beautiful singing

Vienna was the only European city that immediately struck me to be one that I could live in. In retrospect, I could live in any of them; but then retrospect has always been the best looking glass through which to find beauty. But Vienna was the only one near-at-hand to Home: A tad lazy, but just enough to keep me warm and fed and contented when my head hits the pillow at the end of the day.

My favourite place was the State Opera House. I am not cultured, nor wise about these things. And I don't particularly desire to be, either. I am happy not to know how long the wine I'm drinking has aged, or what type of oak it was barrelled in. So long as it doesn't give me heartburn, or too severe a hangover the next morning. A free bird, or apathetic? Each a side of my coin; though still one coin, surely.

The only time I ever willingly listen to classical music is on the airplane. I'm not a good flyer, digging my nails into the hand of the person next to me on take-off. Even when I travel alone, I think of asking the married suit who's next to me if he will agree to be the last person I kiss as we go down together in a fiery inferno. Strangers, together by chance alone; unrequested, but necessary nonetheless. Though I'm getting better at keeping my heart rate at a manageable pace in the process of becoming airborne, because I try to live my life so that if my plane crashes, I can kiss this Sweet World goodbye instead of wanting to slap it in the face, or throw my drink on its lap.

Chopin and Tchaikovsky are the soundtrack of this love story.

But back to Vienna, city of in-bred Hapsburgs; brothers and sisters devouring each other despite that they already each possess what they crave in the opposite. Vienna, secret capital of the Holy Roman Empire, that stateless beast of redemption and resurrection. (Voltaire can see right through it - neither holy, nor Roman, nor an Empire - so why can't I?) And back to the Opera House, where I heard the most beautiful music of my life.

T'was an olio, really. A mish-mash of stories woven together for tourists posing as connoisseurs. ("Foie gras? Why thank-you. The livers of geese that have been force fed until the organs are 10 times their natural size? Too barbaric. I would not - could not! - ask another to spend so much for my pleasure alone. But, please, could you pass the foie gras, because that stuff sure is yummy?") Half-way into the show, I discovered that I understood the stories being told to me through song better when I closed my eyes; when the unnecessary clutter of ocular stimulation had been shut out, evicted. I possessed! I perceived! I was thoroughly penetrated. Notes made love to me; octaves caressed the nape of my neck, my fluttering eyelid; stroked me in a way that only a true lover would know how to.

It was one of the most romantic hours of my life.

I kept my eyes closed even when the music ended; it continued to echo in my head, despite that the stage had been abandoned, with onlookers left to stand before it, expectantly shouting: Encore! Encore! Expectantly, and ultimately to sad conclusion. Because there is only so much one person can sing without straining his or her voice box. There is only so long one performer can go under harsh stage light before his or her make-up starts to wear thin. And we don't pay admission to see real life, do we? We can simply look in the mirror for that.

Even though I forget what songs were played for me that night - don't know, even, if it was really Chopin and Tchaikovsky I was listening to - I can still hear that beautiful music sometimes, when I remember to close my eyes. And it breaks my heart - tears it into pieces - that I never hear it when my eyes are open. Never, ever when they're open.

***

Post-Script: If I could go back in time, I would be sure to tell those singers thank-you too; because I got to know a bit of myself better through their music, and I like the person that I found.