The sporadic ramblings of Emily C. A. Snyder - devoted to God, theatre, writing, and much randominity.

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Location: New York, New York, United States

Artistic Director and Co-Founder of TURN TO FLESH PRODUCTIONS. | Author of "Nachtstürm Castle," "Niamh and the Hermit." | Playwright: "Cupid and Psyche," "Math for Actors." | Classical director and educator.

Tuesday, August 29, 2006

Comtine d'Un Autre Ete

(To see/hear this piece played, click here.)

How do I love this piano piece, let me count the ways. So much that I'm putting it on repeat. When I hear this piece, I almost invariably think, not of Amelie, which it's from, but rather of a quiet apartment in some city - perhaps Paris, perhaps New York - where a husband and wife are going throughout their day. He reads the paper, she waters the flowers - and everything is still in that little space in the city. Still, and yet not wholly well. Because they don't speak to one another - they haven't truly spoken in so long - merely read the paper, watered the plants. Time seems to pass them in a blur as they remain the same and the world outside them speeds past. The wallpaper crumbles, and they remain the same. Until...the woman takes a tenuous step towards the man. Her hand caresses the shadow of his chair. Something flickers, something luminous, the pace of the world and the pace of the room come into harmony for a moment. And then the moment passes, the clock winds down - and dies.

Someday I'll choreograph this piece.

Anywho, loverly day of last holidaying. Spent most of day in Boston, despite rain and lack of theatre. Mucho fun and delightful company. Came home in rush hour; stopped by mall and into Nino's; communed with dinner and the journal; and then home home to commune with Mother and the world outside and the world to come and all the fears and anticipation of such. Twelve days until T-minus-1-and-counting. BEEEZAAARE. And yet....

The song's still on repeat. Perhaps not the cheeriest of tunes, more melancholy and thoughtful. And now it seems to be myself by that window on that rainy day, as the waterdroplets - congealing, spilling, slipping, dropping - wend their way down the wavy pane to further obscure, enlighten, and reveal in miniature the strange and wonderful world outside. If I follow with my finger a single satin streak of the Heavens' heavy dew, I find it meet with other rivulets, wait a while, and then meander once more towards the beading on the windowpane. It seems perhaps my own direction informs the little droplet's path, or that the droplet has bound me to itself. For down we go, splashing at last upon the crude and curling wood, to disrupt, perhaps, the wet and sodden wings of some new-fledged starling.

C'est bon. Alles gut. And now to my retirement for the nonce and for the night.

Mood: Bon bon bon - mieux, tres mieux, merci.
Music: Hrm - time to change out the song, non?
Thought: Since no man of aught of what he leaves knows aught, what is it to leave betimes? The readiness is all. Let be.

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