Different segments of the arts often intertwine. Music, paintings, sculpting, words used in both poetry and prose… they all influence each other. Many times an author has a “Play List” included in their Author Notes, and our words are often bound with a work of art on the cover.
The Haggin Museum often has a music program held in the room with the thirteen naked ladies. (I don’t know the name of the painting, but suffice it to say that it is a hallmark in my life, is much prettier than “thirteen naked ladies” implies and I have postcards and the magnet of it.) The first time I went with my father, it was for a talk on the Stockton Opera by Jaffe, with musical selections on the piano as well as a soloist.
My father cried. Happy tears.
We went yesterday to hear the Divertimento String Quartet. The first selection that they played was everything I imagined: so light and airy that if you closed your eyes you could see the pretty girls dancing across polished wooden floors.
The second piece…not so much.
The piece was played well, but I have to say I’m glad that Velickovic gave a little talk about it before hand, explaining the strife and anguish, the political climate of both the country and the composer at the time it was written.
Because that piece took my anger and amplified it right out of context.
Have I mentioned lately that I have anger issues?
We ended up leaving, right after the second piece was finished. It had nothing to do with the performance, but I had to pick my son up from his other grandparents and quite frankly my father could tell I was ready to pop a cork.
At the first movement washed over me, I thought of scenes such as to be found in swords and sorcery. As it escalated, so did my pissed-off-itude. I started thinking of the piece I kept starting to write, what I wanted it to be and what it keeps ending up being. And until yesterday, I have to tell ya, I had no intention of every really writing it.
It’s a rock opera using Bon Jovi songs. Originally intended as The Mommy Monologues, I was going to talk about raising my little ray of sunshine.
The best intentions…
It keeps coming out as the Meth Monologues. As in my husband was a meth addict and I’m still pissed off not only at him but also at myself and want nothing more than to beat the crap out of something. I have always dealt with my anger through my writing. Always.
Still, I have tied my fingers into knots, trying *not* to write that story.
There are a million reasons why it’s not a viable project: I’ve never written a play, could never in a million years get the permissions needed to stage it, and even if I did it would be too hurtful to ever allow my son to see it.
It’s not a viable project.
But apparently, it’s what I need to write. I’m tired of keeping the crap inside, battering at my fingers every time I sit down to write.
Maybe then I can start to forgive myself.
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