Let's say that the hand of the hours in the clock slide calmly but unbending towards the 7:00 in the morning.
My mind is not aware of the dangerous movement, it just float on an ocean of golden oblivion, while my brain roam oneiric valleys of alleged realities.
The future is coming into the present, and at the precise moment the hand of the second caresses the blank between the 1 and the 2 of number 12 in the dial, the radio starts to let out the cries of pain of Isolde because she just learned the poor Tristan has passed away, and Mr. Wagner has dedicated a Liebestod (Death of Love) song for her to express her grief.
At first, my mind, taken by the golden waves just makes the music follow the soft movement of the sea. But my brain is not that lucky, the meddlesome laments of this lady start to take their toll, and the valleys transform their green slopes into hollow throats and its trees into a gigantic uvulas vibrating with the morning breeze, making a disturbing sound that ended discharging the axons spasmodically, bringing reality to the real thing.
Enjoying the sudden silence that comes, or not comes from the radio I got up and walked unsteady to the bathroom, some paces before I reached the door, the soft, grave, enticing voice of the speaker start to remind us that we had the incredible luck of listening to Birgit Nilsson singing her last song, since as per Mr. Wagner decision, the death of Tristan, made her so sad that she decided to "unhung" her clothes hook from the closet of life and die, a romantic and alluring dead, over the body of the object of her love.
It didn't surprise me, this must be the umpteenth time I listen to this Opera, and in Operas, Composers and Lyric writers has the mania of killing everybody at the end (it is even whispered that sometimes some of the people sitting in the first row follow suit), I do not know the reason of this behavior, but I have a theory that they try to avoid paying some wages, knowing what these people ask for their performance. But I digress.
I reached the bathroom, lit the lamp over the mirror, and following the routine, I smiled friendly to the guy in the looking glass.
He answered not too friendly, and looked away, so I opened the shower and went into it. After the ablutions I went back to the mirror, the guy seemed a bit appeased and even smiled back.
The rest of the day, I just went up and down the slope, trying to rescue those in a critical situation, and teaching how to put a ski, or how to take it off. A regular boring task.
Later, after another shower and dressed for dinner I sat at the table of the tour and enjoyed a good dinner, then we went to the big salon with an immense mantle and chimney, those who wanted to smoke had to face seven degree below zero, Celsius, in the porch. The rest had coffee, and a drink.
Normally if I am lucky and there is nobody who had been asking what to do to the concierge, people entertain themselves chatting and commenting the day.
If not, the concierge had surely commented about Elf and my adventures, so I must invent or remember stories up to midnight.
That is my final line, or the next morning I would not awake even if Isolde cry "Fire" in my ear!
This is just a possibility, a moment in my days, since they may change in so many ways that I can be jumping in parachutes, diving into the caves of the Marianas Islands, or walking the Rome Catacombs! As you see, it is almost impossible to choose a moment without explaining the day as a whole.
Hope I didn't bored you to death with one of my routine days!
The music is the aria "Liebestod" from "Tristan and Isolde". If you never listened this aria, lose 10 minutes of your life and will understand why Wagner is a great musician, even if his production was not so prolific as that of other Masters
© 2013 Od Liam.