culture dawg

One of my sweetheart friends made it home. When I say home, I mean back into the world of the symphony. It's not my beeswax to say much, to put it out here, only that after a long such hiatus from what was, the days in the conservatory of music, he found his way back and in turn his way forward.

As for me, I've always been a little of this, a little of that kind of gal, but have to say I felt a little bit like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman going to the Symphony (sans the indecent part of course). Upon walking in to the grand lobby of one of the top 3 concert halls in the world, I notice gold adorning the gilt-edged modest architecture and handsome mythical statues that meet my gaze, and as I reach for my ticket, my bohemian white cascading skirt catches on my scuffed brown boot (yes, boots--no heels tonight) and nearly put on a new kind of show for the high-fallutings: Girl In Black Polka Pot Panties: free of charge.

"Oh, please do watch yourself, dear," said the woman taking our tickets. And I pull up my skirt up just in time, laughing too loud, as always.

The music starts and I am enchanted. The conductor is frenzied and then not. His arm moves as if detached from himself. I like him already. I hear a deep sigh beside me and know what it means. I close my eyes. There is a mercurial nature to the symphony, and it seems the more mercurial, the more I like it. The reflections of the varying instruments bounce off each other, dazzling us, or at least me, dancing together, singing their songs, and then the big kuhuna, the giant cymbal crashes making waves against the wall.

I made it through, calamity free. Mostly.

It is possible to rock here. It may not make it into my playlists, but it can, it does trigger something in the present and put you under a spell for a moment.

A little film noir. Add some percussion and he's back.