The remote sizzle of opera

The remote sizzle of opera: such a Sunday afternoon sound. Almost indistinct, yet reassuringly present in the background, sometimes to the extent of passive paranoia. Ongoing, incessant, never-ending. Like a gramophone record unwilling to succumb to the needle all the way in the present dimension, whilst reverberating in full potency in another one, leaving us with a flat, desaturated semi-silent tissue of sound. Almost like the sound of silence, vibrating in an operatic skin in the lazy calm of Sunday afternoon.

Comments

  1. Emilia1 July 2012 at 17:53

    I savour every word and punctuation mark in this vibrant little piece of pure poetry. Needless to say it instantly transforms me into one of the unnamed silent listeners of the Sunday afternoon opera sizzle, who is stuck inbetween two dimensions, reluctant to come back to the present... Brilliant, thank you!

    ReplyDelete
  2. Batakliev1 July 2012 at 20:38

    Thank you, dear Emilia. The sizzle resonates. I'm happy.

    ReplyDelete

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Banya

My recent visit to the traditional Russian “banya” in the London's Docklands is an event I shan’t forget anytime soon and one I’d strongly recommend to anyone with a taste for the authentic. A dear friend of mine had dared me to go and witness “the most raw & real bathing ritual”. It was a challenge I could not resist. The outside was intimidating enough. The dingy alley along the railway track in Canning Town where the establishment was situated reminded me of a back street in Bangkok minus the heat and the radiant mango-selling grannies. Barricades of rubbish led me to the entrance of what resembled an unemployment centre in Northern England, left to its own devices since the 70s. The reception area featured a plain eatery / vodka room with a constellation of sturdy square tables covered in green vinyl tablecloth - undoubtedly high-camp material in Shoreditch…but not here. Two big-belied comrades in baggy swimwear had positioned their giant pyramid torsos in front of a tv sc
Read more

London

Image
This is my 10th year in London, the brash, alluring, cruel, sexy giant of a city. Almost 10 years ago, I left my adoptive (and forever second) home - the wondrous dollhouse village Amsterdam.    I dreamed of coming to the jungle that is London and here I am - almost a Londoner. I feel love for this mesmerising jungle, a love that’s fed by the many songs of innocence and songs of experience I sang and heard.  I am the (almost) Londoner who sheds a tear down the tube escalators and smiles at street musicians as he jumps over puddles of rain, then sighs at the sight of bird ensembles pirouetting above black cabs.    Like the half-opaque buildings in this photograph, there is always more to excite and lure in this jungle. The beating heart of the West End on Saturday night, the soul-nourishing cheer of the farmers markets on a spring morning, the weathered hands of the homeless, the kindness of strangers, the dead pigeon splattered across the asphalt, the dawn of a new beginning…it’s all p
Read more

Busy day (somehow)

Somehow, I locked myself out of my home And somehow, I locked my bike onto somebody else's. Somebody else spilled their somewhat still hot coffee from Starbucks onto my linen making it dirty in public. Somehow, I bit my lips so hard that they bled and one blood drop became a tear inside the sad eye of the stranger whom I offended brutally out of the goodness of my heart. The hollow lump inside her throat involantarily stopped the central heating in my bedroom from flowing so on and so forth. Thankfully and chain-breakingly, I shed a tear in (re)turn, at the gym, of all places. Eventhough I wasn't wearing the right shoes and my personal trainer wasn't water-proof. Somehow, someone had to do something to stop the violence in this province. A stain for a slip, a chill for a scorn... and tears for tears to repair the duty of care. This busy day is now due to age gracefully.
Read more