Goodness me, it’s been a while.
Part of the reason behind this delayed post is because I’ve been awfully ill. I’ve been nursing a sore throat and a strong bout of flu for some days now and it finally seems ready to exit from my worn down immune system. My body is drained, just drained from being so exposed, so overwhelmed, so vulnerable to a variety of things that are invisible to my rational mind. I need time to make myself sensitive again. Somehow a plethora of things (both good and not so great) have been made available to me (or in the latter’s case, shoved in my way) that even my trusty agenda has been unable to make things simple for me. These are not times of ennui, and I don’t know the term to define what I’m currently experiencing. I’ve written about how controlling I can get when it comes to my own affairs and needless to say – again, I feel absolutely drained.
Anyhow, to reenergize my soul, spirit, muse, or whatever phrase you’d like to use – I have been watching the great masters for guidance. It is exhausting, for me, during this stage to observe, but it must be done.
For example, I watched Streetcar last night and my mind felt absolutely raped by the genius of it all. The case is the same with Chaplin’s “The Great Dictator”. I was properly exposed to the latter back in HS when I first discovered the classics: Chaplin, Gable, Leigh, Monroe, Hepburn, Kazan, and countless others. It was an epiphany (and gosh, i dread to use the word. It seems to indicate some transformation that ought to be obvious and evident to the naked eye, the outside observer. But no, I want only myself to be aware of my metamorphosis.)
It’s hard, sometimes, not to feel talentless and discouraged against these giants who so inspire me with their persona, charisma, and presence. Although music is what eventually elicits originality from me, it is the story (with its characters and atmosphere) that really induce a reaction from me. Whatever I am creating, it is always a reaction, sometimes a response to any certain aspect of the story. I must always observe first, whether fiction or reality, and then translate my observations and its implications into original work. That is why often times I haven’t a clue what I’ve produced, just because I’ve observed something, does not mean that I understand it, or that I even viewed in “correctly” whatever that means.
At the moment, I am reading Albert Camus. His work is mesmerizing, though when i am immersed in it, I feel lightheaded and as though i am heading straight into the earth like a fiery meteoroid.
Let’s return to Streetcar, which was the first of my inspirational reawakenings this past week. I somehow got my hands on Alex North’s brilliant soundtrack and have been playing it non-stop. The sound is perfect, every greasy slur of the clarinet echoes the inflammable atmosphere of Stanley’s initial contact with Blanche. And by Heaven does Brando take your breath away. Enough experts and fangirls have commented on this issue so i shall not squeal more on the pure exquisiteness of his performance. But swoooon.
My mind is all over the place today and my headache is reaching new uninviting heights. I shall return to my work now.