opera is fishy

I went to the Opera on Friday night. It was my first. I was underwhelmed.

I wanted so much to be swept away, carried on the waves of sound from the voices trilling in front of me. I wasn't moved. I was bored even.

It wasn't the performers, it wasn't that it was Opera. It was the story, it was the questioning in my mind as to why they just didn't make a musical out of it.

I've been babysitting for an Opera singer lately and it peaked my interest. I've always meant to go to the Opera and somehow never have. Then, my cousin from NYC was here and she above all others jumped at the chance for Opera. I love cousin poets from NYC who go to mediocre Opera with me.

It wasn't all lost. We met an old man who very reluctantly told us he escaped from Germany before the war saying, "Well, you know we didn't we have a choice. It was the thirties during Hitler's days." He wasn't much for talking about his past, the only thing I wanted to talk about, crack open his plethora of history, this survivor of Nazi Germany, this living relic in the seat next to me, my seat at the Opera. I envision his life in so many ways. The verions are endless and every changing, but I will hold steadfast the image of the frozen fish he said were thawing in his car while he sat and watched Opera.