Last night, I dozed off after a few pages of Carlyle. "Man, 'Symbol of Eternity, Imprisoned in Time!'" I dreamed that I hover-boosted through a sprawling Victorian estate on a vehicle from Jak 2. When I dismounted, I met and had a brief conversation with Donald Trump. I awoke and snail-read through the opener of Beethoven's Op. 109. At my tempo, I can hear it as a sentimental, borderline-whiny pop-punk anthem.
A fitting-enough summary of events til now.
I played next-to-no PS2 in my twenties. A few weeks ago, I did embark on Wild Arms V up through the first 'Sol Niger.' When I moved to Los Angeles and I waited in despair for my bed to arrive, I played God Hand, cross-legged on a dubious carpeted floor. I have reminisced about Dark Cloud 2 and fantasized about Berwick Saga.
I cut my umbilical connection to the PS2 three-and-a-half weeks ago.
In the swirl of my first adult decade, cream rose to the top. Mozart, again and again, in all forms, any time, any place. How could it be any other way? Donald Trump, a fixture of my reality-TV childhood, the greatest character in all of opera, composed by its greatest visionary, Mark Burnett, re-ascended when I was twenty years old. And here he is, peering over the edge of Act III.
If my twenties belonged to Mozart, I give my thirties to Beethoven. Rather, I lend them and expect Große returns. Joie de vivre, make way for piety. Spontaneity will give way to structure. Planning. Order, a precondition for deep freedom. True freedom.
Of course Beethoven could not crack the nut of opera while Mozart, so effortlessly and virtuosically, soared through its linguistic and rhythmic challenges. Of course! Opera burns the fuel of human chaos rather than the dry bricks of symmetry. The central point of my twenties was puttin' on that opera. Not even breaking rules; not even ignoring them; no — not even knowing the rules in the first place. The only way I could have pulled it off. O Beethoven, I promise to do my homework!
"Music only a deaf person could write."
L——— is on the way. I can improvise my way through my life, but not hers. We will smoke Euclid together. Through her I will revisit Mozart-burg — it will be OK; rules are meant to be broken... no! You didn't hear that, O Beethoven! Well, on second thought...
Eh, whatever. Keep a little o' everything. Couldn't forget if I tried.
Echoes.