Vampire waltz reprise
It is Josef who finds us outside his apartment door
“I heard the knock,” Josef says from the doorway “is everything all right?”
“She’s.... “ Jörn looks awkward as I start to slide down the wall
he reaches for me and tries to casually lift me back up
and suddenly swings me up off the floor, “she fell—and....hurt her ankle,”
Which is.... true
He carries me in now, walking past his father, as I hear them still rehearsing at the piano; Elsa and Andreas
“Oh my god! What’s happened?” It is Elsa and I find, even under the Loko influence —her sudden concern ....must be foreboding, as it is strangely out of character....
coupled with remembering Jörn’s mentioning her scrutiny and ....
find the only recourse I can decide on is cowardice as my best policy here
and so turn my face into Jörn’s hoodie, faking the act but actually hiding from her
“Her ankle,” Josef says
“Soak it!” Elsa says
“Can you make coffee?” Jörn asks her
“Coffee?”
“Kaffe,” Jörn says
“Jag vet coffee! You should put her in the tub immediately— oh, yes coffee is good for pain , you are right, Jörn—I’ll go make coffee. Andreas!!”
We hear her say,
“Andreas, gör kaffet!”
so as I wonder about her friendly concern
Jörn says,
“she’s told everyone that you and I are going to waltz as part of tonight’s presentation ....” he shoulders shut his bedroom door
I must have passed out from the shock
because a shock of cold makes me wake up screaming —and naked and sat somewhat on the floor of the marble shower stall
“Stand up,” Jörn says pulling me up
So at this appropriate moment I vomit —mostly all over him
.... the neon green is alarming but as the Loko is all I consumed today, only alarming for its pigmented perseverance —but for its visual affects, I don’t think Jörn is as fascinated
I feel him grab hold of my skull through my hair and turn the water back on and scrub me with too much enthusiasm
.... only it feels good
“I need you to be sober,” he tells me as he washes my hair
I say,
“I’m sorry....” a few minutes go by in silence
Then I say,
“Jörn, why were you at the park?” I look up at him
We stare at each other. Just our eyes. The water comes down on both of us as I look into that Nordic blue
that has the power to enslave me and I think this with a sense of fear and watch his pale lashes blink the water
but he does not look away. He stares deep inside and within me. He shakes his head and holds my face in his hands. But then he takes his index finger and as he stares he traces the outline of my eye and stares so deep inside. He holds my face, his eyes become red around the blue
Finally he sighs deeply
“I don’t know—and that is the truth.”
“You said.... what did you say?” but my head is still sluggish ....”yes, I remember—you said you got a call....!”
I wait and stare at him. Watch his eyes. Search for what he is still afraid to say
Only.... it is something else I find inside them
He says,
“I did get a call but—it was random. It was Tony Parker from Lincoln Center and I don’t know why but his name made me think of ‘Park’ and I had this feeling you might be in trouble or something.... I just....it’s .... it was a feeling. I knew that’s where you went somehow.... and you know....this is not the first time something like this has happened —lately .... it’s very strange....I mean it is only about you.... I’ve never experienced this before about someone.... I don’t know why but I —I seem to feel it if you are in some kind of trouble....I think this is what this dream was....”
The dream....
Because I had not expected him to say this, it has the strange affect of sobering me up. Slightly.
I become silent as I wonder about this.
He dresses me like I am his mannequin and does my make up; he makes me sit still on his bureau turning my head this way and then that way. He puts dark lipstick on me. Only he has to do it over more than once. Because each time he puts his mouth on me
he says,
“you could have devoured the whole French court with this mouth,” and kisses me getting lipstick on him
“You were teasing about the waltz, right?” I ask
“No,” he says
but then his mother knocks on his door and we both jump
I had not really thought beyond Jörn playing his music on a stage and in front of the audience.... with his family
like the dreams that start off from the balcony and I am watching him on stage
I had not considered it beyond this. That it should be his night
Hiw did I get involved?
But now I think of this.... I think of the hours he spends engrossed in the music. Every detail. How he goes back over the notes again and again. How you can hear his thoughts if you understand his notes—would it not be thrilling to be part of his creation as I’d seen it’s germination?
I only thought tonight that I would see that
The way he loses himself and becomes his piece
I think this is what it is about him that I get lost in and ....it is only there when he forgets to be self conscious
because he is then in his real space. Like the smeden at his forge. This is the den inside
His father mentioned the artist in Jörn and I think about this and say,
“why are we doing all this?”
“It’s for the commemoration; he was a good friend to our family and —considered a genius in our culture,” he tells me, and then points to the clock to remind me to hurry
“Oh sorry, no, I meant why does anyone do their art.... do you wonder about that?”
“Min duva, here, drink more coffee,” he points seriously at the espresso cup. He says, “this isn’t the time for a Kafka conversation, maybe let’s try a quick turn—put the shoes on, “ and then he swings into a quick dance practice
From the doorway Josef says,
“I think she should do it barefoot. Isn’t that how it was written in her diary?”
“You mean her blog,” Jörn corrects him
“He knows about that?” Of course I am appalled
“Yes,” Josef smiles at me with a suggestion of wickedness
“Oh no,” I say
Josef says,
“it would work better with the music and that ‘gamine’ about her.”
“Gamine?” I repeat horrified in a loud whisper to myself because I want to protest that
“No, I think I mean ‘fey’, after all the piece is called ‘den lilla duvan’ —I like her costume!”
Only it’s not. It is only the chemise for under the dress and as Jörn explains he stops and shrugs and says the rest in..... svenska
I only thought tonight that I would see that
The way he loses himself and becomes his piece
I think this is what it is about him that I get lost in and ....it is only there when he forgets to be self conscious
because he is then in his real space. Like the smeden at his forge. This is the den inside
His father mentioned the artist in Jörn and I think about this and say,
“why are we doing all this?”
“It’s for the commemoration; he was a good friend to our family and —considered a genius in our culture,” he tells me, and then points to the clock to remind me to hurry
“Oh sorry, no, I meant why does anyone do their art.... do you wonder about that?”
“Min duva, here, drink more coffee,” he points seriously at the espresso cup. He says, “this isn’t the time for a Kafka conversation, maybe let’s try a quick turn—put the shoes on, “ and then he swings into a quick dance practice
From the doorway Josef says,
“I think she should do it barefoot. Isn’t that how it was written in her diary?”
“You mean her blog,” Jörn corrects him
“He knows about that?” Of course I am appalled
“Yes,” Josef smiles at me with a suggestion of wickedness
“Oh no,” I say
Josef says,
“it would work better with the music and that ‘gamine’ about her.”
“Gamine?” I repeat horrified in a loud whisper to myself because I want to protest that
“No, I think I mean ‘fey’, after all the piece is called ‘den lilla duvan’ —I like her costume!”
Only it’s not. It is only the chemise for under the dress and as Jörn explains he stops and shrugs and says the rest in..... svenska
it seems no one considers my creative in put on the matter and the manic rush for the theatre intimidates me to silence
At least I’m glad we go in separate cars. I don’t think I could have survived the ride otherwise.
At last minute as we are about to head down, Elsa stops me and says,
“Oh you are almost naked; you must be cold; come here and let me put this on you.”
Of course, it is the opera coat!
....at this point, I think I am quite at a loss over understanding any of this....
But it takes almost all evening for the performance part to happen. The first hour is mostly speeches with video footage of —the genius opera person they are commemorating. I should know who he is— it is terrible I don’t, I know, but .... lately I have been too preoccupied with life to look him up and so— I enter into all this quite cold and defenseless
Josef comes over to us and speaks in English for my benefit,
“it’s going to be another hour or so before we go up,” he shrugs and smiles at me and studies me a moment. In English he says to Jörn, “when your mother begins the Flight of the Dove part I thought it might have more impact if— Duvan.... were below her feet on the floor bent in half like Wavegirl....”
Wavegirl? Flight of the dove.....
I find that I am dizzy with the impact of ....being overwhelmed by waves
And all the speeches have been in Swedish
I sit there wrapped in his world
I think of the dreams/the prehistoric memories .... and the incessant crashing sea; the ship; the blood and the frozen land and—of course, the smeden and I get lost in thoughts
.... as we wait there
I think that night; I think of him that night.... the first he played it all the way through— that first time I time heard it—
Because before it was only parts he kept playing.... those times I woke up there in his bedroom from dreams ....as he always left the bedroom door open..... and how this music would come to me and enter in dreams and then I would wake up to watch the shadows of him on the wall ....seeing him slamming hard the keys, the ferocity of his movements
how madly he moved with the music .... and his hair flung wild about
I think again what I just heard; The Flight of the Dove.... and then think, min lilla duva.... and
I find .... this emotion too much—it is
is so unfamiliar to me
and
it makes me panic
I stand up and walk to a window. But it is not the kind that opens. So I walk to another area apart from all the commotion. It leads down a long carpeted corridor
Why am I doing this? How did I get caught up in this vaudeville act?
I walk, still in my shoes, and pace and try to get lost
It allows me to step away in thought. When I pace back the third time he is standing there at the end. He is dressed with the long Fred Astaire tails; the full tuxedo which seems like tonight’s uniform among the outwardly male
There is that sense, because of how he’s dressed— of time away from time
This could be any time
This could be a dream
He could be a beast .... only I am drawn to his eyes
and the look in his eyes.... I have never known such eyes; how thoroughly they possess my soul absolutely; I have never seen such beauty; his eyes
“Come with me,” he says and reaches for my hand
We go down an elevator and into an area draped off. At the center is a piano and he walks me over to it
“Sit,” he says as he sits down to play
He does not hesitate, but begins immediately. He pounds the keys as though releasing a rage
But then stops immediately and suddenly turns around with his back to the keys; he lays against them with a heavy sigh
He says,
“awhile ago you spoke of an artist’s need for expression—or was it self expression? ....to do it for the sake of the passion to express it— not for the praise nor to get acceptance.... but because it had to ....exist—I had to write it. I think you understand this the same way, min duva, I don’t know why, it is just the need to. Because in the creating of it I don’t really care about approval because it breathes on its own; it already is— all I do is compose it into sound.... and yet.... we’re here for me to share it as artists , it is what we do, isn’t it.... and here I invite my work, essentially to be criticized .... and I think it seems to contradict the purpose of why it ever came about. It is something personal. From somewhere personal to me. This was simply something from somewhere deep inside me and.... should it resonate ....?” he speaks vaguely and with reserve
only, yes, of course, I do understand this and even more, and I hear through his words. I feel it; the way he lays there as he tells me this and the expression of his fingers in repose that just lay across those keys, they still are at their instrument
I touch his fingers; there is a kind of magic to how he creates
He looks back at me,
“all my life I have been trying to write my symphony; my opus and in these few months since that day ....it created itself for me,” he looks at me when he tells me this —such unreadable eyes; such stormy eyes of enchantment and so much mystery
I walk to the window and look outside. It’s raining and now I find I especially long for the opera coat that now hangs at the coat check; it is freezing in this building
I cross my arms over my chest as the champagne silk and chiffon chemise hides nothing, and because I am nervous I have to pace about the room
“I don’t want to do this,” I tell him
He says,
“why don’t we do it the way we did the first time?”
I look at him
He says,
“stand on my feet....”
His idea gives me a sense of relief and he smiles when he sees this,
“I’ll carry you through the turns....”
I take a deep breath and then look at him and nod
“I want you to do this. Do this for me,” he says
He motions with his hand to come to him and when I walk over he pulls me to sit wrapped around him but then
Josef texts Jörn— our turn is up and, sadly, I start to feel the Loko returning on me in the elevator up I get nauseated
When we reach the stage area it gets far worse
“You all right?” Jörn asks me
“So many lights?” I hang back flooded now with terror as I watch in a daze Andreas and Josef setting up
And at first I think it’s my stomach when thunder rolls and shakes the building; there is a storm outside. The lights flicker.
Still the show must go on so, he stands next to me as we watch people move about on the platform plugging in microphones
he says something under his breath with a restrained note of deep aggravation
it sounds like a curse but I can only guess what it means
“What?” I ask
He seems irritated as he looks down at me; eyes bolt electric that could freeze fire
“I said no sound equipment!” he does the curse again
The sick feeling I’m having seems rebounded and part of it, mercifully is, because there is still some Loko impairing me which no doubt is the only reason I’m doing this
I think
as we hide behind the curtain
It starts like I am Wavegirl from my painting as per Josef as he apparently got the idea from me;
I’ve postponed the horror over thinking about the knowledge Jörn’s father reads my often sordid minded words
Josef tells me to go into the forward bent position we practiced before
like a Swan Lake ballerina and, although I am still flexible, well maybe not as much as my ballerina days but still.... why am I doing this, I wonder....? but then I think about ....
how much this is a part of him but also....
because of how the dreams seemed partly to have created this
So as we hide behind the curtain before it goes to rise, everyone stays still except Josef who begins to to pound the keys as the curtain rises
Maybe it’s only me who hides
Elsa’s voice echoes with ear splitting vibratos and dies out sudden with the cello Andreas plays
But then there is a loud thunderbolt outside that happens as if timed perfectly on cue and then all the lights go out!
My first thought was relief because I am thinking I’ve gotten out of this public torture only I underestimated the level of Jörn’s family’s professionalism .... Elsa keeps singing and the piano and cello continue even in the dark and only after a moment’s hesitation
Somebody comes lighting candles all over the stage and Jörn says to me in a whisper,
“rise— follow me like the way we did this before.”
It is the shroud of darkness and the strange haunting notes of his music that makes me forget there are people there;
I think I only noticed him ....looking at him with his eyes focused on me as we move together in pace with the mad notes we are somewhere else
we hear the notes now played by his father as we waltz now to them
their strange haunting that kept him up those nights he composed them for hours
and remember the night he first shared this with me; wrapped around him at his piano and the way he played the recorded overdubs, standing up with me still wrapped around him as we started to dance that night
He says in a whisper against my ear at a turn,
“I could not have planned it better....” and as another flash of lightening reflect off the white of his teeth, he grins
At least I’m glad we go in separate cars. I don’t think I could have survived the ride otherwise.
At last minute as we are about to head down, Elsa stops me and says,
“Oh you are almost naked; you must be cold; come here and let me put this on you.”
Of course, it is the opera coat!
....at this point, I think I am quite at a loss over understanding any of this....
But it takes almost all evening for the performance part to happen. The first hour is mostly speeches with video footage of —the genius opera person they are commemorating. I should know who he is— it is terrible I don’t, I know, but .... lately I have been too preoccupied with life to look him up and so— I enter into all this quite cold and defenseless
Josef comes over to us and speaks in English for my benefit,
“it’s going to be another hour or so before we go up,” he shrugs and smiles at me and studies me a moment. In English he says to Jörn, “when your mother begins the Flight of the Dove part I thought it might have more impact if— Duvan.... were below her feet on the floor bent in half like Wavegirl....”
Wavegirl? Flight of the dove.....
I find that I am dizzy with the impact of ....being overwhelmed by waves
And all the speeches have been in Swedish
I sit there wrapped in his world
I think of the dreams/the prehistoric memories .... and the incessant crashing sea; the ship; the blood and the frozen land and—of course, the smeden and I get lost in thoughts
.... as we wait there
I think that night; I think of him that night.... the first he played it all the way through— that first time I time heard it—
Because before it was only parts he kept playing.... those times I woke up there in his bedroom from dreams ....as he always left the bedroom door open..... and how this music would come to me and enter in dreams and then I would wake up to watch the shadows of him on the wall ....seeing him slamming hard the keys, the ferocity of his movements
how madly he moved with the music .... and his hair flung wild about
I think again what I just heard; The Flight of the Dove.... and then think, min lilla duva.... and
I find .... this emotion too much—it is
is so unfamiliar to me
and
it makes me panic
I stand up and walk to a window. But it is not the kind that opens. So I walk to another area apart from all the commotion. It leads down a long carpeted corridor
Why am I doing this? How did I get caught up in this vaudeville act?
I walk, still in my shoes, and pace and try to get lost
It allows me to step away in thought. When I pace back the third time he is standing there at the end. He is dressed with the long Fred Astaire tails; the full tuxedo which seems like tonight’s uniform among the outwardly male
There is that sense, because of how he’s dressed— of time away from time
This could be any time
This could be a dream
He could be a beast .... only I am drawn to his eyes
and the look in his eyes.... I have never known such eyes; how thoroughly they possess my soul absolutely; I have never seen such beauty; his eyes
“Come with me,” he says and reaches for my hand
We go down an elevator and into an area draped off. At the center is a piano and he walks me over to it
“Sit,” he says as he sits down to play
He does not hesitate, but begins immediately. He pounds the keys as though releasing a rage
But then stops immediately and suddenly turns around with his back to the keys; he lays against them with a heavy sigh
He says,
“awhile ago you spoke of an artist’s need for expression—or was it self expression? ....to do it for the sake of the passion to express it— not for the praise nor to get acceptance.... but because it had to ....exist—I had to write it. I think you understand this the same way, min duva, I don’t know why, it is just the need to. Because in the creating of it I don’t really care about approval because it breathes on its own; it already is— all I do is compose it into sound.... and yet.... we’re here for me to share it as artists , it is what we do, isn’t it.... and here I invite my work, essentially to be criticized .... and I think it seems to contradict the purpose of why it ever came about. It is something personal. From somewhere personal to me. This was simply something from somewhere deep inside me and.... should it resonate ....?” he speaks vaguely and with reserve
only, yes, of course, I do understand this and even more, and I hear through his words. I feel it; the way he lays there as he tells me this and the expression of his fingers in repose that just lay across those keys, they still are at their instrument
I touch his fingers; there is a kind of magic to how he creates
He looks back at me,
“all my life I have been trying to write my symphony; my opus and in these few months since that day ....it created itself for me,” he looks at me when he tells me this —such unreadable eyes; such stormy eyes of enchantment and so much mystery
I walk to the window and look outside. It’s raining and now I find I especially long for the opera coat that now hangs at the coat check; it is freezing in this building
I cross my arms over my chest as the champagne silk and chiffon chemise hides nothing, and because I am nervous I have to pace about the room
“I don’t want to do this,” I tell him
He says,
“why don’t we do it the way we did the first time?”
I look at him
He says,
“stand on my feet....”
His idea gives me a sense of relief and he smiles when he sees this,
“I’ll carry you through the turns....”
I take a deep breath and then look at him and nod
“I want you to do this. Do this for me,” he says
He motions with his hand to come to him and when I walk over he pulls me to sit wrapped around him but then
Josef texts Jörn— our turn is up and, sadly, I start to feel the Loko returning on me in the elevator up I get nauseated
When we reach the stage area it gets far worse
“You all right?” Jörn asks me
“So many lights?” I hang back flooded now with terror as I watch in a daze Andreas and Josef setting up
And at first I think it’s my stomach when thunder rolls and shakes the building; there is a storm outside. The lights flicker.
Still the show must go on so, he stands next to me as we watch people move about on the platform plugging in microphones
he says something under his breath with a restrained note of deep aggravation
it sounds like a curse but I can only guess what it means
“What?” I ask
He seems irritated as he looks down at me; eyes bolt electric that could freeze fire
“I said no sound equipment!” he does the curse again
The sick feeling I’m having seems rebounded and part of it, mercifully is, because there is still some Loko impairing me which no doubt is the only reason I’m doing this
I think
as we hide behind the curtain
It starts like I am Wavegirl from my painting as per Josef as he apparently got the idea from me;
I’ve postponed the horror over thinking about the knowledge Jörn’s father reads my often sordid minded words
Josef tells me to go into the forward bent position we practiced before
like a Swan Lake ballerina and, although I am still flexible, well maybe not as much as my ballerina days but still.... why am I doing this, I wonder....? but then I think about ....
how much this is a part of him but also....
because of how the dreams seemed partly to have created this
So as we hide behind the curtain before it goes to rise, everyone stays still except Josef who begins to to pound the keys as the curtain rises
Maybe it’s only me who hides
Elsa’s voice echoes with ear splitting vibratos and dies out sudden with the cello Andreas plays
But then there is a loud thunderbolt outside that happens as if timed perfectly on cue and then all the lights go out!
My first thought was relief because I am thinking I’ve gotten out of this public torture only I underestimated the level of Jörn’s family’s professionalism .... Elsa keeps singing and the piano and cello continue even in the dark and only after a moment’s hesitation
Somebody comes lighting candles all over the stage and Jörn says to me in a whisper,
“rise— follow me like the way we did this before.”
It is the shroud of darkness and the strange haunting notes of his music that makes me forget there are people there;
I think I only noticed him ....looking at him with his eyes focused on me as we move together in pace with the mad notes we are somewhere else
we hear the notes now played by his father as we waltz now to them
their strange haunting that kept him up those nights he composed them for hours
and remember the night he first shared this with me; wrapped around him at his piano and the way he played the recorded overdubs, standing up with me still wrapped around him as we started to dance that night
He says in a whisper against my ear at a turn,
“I could not have planned it better....” and as another flash of lightening reflect off the white of his teeth, he grins
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