I understand there were celebrations this month in Prague honoring the legacy of the greatest of all vocalists - at least the greatest in our lifetime. I recently imagined sitting in the audience, listening to the REAL Pavarotti, the one that lived and breathed. I expect the celebration this month was grand, but he wasn't there except in a virtual sense, in a "has-been" sense.
So it was with my travels today. I was in a "has-been" place.
The surroundings today were no less pristine, perfect than a Swiss village. God’s gift of unmatched beauty was draping the landscape. Tvarchali is tucked quietly in a basin with snow-capped mountains surrounding. Spring blossoms everywhere untamed, growing amidst the rubble. It was a wow place, like Pavarotti was a wow singer.
Now Tvarchali is nothing but a ghosted, ghastly bombed-out, burned-down town.
Why (in Russian) ПОЧЕМУ?( pronounced poh-chee-moo)
I don’t understand the reason for Tvarchali’s war death, I understand Pavarotti’s natural death. This town, it didn’t deserve its fate, war is stupid.
I recall a saying attributed to Pavarotti. “A day without tears is not worth living”.
Pavarotti’s wisdom makes sense to me. I shed tears a lot, those of you who know me. . Tears come from love and hurt and laughter and inspiration and calm and from anyplace there is life. Tears come from that non-head place, the heart, the soul, the spirit. I like tears, they help me to cleanse, to breathe deeper, to stop for a moment to find the stuff behind the stuff, beneath the exterior of whatever it is.
Tears came today as I drove to Tvarchali, enjoying the irrepressible bountiful SPRING morning, followed then by the filth and festering wounds of people and homes.
Pavarotti must have had tears many times just realizing the gifts that had been given to him.
My tears were for the gifts given to me, the spring bursting with smells and freshness and beauty, the sweet woman living alone, so grateful for a visit, some food, some life, and the grumpy ol' fella not so demonstrably grateful, but in his own way, I knew he was glad too.
All is good,
genie
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Ok, I'm not sure Pavorotti was THE best, but I'm otherwise buying your analogy here. I often think of crying as a way to wash things. When I think of you crying, I agree that you cry for almost all reasons. I love that about you.
ReplyDeleteThere is something so sad about the death or destruction of what was once a lovely place. It feels tragic to me. I feel that in your words here, and I hope that you take it in just enough to see and understand, and not enough to feel disheartened. In the midst of the bombed out rubble, you still get to be the small daily light.
Hi Genie,
ReplyDeletePattye and I read and have read your blog. What a place you must be in. Why do humans treat other humans in such an inhumane way? We constantly pray that God's will be accomplished thur your mission and work and that you return safely to family and home!
You describe a place oddly beautiful and yet grotesque in ways that seem far removed from our lives and yours in the USA. And yet "accepted" by those that live in the war and ravage of war... as they must to survive... such as it is. Please know we love you and think of you every day.
Love, Pattye and Gragg.
There really is a melancholy about ruined, beautiful old buildings- a sad combination, in one place,of what people are capable of; ruined potential, and a sign of former life. I always wondered why some of the most beautiful paintings, to me anyway, were done under the conditions of war. The crazy space in a Miro and the little goofy figures and constellations in a field of stunning sky- blue were done in a time of insanity. Might be time to make some beautiful little sculptures in your daily trips to the sea! Good luck!
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