Category: Micro Opera

Meta Micro Opera

 

A middle aged woman sits at a table with a journal open in front of her and a pencil in her hand. A light on the table illuminates the pages in a glow of warmth which washes up onto the woman’s face as she stares down at a blank page.

 

WOMAN

Here I am

It’s four AM

The house is quiet for now

 

I left my bed

So warm and cozy

The dogs won’t leave their lair to join me

In my cold endeavor

At my little desk

In the dark of night

Before the dawn’s floundering light

 

To be a writer is to be alone

A single entity who can dive into limitless waters of thought

Who can swim to the very bottom of the pond of possibility

And dredge up a moment’s consideration

For compilation in a composition yet to be named

 

No, there is more to this than meets the eye

I do not rise in the death of night

Out of some sense of obligation

 

I rise because I have no choice

My characters call to me

They disturb me from my sweet slumbering

Yearning for resolution of the situation I wrote them them into the night before

 

They all want to know – what happens next!

So here I am

It’s four AM

The house is quiet for now

 

And I – I cannot think of a thing to write

MMN

Micro Opera: The Maestro and his Muse

Two character scene:

First character wants a tangible object from the second character while the second character wants something intangible from the first character. Neither character can get what they want, at least not easily.

 

 

Maestro

Look at what time it is
Nearly midnight
Calliope!

 

Calliope

Time – such a silly little human construct
Was I not made for greater things than this?
You washed your hair
How did you know I like lavender

 

Maestro

It was the shampoo in the shower
Shall we get started

Maestro strikes a chord on his piano and straightens the blank sheet music in front of him

 

Calliope

Nice piano – Your pencil’s not sharp

 

Maestro takes a small hand-held plastic pencil sharpener and sharpens his pencil

 

Calliope

Where are we tonight?

 

Maestro

Amsterdam

 

Maestro

I prefer Florence
Jacopo Peri would hold me on his lap as he worked, you know
I would turn pages for him

 

Maestro

A page-turner is not what I’m looking for
Let’s get to work

 

Calliope

I enjoyed twirling his moustache until it stuck straight out

Why do men shave these days?

 

Maestro

I’m getting to work
Will you come?

 

Calliope

If you fondle me right, I just might

 

Maestro
I’m working now
Something new, if you like
It struck me crossing Waterlooplein square

 

Calliope

So you want to play then?

 

Maestro

I like to play

 

Calliope

As do I

 

Maestro

What you have in mind will keep me from my work
We have an understanding, you and I

 

Calliope

Ah my composer, you think you know me so well

 

Maestro

After sixty-years I’ve picked up a thing or two about you

 

Calliope

Sixty years – You’re a child compared to the giants I’ve worked with

 

Maestro

There’s a reason you are here and it’s not to distract me

 

Calliope

What are you doing in this time-riddled, shit-hole of a culture anyway

 

Maestro

This is the only time I have been given (yelling)

 

Calliope.

Temper

 

Maestro

I get angry when people waste my time

 

Calliope

Oh, is that it? You’re comparing me to people now?

 

Maestro

Let’s get to work

 

Calliope

Just imagine me lying naked in your bed
wrapped in your sheets
ripe for the plucking

 

Maestro

I want to write
I need insight
Your help would be appreciated

 

Calliope

You arrogant bastard
You must work for my attention
I’m not some easy thing you can get at any opening night party

 

Maestro

I don’t do that…

 

Calliope

I know, my darling, I know.

 

Maestro

Did I call you or did you grace me with your presence? I can’t remember now. How have we ever managed to work together
I can’t remember

Calliope

Tell me now – what do you feel?

 

Maestro

My feelings border on hatred

 

Calliope

Do you hate when you make love

 

Maestro

Of course not

 

Calliope

Do you hate when you compose

 

Maestro

I cannot hate when I compose
Hate is a mear mask people hide behind

 

Calliope

What are you holding on to then?

 

Maestro

I’m holding
I’m holding on
I’m holding on to
I’m holding onto the one who bears witness to my work

 

Calliope

And who, pray tell, is that?

 

Maestro

It is Phil
The Phil who washes his hair with lavender soap
The Phil who sets a watch and calls you at midnight
The Phil sitting here arguing with his muse
He is insufficient to the task
He will never get this done

 

Calliope

And besides he’s really no fun

 

Maestro

He does the best he can in a mad world

 

Calliope

Take him off the shelf where you keep him
Smash his ceramic face upon the floor
Have sex with me

 

Maestro

You’re my muse not my lover

 

Calliope

Our session is over

 

Maestro

No, it is not.
You don’t want corporeal sex, Calliope
I am old and counting every heartbeat
You want a sacrifice

The Greek choir slowly enters singing

You’re the daughter of Zeus and Mnemosyne
A goddess of music, song and dance
You want the “I” that is watching me talk to you*
The witness has to go* – I relinquish him to you
the one always peering over my shoulder|
commenting on every thing I do
Have your way with him
Slit his throat for all I care
Take it – this power for me to see myself – take it, Calliope
Take it and suck away at his delicious banality

A Greek choir   walks around the two – conveying the thoughts of the maestro as he separates his daily-self from his artist-self and sets to compose in earnest. The choir echoes the mans constant comment…the incessantly nagging voice in his head droning on and on about nothing of consequence. They keep this up while the Maestro and Calliope sing their duet and the Maestro takes his place at the piano while Calliope takes her place on the floor eating away at a puppet that resembles the Maestro. In the end her face and dress is covered in a sticky, grotesque mass of humanity. Her glee cannot be contained.

 

Greek Choir

I am sitting on a music bench
There is music on the stand in front of me
I am trying to write an opera
The piano has white and black keys
My nose has an itch
It might snow tomorrow
Calliope has beautiful breasts
Did I remember to plug my phone in?
Is this an A or an A flat?
What should I have for breakfast
Should I just stop now and go to sleep
How far is the taxi stand from the airport terminal
Will someone be there to pick me up tomorrow
I hope Paris will be a safe place to be
Did I pack an extra pair of underwear
The back of my head is itchy

 

Calliope

Imagination is now open to you at every single moment of time*
Give me the guy who pays taxes and takes out the garbage
The guy who watches and has to remark on every little thing
Give him to me – I’ll get him done
While you swim in the spontaneous unfolding of life*

Nothings routine
Nothings repeated

Nothings routine
Nothings repeated

One foot in the world of clarity and power*
Don’t think about now it doesn’t matter

Nothings routine
Nothings repeated

Nothings routine
Nothings repeated

The sounds of Amsterdam at 3am overtake the music and drown out everything while the light tightens on the Maestro’s face as he composes, unaware of anything else going on around him. The the light clicks to black.

The End

________________________________________________________________

*Much of the inspiration for this piece came from Philip Glass’ memoir Words Without Music a gift that my husband gave to me for Hanukkah. I gobbled the book up in short order. There are a few lines marked with the * that are taken directly out of his book.

Glass, Philip: Words Without Music Liveright Publishing Company a Division of WW Norton & Co 2015 Pages 382 & 383

The picture of Philip Glass was taken by Anne Leibovitz
The picture of Calliope was taken by some guy who posted it on Google reference has been lost

If you have an issue with my using these images send me a message and I’ll take them down. I’m not making any money with this stuff right now – I’m just keeping one foot in the world of clarity and power and the other in the every day banality of daily life.

 

MMN

 

 

Micro Opera #1: Tumbling Grumbleweed

 

SLOTH Stirgill7DeadlySins
SLOTH by Carlton Scott Sturgill

Characters: Carl & Jeremy – a gay couple in their late 20’s. Both are baritones

Carl sits on the couch in his living room looking at his smart phone. He makes the occasional, swipe casually with his finger, slouches further down and puts a leg up on the coffee table. His boyfriend, Jeremy, comes in the room. 

 

 

Carl

I don’t know

It’s all bull shit

shit

from bulls

Jeremy

What’s bull shit?

Carl

Every God Damned thing. Trump, Fox News, Pokemon is 25 years old!

Jeremy

Well, Mr. Grumbleweed…

Carl

I hate it when you call me that, Jeremy

Jeremy

I only call it when that’s what your being. Now remember, Beth and Ben are here for dinner at eight

Carl

Can’t wait – Beth and Ben – sounds like a sitcom

Jeremy

Don’t let the fact that I do everything around here keep you from vacuuming this room

Carl

I won’t

Jeremy

We should get a zoomba someday

Carl

Only if it comes with a cat attachment

Jeremy exits into the kitchen

Carl

I don’t wanna

Can’t make me

Nah, nope, no

Won’t do it

My but is stuck to the couch

my eyeballs glued to the phone

I could get up and do some shit but

I don’t wanna

 

Grumblweed Choir

I don’t wanna

Can’t make me

Nah, nope, no

make your boyfriend crazy

Carl, ya know, you’re such a slug

won’t even move if you get mugged

 

 

Carl

My limbs are heavy – too heavy to lift

I am suspended in misery

I just want to sit

Is that ok?

To sit and not be lectured?

Conformity

Requirements of society

Piety and obedience to an entity stuck in Orthodoxy

Explain that one to me Rabbi!

Why should I obey you?!

I see a wall

A wall one hundred feet tall

Made of glass brick

I see the other side thick with potential

The possibility of possibility

The known unknowns

The dream of a someday

Hard and clear and cold this wall of glass

a hundred feet tall

which keeps me from reaching my fulfillment

reaching my fulfillment

Fulfillment

I am meant to fill something

Meant for something…I don’t know…terrific

I do not know

Am I meant for greatness?

Is it meant for me?

I am great – my parents always said

My parents always said I was the best

What ever it was they always said I was the best

What can I be – should be – could be…would be…could be

Oh, I don’t know.

Choir

Oh Carl – poor Carl – Sad Carl

Jeremy

Are you done with your pitty party?

I didn’t fall in love with you because you were a tumbling grumblweed – you know

I love you

I love you

you find your way out of the tumbleweeds

you emerge from darkness into light

you give me hope for tomorrow

Carl

There’s not much light from here Jeremy

Jeremy

You are my light, Carl

Carl

Not right now

This is not the Utopia we were promised

Jeremy

That promise was a lie

It should die and we should be free to build a world of our own imagination

Carl

We’re too old

Jeremy

What do you want, Carl?!

Carl

I want everyone to shut the fuck up

Jeremy

And then what?

Carl

So then I can think

Jeremy

And when you can think – what then?

Carl

Then I would be able to see

Able to see that we are not what we thought we would be together

Jeremy – It’s not working

I think I should leave tonight

Jeremy

But our dinner with Beth and Ben

Carl

You’ll have to do the vacuuming yourself – I’m not good husband material, Jeremy.

Jeremy

Carl! You can’t just leave like that!

 

Carl puts on his coat, grabs his phone and walks out the door

 The End