Two operas watched* (see rant below). One crochet project -- a dishcloth turned potholder--made. Two skill building sessions down, and revision progress on two projects. An exciting and ego-boosting (and work-implying) editor's feedback gratefully received. One google hangout with fellow writers last weekend, one dinner with another couple. A pie, several soups, and and a satisfying corned beef made. A metric buttload of Twitter and Facebook memes and opinions consumed, and links followed to another metric buttload of news articles skimmed or read in-depth.
No focus to read much of anything for pleasure. Lots of cat and nature videos watched.
Except for my new news obsession, life under quarantine feels weirdly normal to someone who usually works at home. Biggest difference is my partner is holed up in his office/bedroom upstairs because he's been told to work from home for the duration.
Could probably avoid going to the store for another week -- as a child of Depression-era children, my pantry is *always* stocked -- but it'll be easier if we shop in a day or two. Not looking forward to that. But not complaining; we're sitting pretty comfortably compared to others. Among other, more important things, I'd picked up a pack of toilet paper almost as an afterthought on my last shopping trip. So there's that.
(The obsession with butt wipe in response to a respiratory illness -- in a state that **manufactures TONS** of toilet paper--still boggles me. Panic buying choices are such bizarre things. The best I reasoning I can come up with is, "If I have to kiss my ass goodbye, at least it won't be chapped," which ... is shit logic. There's your crap joke.)
* But I wanted to talk about opera.
I greatly appreciate The Metropolitan Opera's streaming their performances this week. I've never been to an opera, and this is my chance to see shows that I've heard about all my life. The production values of the two shows I've watched so far -- Carmen and La Bohème-- were amazing. The sets, costumes, props, casts, vocals, music, lighting --all of it, was fantastic.
La Bohème, as someone said on Twitter, was Rent, or rather, Rent was La Bohème. (I concede I haven't seen Rent. Yes, I know. Philistine). I cried, okay? One is clearly supposed to, and I did. Life! Friendship! Love! Joy! Illness! Poverty threatens joy! Poverty kills! Yep. Very powerful, and the storyline is tight on that theme. Beautifully done.
Ahem. SEXISM ALSO KILLS, PUCCINI.
Which brings me to Carmen.
I almost didn't watch the second opera, because Carmen was first.
What a fucking -- now, bear with me here, because I'm talking about the STORY, not the show, not the cast, not the director, not the sets or design or the masterful voices. But the fucking STORY is (spoiler warning, if anybody on the face of the planet other than me has not seen it), "'Nice guy's values are trampled by his dick; he becomes violently obsessed with and, as a final act of possession, kills the woman he lusts after."
This is a story that TALKS a lot about love but DEPICTS very little of it. It's a story of domestic violence writ larger than life, grandiose, and it carries the woman's name only because *she's* larger than life and beloved by many -- and brought low by her love for a "decent" man *she knows will kill her.* With an 1890s edge of "she got what she deserved."
HOW IS THIS A BELOVED OPERA?
This is the shit show we see every fucking day in crime logs, dismissed with "assault four, domestic violence."
This is the shit show we see every week in a headline from somewhere, "Local man kills ex-wife and her boyfriend."
This is the shit show we see once a month or so, "Police negotiating with man holding estranged girlfriend in hostage situation."
HOW THE FUCK IS THIS *ENTERTAINMENT*?
You can see what's gonna happen. It's *telegraphed* by Act II. And still I sat there watching, thinking of all the money and effort and rehearsals that were going into producing this shit show, wondering why the fuck we're still producing operas based in the values inherent in the 1850s.
Hell, in its lighter moments, Carmen shows women with as much social power and verve as women have today. Carmen herself is a powerhouse, a beauty, and I mean, okay, I'd armchair diagnose her as having borderline personality disorder, at the very least major emotional trauma that makes her push away and then smother anyone she cares about, but **we don't kill people just because they're difficult.**
Today, you'd hope one of the *male* smugglers or one of the *male* soldiers would have pulled Don Jose aside and said, "Dude? Really? She pushes anyone who loves her away. She doesn't trust anyone, maybe for good reason. She's said goodbye. Respect her boundaries. Honor yourself! *backhand* Get your head out of your ass! You're no man if your dick is stronger than your self-discipline. Lust is an emotion. Lust passes. It is not more important than everything you value!"
Women have evolved since 1890.
A huge number of men have evolved since 1890.
Is it really only a certain subgroup of the "nice guys" who haven't grown the fuck up?
Because I have news flash: women have better control of our libidos than that because WE'VE BEEN TRAINED TO. WE HAVE TO CONTROL IT. Most men have been trained to control it as well, **and always were.** You see that on Carmen's stage, too.
So why do some guys fall so hard through the cracks from 1890 all the way to 2020?
Because the social values that spawned Carmen and similar works teach them that it's okay for them to cede control to their dicks, because Looooooooooove. And that's fucking bullshit. Lust is not love. Obsession is not love.
Of course women get obsessed with men, do weird and bizarre and stupid and even malicious things to try to win them back. (I'm looking at you, La Bohème). But this whole "if I can't have you no one will" bullshit is an malodorous, ancient infectious rot that needs to be dug out of the male psyche, and our collective culture, with a rusty potato peeler.
Don Jose and all he represents needs to die.
