On Saturday, I thought I’d found perfection. I was at the Lensic, after the mind-blowing first act of Turandot, with Zeffirelli’s over the top gilded set. I was in the bathroom in a transcendent state. That first act, so crammed with plot, music that makes you weep at every swell, is the best. The second act is a shade less intense, and the third—never completed by Puccini himself because he died—the least strong, if also exquisite. Being the fool I sometimes am, I thought: this perfection will last forever.
I’m sorry to report it has not. Although the fragrance lingers, I’m back in the ordinary world.



2 thoughts on “Perfection

  1. hi Miriam…this is gorgeous. so know the feeling. how about turning this into a haibun by adding a haiku. here’s one to try out….”new year’s dream/ yellow ribbon/ around the lemon scented soap”
    my link is sensory (as your details of the opera) but moving to the olfactory….just a thought. love your well. be well. tac in the rainforest.

  2. Terry Ann–what a lovely creative idea…and I love the haiku. Thank you! I’m struggling a lot with prose right now–prose without poetry, prose with, prose without narrative, etc. Thanks for reading.

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