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Wednesday is my "free night," such as it were, and now that my stomach's complaints have been satisfied, at least for the time being, I'm free to sit at my kotatsu and do not much of anything. The apartment is cold despite the electric heater's constant blowing, and every ten minutes or so I'm forced to put my hands under the kotatsu blanket to warm them.
I have two episodes of Saiunkoku to watch, the sub of 23 and the raw of 29, both of which are finally available on YouTube. Indeed, they're already qued up on my computer, waiting for me, but despite my eagerness to see them I'm holding back. Right now the Nutcracker by Tchaicovsky is in the CD player, and I'm most of the way through the first act. In fact, as I'm typing, the snowflakes are beginning their dance. I can see them twirl, remember exactly the white balls of fluff they carried on delicate wands.
The Nutcracker has for a long time been a Christmas tradition for my family. Three out of every four years, we'd all pack ourselves into the station wagon for the trip to Manhattan, then park and walk together to the Met. Sometimes it was cold and bitter, and the sidewalks covered in ice. But the time that I remember most clearly it was warm and sunny, enough so that I wore short sleeves and removed my motorcycle jacket during the wait in the courtyard. A picture of the moment exists still: me sitting on the black marble ledge before the dancing plumes of white, my younger sister contentedly wrapped in my arms, the sky a perfect pale blue.
Listening to the music, I know exactly what happens, who is dancing and when. The story plays out in perfect time to the music. Now the Prince is re-enacting his battle with the mice before his court, and Marie and her shoe are coming to his rescue. Soon his various courtiers will dance for him and Marie . . . my favorites will come, the energetic Candy Canes, Mother Ginger and her Polichinelles, the leaping Cavalier, elegant Coffee, mischeivious Tea, the warm, dark-clad Trepak . . . Other things, as well, I can see; the chandeliers in the ceiling, the sweeping marble staircases, the huge pane windows. My father used to take us up to the top teir that ran by those windows, using the long, hanging ball-chain blinds to demonstrate the movement of a wave. I remember standing by him, watching the ripple travel all the way to the end of the rope, then turn in a split second and head back up to me.
Bizarrely, all my memories associated with the ballet are good ones. Even the year when our car actually caught on fire as we entered the toll gate for the G.W. Bridge is a good memory, because somehow no one really cared that the car had caught on fire, and that we had to have it towed. No, we all happily piled into my sister's boyfriend's car and continued right across the bridge despite it all, and had a wonderful time. Despite the fact that we had all just experienced it together, the rest of the trip was spent recounting the adventure to each other and laughing about it.
When we had all gotten to the point where we could easily identify when one of the dancers made a mistake, we unanimously and silently decided to give our attendance a break for a couple of years. Still I listen to the music every year at Christmas, and no matter how cold it may be I always feel warm.
I have two episodes of Saiunkoku to watch, the sub of 23 and the raw of 29, both of which are finally available on YouTube. Indeed, they're already qued up on my computer, waiting for me, but despite my eagerness to see them I'm holding back. Right now the Nutcracker by Tchaicovsky is in the CD player, and I'm most of the way through the first act. In fact, as I'm typing, the snowflakes are beginning their dance. I can see them twirl, remember exactly the white balls of fluff they carried on delicate wands.
The Nutcracker has for a long time been a Christmas tradition for my family. Three out of every four years, we'd all pack ourselves into the station wagon for the trip to Manhattan, then park and walk together to the Met. Sometimes it was cold and bitter, and the sidewalks covered in ice. But the time that I remember most clearly it was warm and sunny, enough so that I wore short sleeves and removed my motorcycle jacket during the wait in the courtyard. A picture of the moment exists still: me sitting on the black marble ledge before the dancing plumes of white, my younger sister contentedly wrapped in my arms, the sky a perfect pale blue.
Listening to the music, I know exactly what happens, who is dancing and when. The story plays out in perfect time to the music. Now the Prince is re-enacting his battle with the mice before his court, and Marie and her shoe are coming to his rescue. Soon his various courtiers will dance for him and Marie . . . my favorites will come, the energetic Candy Canes, Mother Ginger and her Polichinelles, the leaping Cavalier, elegant Coffee, mischeivious Tea, the warm, dark-clad Trepak . . . Other things, as well, I can see; the chandeliers in the ceiling, the sweeping marble staircases, the huge pane windows. My father used to take us up to the top teir that ran by those windows, using the long, hanging ball-chain blinds to demonstrate the movement of a wave. I remember standing by him, watching the ripple travel all the way to the end of the rope, then turn in a split second and head back up to me.
Bizarrely, all my memories associated with the ballet are good ones. Even the year when our car actually caught on fire as we entered the toll gate for the G.W. Bridge is a good memory, because somehow no one really cared that the car had caught on fire, and that we had to have it towed. No, we all happily piled into my sister's boyfriend's car and continued right across the bridge despite it all, and had a wonderful time. Despite the fact that we had all just experienced it together, the rest of the trip was spent recounting the adventure to each other and laughing about it.
When we had all gotten to the point where we could easily identify when one of the dancers made a mistake, we unanimously and silently decided to give our attendance a break for a couple of years. Still I listen to the music every year at Christmas, and no matter how cold it may be I always feel warm.
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