until she told me this was her spelling list.
Same concept, different scene.
By all accounts I have spent most of my life in a reverie, of sorts. Somewhere between vague wake and sleep. I catch myself checking if I’m on the right side of the yellow line or glancing at the clock just in time to do something I’ve promised.
I reckon it is just my disposition. The slipstream is not a bad place to be, better than some. I'm not spacey as I have a trail of work to prove manifestation and a career to track. None the less, (hear that L?), it would be nice to have the chance to choose.
If a little dreaming is dangerous, the cure for it is not to dream less but to dream more, to dream all the time. -Marcel Proust
Just got off deadline with the Magic Flute, the only opera you’ll not find me crying-over in the wings. Near the pit door was a free zone of sorts. I recognize it, having first met a free zone while living in the Vulcan Foundry in Oakland. People placed gently or dumped things they no longer wanted. Of course it was all art and production genre goods: stretchers, sample clothing, used canvas … This pile by the back stage door was of a different nature and mostly unidentifiable, accepting, an empty pizza box, Bose speakers with a nest of wire, half full Listerine bottle. Nothing I would pick up and carry home. Just saying.
I know all of you know this, ...but that operatic scatting has a formal name. Mellisma. Said with an Italian accent. It’s what the Queen of the Night does in Act II. I always thought that was a happy little song, but what she is doing is arguing her daughter into murder.
Have I mentioned the use of panic to calm hysteria?