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Post by Erik Destler on Oct 7, 2008 22:54:32 GMT -5
***MANY MOONS LATER***
The composer had left his bed and Carlos behind. It was painful to be there and not be able to touch the bulked warmth of his...well, he could hardly be called 'lover' now. His companion. Roommate.
He had left the bed and the house and gone above in his coat and hat and scarf with a heavy purse...but the sudden appearance of a child now made his stomach turn at the sight of those ill-reputed women, and he'd returned the Opera and ascended to his old place in the flies to watch the dark and empty stage.
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Post by Maleo Basilio Addams on Oct 7, 2008 23:09:49 GMT -5
The soprano had been bothered again. No Marlow tonight, but his wounds had healed on his back, leaving wonderfully long marks in his ever-paling skin. He had several sheets of paper in his hands, with a pencil tucked behind his ear. He had been up and writing again, and now went over the lyrics to his first song.
Clearing his throat, he paced back and forth, reading the lines from one sheet of paper, while trying to produce notes on the other. Finally frustrated, all the sheets were triple folded and stuffed into the lining of his jacket with a depressed sigh.
Still pacing, Maleo warmed up his voice and worked a bit on his singing as Wagner, trying to deepen his register as his "Angelic" tutor had instructed him.
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Post by Erik Destler on Oct 7, 2008 23:20:39 GMT -5
The sudden singing caught Destler's attention and he stood from the crate he was sitting on to lean over the rail and peer at the dark stage below. He recognized the tone and range as belonging to young Addams and suddenly remembered that he'd not gotten back to the man about teaching him.
"Pulling your range is one thing, but straining your tone will destroy your unique vocal qualities."
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Post by Maleo Basilio Addams on Oct 7, 2008 23:26:42 GMT -5
"Maestro?" he asked, swiveling about on his feet. He was actually glad to have another voice around him, and Maleo had been beginning to wonder where the man had vanished to.
"Where are you?" he asked, a grin on his face. "Are you playing hide and seek again with me?"
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Post by Erik Destler on Oct 7, 2008 23:31:14 GMT -5
"Above." he intoned, knowing the boy wouldn't be able to see anything but his shadowy outline.
"You should be asleep so late, resting for rehearsals."
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Post by Maleo Basilio Addams on Oct 7, 2008 23:33:48 GMT -5
"Insomnia," he said with a shrug, looking up into the darkened flies with his smile still on his lips.
"What about you, Maestro? Or do musicians like you do not bother with slumber?"
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Post by Erik Destler on Oct 7, 2008 23:47:25 GMT -5
He tilted his head a bit, thinking, and intoned.
"Likewise, insomnia. What was that you were singing before the Faust?"
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Post by Maleo Basilio Addams on Oct 7, 2008 23:56:22 GMT -5
"Oh... you heard that as well..." Now he sounded disappointed, but that was in himself for allowing his would-be Opera to be heard.
"Words and lyrics to an Opera I am trying to - and failing, as you heard - write. The subject is Alexander the Great..." he said, trailing off at the end. "Did it ring sourly in your ears, Maestro?"
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Post by Erik Destler on Oct 8, 2008 0:00:24 GMT -5
"The melody was...simple. But sometimes simplicity is all that is needed to convey the story. The lyrics were....not impressive. Have you composed before?"
He was interested now, and leaned a bit more on the rail, rocking the plank he was on its ropes.
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Post by Maleo Basilio Addams on Oct 8, 2008 0:04:09 GMT -5
"I really have not. Nothing I would call 'decent,' anyway..." Maleo sighed and watched the swaying plank for a moment. "It calls for dual male roles... and it is quite risque for this era, but I believe the people of this prudent age should be shaken up a bit..."
He paused, letting that thought sink into himself as well as the Maestro above him. "The other male role is Bagoas, the reputed Persian dancer of whom Alexander had... relations."
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Post by Erik Destler on Oct 8, 2008 0:09:22 GMT -5
"I'm aware of the history."
It was progressive. Probably progressive enough to land the boy in prison, at least in this country.
"And you've chosen Spanish, of course. Latin--while less orthodox--would be more interesting. And you're going about your lyrics all wrong. Tell me what is happening in this scene."
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Post by Maleo Basilio Addams on Oct 8, 2008 0:18:51 GMT -5
"I tried Italian, but it's been forever since I spent time in Italy..." Maleo casually shifted back to the question at hand. "It is a scene in which Alexander has first defeated the Persians... I wanted to make it sound as powerful and as strong as the conqueror was..." And as arrogant and as boisterous as the damned tenor who should pick up the lead... he thought to himself, patting the breast pocket of his jacket.
"However, I am finding it most difficult to compose... I do not even require a certain message for it... it is merely a story..." About men loving each other in the (literally) Greek sense. But that would be neither here nor there if the damned thing never saw the light of paper.
"What brings you to the empty stage?"
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Post by Erik Destler on Oct 8, 2008 0:25:26 GMT -5
Destler ignored the question posed to him and in a moment he was on the stage himself, back near the wing, in the shadows.
"So, you wish to write a vapid opera? Try again with your lyrics. Or, if it is merely a celebration of conquering, perhaps a masculine ballet would be more appropriate for the scene..."
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Post by Maleo Basilio Addams on Oct 8, 2008 0:32:19 GMT -5
"A masculine ballet?" he echoed, amused by the idea. It was an unusual one for certain...
"I do wish to have some story to it, else it will not seem worth production... of course, there would be male dancers in it once Alexander is given his choice among the Persian dancing boys...." His mind seemed to spawn an idea, one good enough to get him to pull out his paper and write the notion down, then tuck it away.
"However... my composition skills are lacking. I have ideas, but translating them is difficult."
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Post by Erik Destler on Oct 8, 2008 0:38:45 GMT -5
"It's...not something that can be easily explained."
Destler stepped into the dim light, still in his outdoor gear, and held out a strangely not-quite-opaque hand.
"Let me see."
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