The widening gyre

Dearest B__________,
I seldom use the word sensational when describing any works of music; there are exceptions, of course, Beethoven and Mozart are in my mind the greatest examples of human achievement, how for instance could one not be moved when listening to the 9th of Beethoven or any admire the technical prowess required to dutifully sing the arias in Die Zauberflote; so great are the shadows cast by these two composers that anything not touched by their hand seems infantile at best. I can find enjoyment from the performances of Rossini or Handel’s works, but I assure you, dear friend, that I am hesitant to admit anything new enter the serpentine labyrinth of my heart, so it is an incredibly odd thing to be writing about how affected I was by a one act opera written by Mascagni. Cavalleria Rusticana is apparently all the rage in Rome, and we can rightly scoff at the excitement that backwards provincial country feels towards most things, but a broken clock can occasionally posses some accuracy; and as loathe as I am to admit it, these smarmy little Mediterranean’s are absolutely correct about this particular opera. Tragedy is not something alien to my way of thinking; after all, most great works of art have their roots firmly planted in the muck borne of cyclonic emotion. The theatrics of live performance for the most part rely on exaggeration of relatable human experiences; and part of my disdain for theatricality is that despite how well they might be executed I find it to be utter tedium to care about the frivolous concerns of the indulged privileged classes. Even though I poses such grave misgivings when the curtain rose and the mournful music heralded the start of the program I was absolutely enthralled by the spell Mascagni had cast ( although I wonder how much of the success is do to his librettists, but I digress, that is an argument for another day ). Mere words fail to describe just how moved I was, and I have seen the scope of human achievement through my travels and the fruit of our artistic exploits can summon only so much emotion, but set to music the full weight of our miserable plight can truly be assessed. I just might be incapable of discriminating what ‘good’ art is; I fear that my bourgeoisie pretentions mask an appalling lack of taste; nevertheless, as the overture began its aching crest I knew that I was witnessing a work of true art.
It would be hard to describe the performance without hearing it, and I am certain I would be unable to properly portray the richness of the experience but as the Intermezzo played my mind truly perceived the idea of our calamitous existence. There is only one way I could hope to communicate the dilemma that we encounter every single day and that is; there is no such thing as coincidence and whatever happens is meant to be. We can struggle valiantly against the oppressive constraints that threaten to engulf us, but in the final estimation there is nothing we can do to fight their deluge. In ways we can never fathom our every choice, from birth onwards has already been decided and all we can hope to do is follow this moribund play to its final wrenching act. We are but mere pawns to both god and man; our discriminations, aspirations, apprehensions, are based on the values of our forebears who acquired them from their forbearers and so it goes on forever, like dominos swirling around one another waiting for the moment of convergence. It is a remorseless never ending cycle. Turiddu was always going to die, his yearning to experience more from life was a seed planted generations before and it is unfortunate that the fruit, when ripened would lead to his early demise. It would be to easy to assail blame onto Lola, who can’t entirely be faulted for her part in this grotesque charade because character would always have sought the path of least resistance, her want for riches did not just occur on its own, it is the symptom of a much larger malaise.

Can we ever find comfort in the sterile mechanized world that out creator has deemed appropriate for our habitation? We have been wound by this unseen hand, like the delicate clockwork curiosities a child might find on Boxing Day, and set to follow a path blindly towards our doom. At best it can be determined that all our victories are pyrrhic, so why then do we willingly stride ever on towards our doom. I don’t believe we have a choice, and life, such as it is, absent of choice is not going to be an existence that offers a great deal of fulfillment. Perhaps, again it is arrogance on my part, but I dream that all our lives are over ripened with meaning, and that the indomitable will of the human spirit can drive each of us to greatness. What choice do I have to think this way; I could rue and curse the sorry lot fate has drawn for me, and perhaps the carrot that prods me forward is the highly improbable idea that there is something more in this misbegotten world then wretched loneliness. As much as my current state of happiness owes itself to this highly questionable logic, underneath it, threatening to bring me forever into the mire is the lingering doubt that I am in control of this vast sinking ship. I understand, before your mind worries too much about the precarious state of my constitution, that drama in all its forms offers up a reflection of our pained existence; and when Calliope is truly the force behind inspiration the end results are even more pronounced in their illumination.
I would write more, dearest friend, but I fear that the changes in the weather are perhaps having a more pronounced effect on my person then anticipated. These past few autumn nights have left me with a wet distinct cough, and it takes a herculean effort to combat the drowsiness. I should rest, I know that, but it feels more important to write down my thoughts, however bleak they might be then visit a doctor.
Respectfully Yours,
D_________