Saturday, May 07, 2005

Post Number Twenty-Seven: Night-time sharpens, heightens each sensation...

It was a cold afternoon of January, on the second day the sun had shone upon the skyscrapers of Manhattan since the beginning of year 2000. I was there, leaving a small diner of Times Square in NYC, in the company of the loveliest lady on that side of the planet. As we walked past the crowd we approached the entrance of one of the cosiest theatres of Broadway, the Majestic, where we were going to make a dream come true: savor each note, each moment, each chord of the one Musical that more than any other seemed to attract me...

the Phantom of the Opera

She and I took our seats in the velvet coated chairs and soon after the lights faded the dream began.

The Phantom of the Opera left a never fading mark in my life, but even more, that evening of music was unforgettable for its unspeakable magic that echoes through the years, resounding with my mind each time the notes of a song from that musical are played.
Ever since I stepped out of the Majestic, with the notes of the Music of the Night still playing in my mind, I knew I was going to remember that evening ever after. Every bit of it: from the magnificiency of the theatre to the perfection of the actors' performance; from the sound of the Phantom's voice to the picture of the abandoned mask on the stage; from my friend's partially red-died hair to her lovely friendly warmth nearby.

At last they made a movie of the Phantom. I didn't go to the theatre to see it, because they had the distasteful idea of daring to dub the songs and sing in Italian, when the beauty of the English verses of that musical is unmatched. I patiently waited for the DVD to be published, which happened to be done yesterday in Italy... and at last, tonight I saw the Phantom of the Opera again, listened to its notes once more, let it carry me away along its gothic charm.
But together with voices and the music there came the memories, surfacing again, brought once more back to vivid life by the scenes and the songs. And as I pitied the unforgiving fate of the scarred Phantom, as I breathed at the sound of that music, I saw that evening again, and fondly recalled with sweet nostalgia the friendly warmth of that lovely lady and the unforgettable present she gave me: the evening at the theatre, watching the Phantom of the Opera.

That night lives within me like the spirit of the Phantom's music in Christine's soul.

Thank you, lovely lady, for giving me The Phantom of the Opera.

Wednesday, May 04, 2005

Post Number Twenty-Six: Flickorna

Of girls

An evening in middle spring in Milan, Italy. My sister is downtown with her Swedish boyfriend, waiting to gather some Swedish friends coming over to stay with us for a few days. We love hosting people in our home. All these Swedes anyway remind me of Sweden, and I love Sweden. Anyway, I was reading my friend Viv's blog and among her posts which are usually tremendously witty, I found one referring to this other girl's blog, a certain Yvonne which I actually met last summer, in Sweden. I recall her very well - not very talkative, for the jet lag I presume - and I recall Valerie too. Valerie is my Chinese friend's sister. Never met Valerie or Yvonne before, but I am glad I had a chance to be introduced to them both.
I felt the inexplicable urge to peek through Yvonne's blog pages. Ok, it's one of those traditional blogs with diary entries and pictures. Not my idea of blog after all, but that should be quite evident by now, judging from what I have written here. Anyway, I found entries about Sweden and I flew to them like a fly to honey. I was curious to know more of how she felt over there. There was nothing really unexpected, and I wasn't really surprised either. Incidentally I have been the first person she has met in Sweden and I did what little I could in a few days to help her out. Well probably not much because I was completely forgotten in her entries... but personally I'd be more disappointed by being forgotten by Valerie than Yvonne. Let's be frank: Ok, in my personal opinion this Yvonne girl is beautiful. Slender, athletic body, nice smile, and especially attractive long, silky brown hair. Quite a beauty. And that's pretty much all about her, for the little I know since we didn't really talk much. Not that I am just making comparisons but maybe Valerie doesn't have a long flowing silky mane, yet she's charming in a way Yvonne can't probably achieve, not even if she tried. I do miss Valerie you know? She was so lively, so nice to talk to, so... how can I say, since I know her so little?... so enthusiastic about things. And cute. Well, I suppose there's no reason why I should abstain from noting my friend's sister is cute. It's what she is.
I have pondered about this for a while and I have decided: I am not like other guys. Well, I also took a lame and idiotic test with little to no value at all, which described me as having a 73% feminine brain: that is consistent with what a number of my friends claim, that I am actually a lesbian cleverly disguised as a man. I suppose. Anyway, it seems that the way I am attracted to girls heavily differs from other men's equivalent. I have recently started to be even annoyed by pictures of naked, sylicone-enhanced, so-called beauties which I find absolutely vulgar, unnerving and ultimately boring. This is in contrast with the fact that (if you read my post a few weeks below) women are among my fixations. In fact I still insist that I am fixated with girls. I study their beauty continuously and look for a precise pattern that should be able to ultimately lead me to a profound understanding of what I like about them; my studies have led me to only one conclusion, at the moment, which is the following: there's no pattern.
For a reason or another, almost every woman I know is special in a way or another (Yvonne being, sadly, a noticeable exception - and I underline "sadly", because she's an exquisite beauty nonetheless). Some of them are a bit more special than others (ok, I won't give out names here, but there's an elite of five, maybe six girls I know of that I consider definitely more special than others, and at least three I wouldn't want to be parted from, although two of them are scattered at the opposite sides of the planet). But this of course transcends mere sexual attraction, which I consider a rather dull and raw form of appreciation of a female. Maybe I am becoming like certain elitists of the late eighteenth century that said and did things that few others would really care about. Besides, I have my own opinions about what is sexual and what is not. Say, a kiss (I mean a french) is not sexual, period. Besides I love kissing girls. But unluckily most girls think otherwise so I just comply to their beliefs. After all, I am famous for my self-control.
What I really don't like is guys. It's not that they aren't beautiful. Well, not exactly: they AREN'T beautiful, but a small number of efeminated guys could be considered relatively attractive, at least face-like. I find men's body basically repulsive. All those straight lines, those veins, that revolting hair, and that obscene thing hanging down there - that's gross. And even when their face is acceptably nice, they are still men. In other words, hopelessly limited. They have nothing of the wit and charm of women. Well some women too lack wit and charm, but I don't mind them, they are anyway rarer than uncharming and unwitty men.
Oh well, actually I am quite tired of speaking about girls and guys, I have something to attend to which requires my attention completely, so I will stop this rant here.

NOTE: Flickorna means girls in Swedish