Showing posts with label Wagner. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Wagner. Show all posts

Tuesday 13 April 2021

HE SAT IN A SPACE BETWEEN FEAR AND LONGING

  


The name “Amfortas” is the name of The Fisher King in Richard Wagner’s opera Parsifal, which itself is derived from “Anfortas,” the name of the character of the Fisher King in the Middle High German medieval Grail romance Parzival, by Wolfram von Eschenbach. 


Dr. Amfortas, like his literary and operatic namesakes, is a type of The Wounded King or Maimed King, a role traditionally occupied by the character of the Fisher King in medieval romances related to the Holy Grail legend, whose literary and mythological roles are discussed in detail by Jessie Weston in her 1920 examination of The Grail tradition, From Ritual to Romance.







HE SAT IN A SPACE BETWEEN FEAR AND LONGING, portable tape recorder clutched in one hand as he listened to cassettes of the music they had shared. Was it day or night outside? He didn't know. The world was veiled beyond his living room, and the light from the lamps seemed dim. He couldn't remember how long he'd been sitting there. Was it hours or only minutes? Reality danced in and out of his focus in a silent, baffling harlequinade. He'd doubled the steroid dosage, he remembered; the pain had eased to an ominous throbbing, a price that his brain had exacted for its ruin, for the drug ate away at its vital connections. He stared at a sofa and watched as it shrank to half its size. When he saw it smile he closed his eyes and gave himself totally to the music, a haunting song from a show they had seen:

 

 

Touch me. It's so easy to leave me

All alone with the memory

Of my days in the sun

 

 

The song swept through his soul and filled it. He wanted it louder and he fumbled for the volume control on the recorder when he heard a cassette fall softly to the floor. When he groped to pick it up two more of the cassettes slipped off his lap. He opened his eyes and saw the man. He was staring at his double.

 

The figure sat crouched in midair as though seated, mimicking Amfortas' posture precisely. Dressed in the same denim jeans and blue sweater, it was staring back with equal astonishment.

 

Amfortas leaned back; it leaned back. Amfortas put a hand to his face; it did the same. Amfortas said, "Hello"; it said, "Hello." Amfortas felt his heart begin to beat faster. "The Double" was an often-reported hallucination in serious disorders of the temporal lobe, but looking into those eyes and at that face was eerily disquieting, almost frightening. Amfortas shut his eyes and began to breathe deeply, and slowly his heart rate began to slow down. Would The Double be there when he opened his eyes again? he wondered. He looked. It was there. Now Amfortas grew fascinated. No neurologist had ever seen "The Double." The reports of its behavior were vague and contradictory. A clinical interest overcame him. He picked up his feet and held them out. The double did the same. He put his feet down. The Double followed. Then Amfortas started crossing and uncrossing his feet with a timing that he tried to make random and unplanned, but the double matched the movements simultaneously without flaw or variation.

 

Amfortas paused and thought for a moment. Then he held up the tape recorder in his hand. As the double imitated the action, its hand was empty, curled around the air. Amfortas wondered why the delusion stopped short of including the tape recorder. The Double wore clothing, after all. He could not think of an explanation.

 

Amfortas looked down at the double's shoes. Like his own, they were blue-and-white-striped Nikes. He looked at his feet and pigeoned them inward, making sure he could not see if the double was matching him. Would it mimic if he were not observing its action as it happened? He shifted his gaze to the double's feet. They were already pigeoned in. Amfortas was wondering what to try next when he noticed that the tip of The Double's left shoelace had something like an ink mark or a scuff on it. When he checked his own shoe he saw that his shoelace tip was the same. He thought that was odd. He didn't think he had known of such a marking until now. How had he seen it on the double? Perhaps his unconscious had known, he decided.

 

Amfortas lifted his gaze to the double's. It was haggard and burning. Amfortas leaned closer; he thought he saw lamplight reflected in the eyes. How could this be? the neurologist wondered. Again he experienced a sense of disquiet. The double was staring at him intently. Amfortas heard voices coming from the street, students shouting back and forth; then they faded to silence and he thought he could hear the beating of his heart when suddenly the double grasped at its temple and gasped in pain, and Amfortas was unable to distinguish the action of the double from his own as the searing pincers clutched at his brain. He stood up unsteadily and the tape recorder and cassettes tumbled down to the floor. Amfortas lurched blindly toward the stairs, knocking over an end table and a lamp. Moaning, he stumbled up to his bedroom, opened the medical bag on the bed and groped for the hypodermic and the drug. The pain was unbearable. He flopped on the edge of the bed and with shaking hands filled up the syringe. He could barely see. He stabbed the syringe through the fabric of his trousers and pressed twelve milligrams of steroid into his thigh. He'd done it so rapidly that the drug hit his muscle like a hammer; but soon he felt an easing of the pain in his head, and a calm and a clarity of thought. He exhaled a long and fluttering breath and allowed the disposable syringe to slip from his fingers to the floor. It rolled on the wood and then stopped at a wall.

 

When Amfortas looked up, he was staring at the double. It was sitting in midair calmly meeting his gaze. Amfortas saw a smile on its lips, his own. "I'd lost track of you," they said in perfect unison. Now Amfortas began to feel giddy. "Can you sing?" they said; then together they hummed a piece of the Adagio from Rachmaninoff s Symphony in C. When they broke it off, they chuckled in amusement. "What very good company you are," they said. Amfortas shifted his glance to the nightstand and the green and white ceramic of the duck. He picked it up and held it with tenderness while his eyes brushed over it, remembering. "I bought this for Ann while we were still dating," they said. "At Mama Leone's in New York. The food was awful but the duck was a hit. Ann cherished this crazy little thing." He looked up at the double. They smiled fondly. "She said it was romantic," said Amfortas and the double. "Like those flowers in Bora Bora. She said she had a painting of that in her heart.''

 

Amfortas frowned and the double frowned back. The doubling of his voice had abruptly begun to annoy the neurologist. He felt an odd sensation of floating, of becoming disconnected from his surroundings. Something smelled horrible. "Go away," he said to the double. It persisted, simultaneously mimicking his words. Amfortas stood up and walked unsteadily to the stairs. He could see the double at his side, a mirror image of his movements.

 

The next instant, Amfortas found himself sitting in the living room chair. He didn't know how he'd gotten there. He was holding the duck in his lap. His mind seemed clear again and tranquil, though he felt himself suffering in some way at a distant remove from his perceptions. He could hear a dull pounding in his head but could not feel it. He looked at the double with distaste. It was facing him, sitting in the air and scowling. Amfortas closed his eyes to escape from the vision.

 

"Do you mind if I smoke?"

 

For a moment the voice didn't register; then Amfortas opened his eyes and stared. The double was sitting on the sofa, one leg comfortably stretched on its cushions. It lit a cigarette and exhaled smoke. "God knows, I've been trying to give it up," it said. "Oh, well, I've at least cut down."

 

Amfortas was stunned.

 

"Have I upset you?" asked the double. It frowned as if in sympathy. "Awfully sorry." It shrugged its shoulders. "Strictly speaking, I shouldn't be relaxing like this, but for heaven's sakes, I'm tired. That's all. I need a break. And in this case, what's the harm? Do you know what I mean?" It was staring at Amfortas with an air of expectancy, but the neurologist was still speechless. "I understand," it said at last. "It takes a bit of getting used to, I suppose. I've never learned how to make a subtle entrance. I suppose I could have tried it an inch at a time.'' It gave a shrug of surrender, and then said, "Hindsight. Anyway, I'm here, and I do apologize. All these years I've been aware of you, of course, but you've never known about me. Too bad. There are times when I've wanted to shake you, so to speak; to set you straight. Well, I suppose I can't do that, even now. Stupid rules. But at least we can have a chat." It suddenly looked solicitous. "Feeling better? No. I see the cat still has your tongue. Never mind, I'll keep talking until you're used to me." A cigarette ash fell on its sweater. It looked down and brushed it away, and murmured, "Careless."

 

Amfortas started giggling.

 

"It's alive," said the double. "How nice." It stared as Amfortas continued to laugh. "Only nice to a point," said the double sternly. "Do you want me to mimic you again?"

 

Amfortas shook his head, still chuckling. Then he noticed that the table and lamp he'd knocked over were back in place. He stared, looking puzzled.

 

"Yes, I picked them up," said the double. "I'm real."

 

Amfortas returned his gaze to the double. "You're in my mind," he said.

 

"Four words. Well done. We're progressing. I'm referring to the form," said the double, "not the content."

 

"You're a hallucination."

 

"And the lamp and the table as well?"

 

"I went into a fugue coming down the steps. I picked them up and then forgot it."

 

The double breathed out smoke with a sigh. "Earth souls," it murmured, shaking its head. "Would it help to convince you if I were to touch you? If you could feel me?"

 

"Perhaps," said Amfortas.

 

"Well, it can't be done," said the double. "That's out."

 

"That's because I'm hallucinating."

 

"If you say that again I will vomit. Listen, who do you think that it is you're talking to?"

 

"Myself."

 

"Well, that's partially correct. Congratulations. Yes. I'm your other soul," said the double. "Say 'Pleased to meet you,' or something, would you? Manners. Oh, that puts me in mind of a story. About introductions and whatnot. It's lovely." The double sat up for a moment, smiling. "This was told to me by Noel Coward's double, and Coward himself says it's true, that it happened. It seems he was standing in a royal reception line. He was right beside the Queen and to the other side of him stood Nicol Williamson. Well, along came a man named Chuck Connors. An American actor. You know? Of course. Well, he thrust out his hand to shake Noel's and said, 'Mister Coward, I'm Chuck Connors!' And Noel said immediately in a soothing, reassuring tone, 'Why, my dear boy, of course you are.' Is that lovely?" The double leaned back against the sofa."What a wit, that Coward. Too bad he's moved on past the border. Good for him, of course. Bad for us." The double looked meaningfully at Amfortas. "Good conversationalists are so rare," it said. "Do you get my drift or do you not?'' It flicked the cigarette stub to the floor. "Don't worry. It's not going to burn," it said.

 

Amfortas felt a mixture of doubt and excitement. There was something of reality about the double, a flavor of life that was not his own. "Why don't you prove that I'm not hallucinating," he said.

 

The double looked puzzled. "Prove it?"

 

"Yes."

 

"How?"

 

"Tell me something I don't know."

 

"I can't stay here forever," said the double.

 

"Some fact I don't know that I can check."

 

"Did you know that little story about Noel Coward?"

 

"I made it up. It isn't a fact."

 

"You are utterly insatiable," said the double. "Do you think you had the wit to make that up?"

 

"My unconscious does," said Amfortas. 

 

"Once again you are close to the truth," said the double. "Your unconscious is your other soul. But not exactly in the way you suppose."

 

"Please explain that."

 

"Prevenient," said the double.

 

"What?"

 

"That's a fact you don't know. It just came to me. 'Prevenient.' That's a word. I heard it from Noel. There. Are you satisfied?"

 

"I know the Latin roots of the word."

 

"This is absolutely maddening if not insufferable," said the double. "I give up. You're hallucinating. And I suppose now you're going to tell me that you didn't commit those murders. Speaking of facts you don't know, old boy."

 

Amfortas froze. The double peered over at him slyly. "Not denying it, I see."

 

The neurologist's tongue was thick in his mouth. "What murders?" he asked.

 

"You know. The priests. That boy."

 

"No." Amfortas shook his head.

 

"Oh, don't be stubborn. Yes, I know, you weren't consciously aware of it. Still." The double shrugged. "You knew. You knew."

 

"I had nothing to do with those murders."

 

The double looked angry and suspicious. It sat up. "Oh, I suppose now you're going to blame me. Well, I haven't got a body, so that lets me out. Besides that, we don't meddle. Do you understand? It was you and your anger that committed those murders. Yes, your anger over God taking Ann from you. Face it. That's the reason you're allowing yourself to die. It's your guilt. Incidentally, that's a stupid idea. It's the coward's way out. It's premature."

 

Amfortas looked down at the ceramic. He was squeezing it, shaking his head. "I want to be with Ann," he said.

 

"She isn't there."

 

Amfortas looked up.

 

"I see I have your attention," said the double. It leaned back against the sofa. "Yes, you're dying, you think, because you want to join Ann. Well, I'm not going to argue that now. You're too stubborn. But it's pointless. Ann's moved on to another wing. With all that blood on your soul, I rather doubt that you'll ever catch up. Awfully sorry to be telling you this, but I'm not here to feed you lies. I can't afford it. I've got trouble enough as it is."

 

"Where is Ann?" The neurologist's heart was beating faster, the pain growing closer to his field of awareness.

 

"Ann is being treated,'' said the double. "Like the rest of us." It abruptly looked sly. "Do you know where I come from now?"

 

Amfortas turned his head and stared numbly at the tape recorder in the corner, and then back at the double.

 

"Amazing. A landmark in the history of learning. Yes, you've heard my voice before on your tapes. I'm from there. Would you like to know all about it?"

 

Amfortas was mesmerized. He nodded.

 

"I'm afraid I can't tell you," said the double. "Sorry. There are rules and regulations. Let's just say that it's a place of transition. As for Ann, as I told you before, she's gone on. That's just as well. You were bound to find out about her and Temple."

 

The neurologist held his breath and stared. The pounding in his head was growing louder, the pain more present and insistent. "What do you mean?" he said, his voice breaking.

 

The double shrugged and looked away. "Would you like to hear a nice definition of jealousy? It's the feeling that you get when someone you absolutely detest is having a wonderful time without you. There could be some truth in that. Think it over.''

 

"You aren't real," said Amfortas huskily. His vision was blurring. The double's body was undulating on the sofa.

 

"Christ, I'm out of cigarettes."

 

"You're not real." The light was growing dim.

 

The double was a voice amid shimmering movement. "Oh, I'm not? Well, by God, I'm going to break another rule. No, really. My patience has come to its limit. There's a nurse who joined your staff today. Her name is Cecily Woods. You couldn't possibly know that. She's on duty this minute. Go ahead, pick up the telephone and see whether or not I'm right. You want a fact you didn't know? That's it. Go ahead. Call Neurology and ask for Nurse Woods."

 

"You're not real."

 

"Call her now."

 

"You're not real!" Amfortas was shouting. He stood up from the chair, the ceramic in his hand, his body trembling, the pain pushing upward, tearing and crushing and making him cry out, "God! Oh, my God!" He moved blindly toward the sofa, stumbling, sobbing, and as the room began to whirl he tripped and fell forward, smashing his head against the corner of the coffee table with a force that opened up a red wound. He thudded to the floor and the green and white ceramic gripped in his hand smashed to pieces with a splintering sound of loss. In moments the blood seeping out from his temple was lapping at the shards and staining the fingers still tightly clutching a piece of the inscription. It said, adorable. The blood soon covered it over. Amfortas whispered, "Ann."

 

Saturday 27 May 2017

What's Opera, Doc?



Liberetto :
Elmer: 
Be vewy quiet. 
I'm hunting wabbits.

(spoken) 
WABBIT TWACKS!! WABBIT HOLE!!

(thrusting spear) 
KILL THE WABBIT! 
KILL THE WABBIT! 
KILL THE WABBIT!

Bugs (spoken): 
Kill the wabbit?

Elmer
YO HO HO! 
YO HO HO! 
YO HO...

Bugs
Oh mighty warrior of great fighting stock
Might I inquire to ask nyeh... What's up, Doc..?

Elmer
I'm going to kill the wabbit!

Bugs
O mighty warrior, 'twill be quite a task
How will you do it, might I inquire to ask?

E
I will do it with my spear and magic hewmet.

B
Spear and magic hewmet?

E
Spear and magic hewmet.

B
Magic hewmet?

E
Magic hewmet!

B (spoken, disparagingly): 
Magic hewmet....

E
Yes, magic hewmet, 
and I Will give you a sample!

(exit Bugs at warp speed)

E (spoken): 
That was the wabbit!

(Then a chase, followed by:)

E
Oh, Bwoonhilda, 
you're so wovely.

B
Yes, I know it, 
I can't help it.

E
Oh, Bwoonhilda, 
be my wove...

(A dance, then... )

E: 
Weturn, my wove... 
a fire burning inside me...

B: 
Return my luv, 
I want you always bee-side me.

E: 
Wove wike ours must be...

B: 
Made fer you, and fer me...

E: 
Return, won't you return my love... 
For my love is yours.

(As they embrace, Bug's helm falls to the ground... revealing his ears)

Elmer (spoken, outraged): 
I'll KILL the wabbit!!

E (spoken): 
North winds bwow, 
South winds bwow. 
Typhoons, 
Hurricanes...


SMOG!!!!!!

E (spoken): 
Thunder, wigtning, stwike the wabbit!!

(Lightning flashes, striking in the distance -- now moving in, we see
the limp and lifeless form of Bugs -- a drop of water clings to a
crushed flower)

E: 
What have I done?.... 
I've killed the wabbit... 
Poor wittle bunny...
Poor widdle wabbit.....
(sob)

(Bugs is carried off in Elmer's arms... )

B (spoken): 
Well, what did you expect from an opera?

A Happy Ending..?


------------------- The End... That's all Folks -------------

Sunday 19 July 2015

Wagner

"Chuck managed to get the entire 18 hours of Richard Wagner's 'Ring of Nibaloone--Nibalane--Nibalu--Nibalung' ... squashed ... down to just seven minutes"

Hitler told everyone close to him 
"One cannot understand National Socialism if one does not understand Wagner".
In that case, I have had a deep, scientific understanding of National Socialism since I was roughly four.

National Socialism is the tragic doomed love saga of a bald midget (with his spear & magic helmet) who falls in love with a transvestite rabbit from somewhere near Hoboken, New Jersey.

From Shirer :
"There are many weird twists of fate in the strange life of Adolf Hitler, but none more odd than this one which took place thirteen years before his birth.
Had the eighty-four-year-old wandering miller not made his unexpected reappearance to recognize the paternity of his thirty-nine-year-old son nearly thirty years after the death of the mother, Adolf Hitler would have been born Adolf Schicklgruber.
There may not be much or anything in a name, but I have heard Germans speculate whether Hitler could have become the master of Germany had he been known to the world as Schicklgruber.

It has a slightly comic sound as it rolls off the tongue of a South German.
Can one imagine the frenzied German masses acclaiming a Schicklgruber with their thunderous ”Heils”? ”Heil Schicklgruber!”?
"O mighty warrior of great fighting stock / might I enquire to ask, 'Nyah, what's up, Doc...?' "
Not only was ”Heil Hitler!” used as a Wagnerian, paganlike chant by the multitude in the mystic pageantry of the massive Nazi rallies, but it became the obligatory form of greeting between Germans during the Third Reich, even on the telephone, where it replaced the conventional ”Hello.”

”Heil Schicklgruber!”? It is a little difficult to imagine. *



The Sam Kelly Abbreviatiated Variant
Hitler himself seems to have recognized this. In his youth he confided to the only boyhoodfriend he had that nothing had ever pleased him as much as his father’s change of names. He told August Kubizek that the name Schicklgruber ”seemed to him so uncouth, so boorish,apart from being so clumsy and unpractical. He found ’Hiedler’ ... too soft; but ’Hitler sounded nice and was easy to remember.” (August Kubizek, The Young Hitler I Knew, p.40.)
What apparently made those last years of approaching manhood so happy for Hitler was the freedom from having to work, which gave him the freedom to brood, to dream, to spend his days roaming the city streets or the countryside declaiming to his companion what was wrong with the world and how to right it, and his evenings curled up with a book or standing in the rear of the opera house in Linz or Vienna listening enraptured to the mystic, pagan works of Richard Wagner.

A boyhood friend later remembered him as a pale, sickly, lanky youth who, though usually shy and reticent, was capable of sudden bursts of hysterical anger against those who disagreed with him. For four years he fancied himself deeply in love with a handsome blond maiden named Stefanie, and though he often gazed at her longingly as she strolled up and down the Landstrasse in Linz with her mother he never made the slightest effort to meet her, preferring to keep her, like so many other objects, in the shadowy world of his soaring fantasies.


TRIAL FOR TREASON

[ NOTE : How can be on trial for Treason against Germany? He's an Austrian, and not a German Citizen ]

As things turned out, that career was merely interrupted, and not for long. Hitler was shrewd enough to see that his trial, far from finishing him, would provide a new platform from which he could not only discredit the compromised authorities who had arrested him but – and this was more important – for the first time make his name known far beyond the confines of Bavaria and indeed of Germany itself. He was well aware that correspondents of the world press as well as of the leading German newspapers were flocking to Munich to cover the trial, which began on February 26, 1924, before a special court sitting in the old Infantry School in the Blutenburgstrasse. By the time it had ended twenty-four days later Hitler had transformed defeat into triumph, made Kahr, Lossow and Seisser share his guilt in the public mind to their ruin, impressed the German people with his eloquence and the fervor of his nationalism, and emblazoned his name on the front pages of the world.

Although Ludendorff was easily the most famous of the ten prisoners in the dock, Hitler at once grabbed the limelight for himself. From beginning to end he dominated the courtroom. Franz Guertner, the Bavarian Minister of Justice and an old friend and protector of the Nazi leader, had seen to it that the judiciary would be complacent and lenient. Hitler was allowed to interrupt as often as he pleased, cross-examine witnesses at will and speak on his own behalf at any time and at any length – his opening statement consumed four hours, but it was only the first of many long harangues.

He did not intend to make the mistake of those who, when tried for complicity in the Kapp putsch, had pleaded, as he later said, that 

”they knew nothing, had intended nothing, wished nothing. That was what destroyed the bourgeois world – that they had not the courage to stand by their act ... to step before the judge and say, ’Yes, that was what we wanted to do; we wanted to destroy the State.’ ”

Now before the judges and the representatives of the world press in Munich, Hitler proclaimed proudly, ”I alone bear the responsibility. But I am not a criminal because of that. If today I stand here as a revolutionary, it is as a revolutionary against the revolution. There is no such thing as high treason against the traitors of 1918.”

If there were, then the three men who headed the government, the Army and the police in Bavaria and who had conspired with him against the national government were equally guilty and should be in the dock beside him instead of in the witness stand as his chief accusers. Shrewdly he turned the tables on the uneasy, guilt-ridden triumvirs:

One thing was certain, Lossow, Kahr and Seisser had the same goal that we had – to get rid of the Reich government... If our enterprise was actually high treason, then during the whole period Lossow, Kahr and Seisser must have been committing high treason along with us, for during all these weeks we talked of nothing but the aims of which we now stand accused. 

The three men could scarcely deny this, for it was true. Kahr and Seisser were no match for Hitler’s barbs. Only General von Lossow defended himself defiantly. ”I was no unemployed komitadjihe reminded the court. ”I occupied a high position in the State.” And the General poured all the scorn of an old Army officer on his former corporal, this unemployed upstart, whose overpow- ering ambition had led him to try to dictate to the Army and the State. How far this unscrupulous demagogue had come, he exclaimed, from the days, not so far distant, when he had been willing to be merely ”the drummer” in a patriotic movement!

A drummer merely? Hitler knew how to answer that:

"How petty are the thoughts of small men! Believe me, I do not regard the acquisition of a minister’s portfolio as a thing worth striving for. I do not hold it worthy of a great man to endeavor to go down in history just by becoming a minister. One might be in danger of being buried beside other ministers. My aim from the first was a thousand times higher than becoming a minister. I wanted to become the destroyer of Marxism. I am going to achieve this task, and if I do, the title of Minister will be an absurdity so far as I am concerned. "

He invoked the example of Wagner.

"When I stood for the first time at the grave of Richard Wagner my heart overflowed with pride in a man who had forbidden any such inscription as ”Here lies Privy Councilor, Music Director, His Excellency Baron Richard von Wagner.” I was proud that this man and so many others in German history were content to give their names to history without titles. It was not from modesty that I wanted to be a drummer in those days. That was the highest aspiration – the rest is nothing."

He had been accused of wanting to jump from drummer to dictator. He would not deny it. Fate had decreed it.

"The man who is born to be a dictator is not compelled. He wills it. He is not driven forward, but drives himself. There is nothing immodest about this. Is it immodest for a worker to drive himself toward heavy labor? Is it presumptuous of a man with the high forehead of a thinker to ponder through the nights till he gives the world an invention? The man who feels called upon to govern a people has no right to say, ”If you want me or summon me, I will co-operate.” No! It is his duty to step forward. "