did not want to be supported by my parents while I looked for acting work (they would have done it---up to a point) so there it was. And it remained so for the rest of the winter and spring. I worked usually from 6 to 10, Monday through Friday--Saturdays I usually saw one or two operas at the Met or City Opera---Sunday morning I stood on line at the Met to get my standing room tickets to whatever opera I wanted to see five weeks from the time. That was how tickets were sold that year; the first at the new house; Standing Room tickets were in great demand, so it was necessary to line up hours before they went on sale at 12 P.M. Sunday. It was quite an experience---the standees who came back week after week were divided into several cliques that never talked to each other. Oh, and there was a roll call at 5A.M., Sunday morning. More on that some other time.

The other time was early May of 67. I was listening to Lohengrin at the Donell Library---very moved by the plight of the heroine of the opera Elsa. In Wagner's creation she is incredibly vulnerable---it is all in the music. I was thinking of J---a senior at Goucher college, who I had become close with my senior year at Hopkins (her freshman). Our relationship should have ended when I left---but it dragged on---or shouldI say I dragged it on. She had a boyfriend but our conversations that year (63-64) were so intense---she seemed so into my talent as a theater artist--well, I could not let go. I had written her a letter asking to visit her at Goucher  one last time---I waited for the answer, It came---a really vicious rebuke---the rage in the letter seemed almost unworldly. Of course, I did the right thing and did not go down. That was the end of our relationship---our paths crossed once as adults---nothing happened. Lohengrin brought back the memory of sitting in the library, thinking of her, linking her to Elsa's sensitivity and waiting.

53 years later (actually 53 years and six months) I am still stunned when I remember the vitriol in that letter--then remember some of the closeness we experienced three years earlier. One tries to put the memories together. Tenderness and vitriol. But since then I have experienced so much, it is fairly easy to put even memories like that in perspective. When this writing is over, I return to my private self--figure out what to read---work on just getting through this snowy night. J, like so many others, simply becomes a figure in a carpet, Who is she now? Does it matter..?  I need to return to my immediate life---finished!