Sunday's hug of strings and voices.

 Submitted and Succumbed...

T'was the Sunday before the last week of First semester, there, Waking up to the morning barks of hounds was me with loads of work accomplished, accompanied with a spontaneous reward. 

    We let go of the glistening tickets that has yet to stay on our hands for more than minutes, as the man in attire welcomes and accommodates us to our seats. There we sat in silence, below us was a stage drowned in blues and navy with small tones dancing around the theatre. I took out a shawl that complimented my navy sleeves as the cold starts to bite, I started regretting wearing shorts. However, this did not deter my excitement. "5 minutes before the show" a voice echoes through the corners and walls of the stage. The guiding gold lights started to dim, seats that were once empty were filled, and my ears were on all their toes. A man or two comes out with a violin in their hands, a cello on some four, and several with started to flood the once lonely stage now in warm hues. The Manila Symphony Orchestra. The name introduced to the fellows formed as a Clam or a Paper fan. Blacks and rustic reddish color greeted each other. Its as if they were the only colors that would get along at all. 

    Out comes a man with a stick so thin it looked like a stiff silk. The Conductor. Up a pedestal he goes and absorbs the applauses as he bows. There I, a friend, and another friend, sat and succumbed to sublime symphonies. After a brief ocean of strings, came in Voices that is beyond what anyone can describe.  The once dull and gloom strings waltzed with the soprano opera singer. They sang a piece that sounded like chatters of ducks. It held a story, one can't comprehend yet still I follow. It was lovers bickering at each other. Comes next is another narrative, then another, then another. Comes in the tenor, then the soprano. Struts the Alto, toddles the baritone. Each had their fair share of the spotlight. Then came a moment of which only the instruments from brass to wood were to sing alone. 

    There, I sat anticipating another classic, yet found myself enraptured to the Giacomo Puccini's 'Intermezzo'. Every fiber of my being was embraced with music that sunk me back to the place I had just escaped from. I lost someone whom wasn't even mine. From that moment on, I lost my grasp on every senses I had or every senses any human could only have. Slowly I drown into memory lane, unable to come back to the surface as if I was already anchored at the far down sea floor. The melodies had mixed intensities. It mirrored my heartbeat. It told a story. It told mine. Embraced like a small child in its mother's loving arms, tears streamed down one after another. Anything before my eyes were a blur, aside from the music, it remained crisp and clear. Its as if it could never be disturbed by anything. 

    Someone's face that was once familiar, now foreign, was all I could make out off through the cold and dimmed theatre. Stiffed, I felt sorry for myself from the thought that I finally thought I was loved. I was left, again. The piece was coming to an end. Neither did I want it to end nor keep it going. Like what I had with her. Yet just like time, I do not hold, nonetheless control. I snapped back into my senses to the tune of joy and vivid glee. Note after note, Tune after beat, and there ended my first experience of being in a live opera show. Out the doors of the theatre did we, three students, bid our goodbyes and parted ways. It was me, my blue shawl, and thoughts that walked the empty yet crowded streets of the night. 

    Alone, was I, in the same road drenched in piercing creams, noisy gold, and violent orange of beams. The trashy sound of my shoes against the uneven pavements accompanied my thoughts that I beg to forget. I was both in delight yet in shambles, neither happy nor sad. I am once again a park bench echoes through my head. I feared that sooner or later, it might echo through these streets as well. What could have I done? Could things have been different?

Were thoughts that I've already answered, yet to accept. I've arrived home with nothing but the thought of forgetting these thought once more in mind..

A Preparation of Sunday's hug of strings and voices

 Submitted and Succumbed...

T'was the Sunday before the last week of 1st semester, there, Waking up to the morning barks of hounds was me with loads of work accomplished, accompanied with a spontaneous reward. 

    Saturday night, stayed up with the stars hidden, to accomplish the burdensome of a task. A film about out respective advocacy. I didn't entirely see it as a burden, rather, a challenge. I enjoyed a great challenge, that is, if your peers had the same vision. Clip. Copy. Replay. Redo. Undo. The only thing a can recall from a Saturday Night was me half asleep at 9 A.M. Pling! Prong! and beams of radiation emitted through my phone. To my surprise, it was adviser Mr. Chan, with an unexpected offer. "Who would like to go?" he followed with a poster of an tonight's Opera at my nearby theatre. As a fan of musicals, theatre, music, and artisan interests, I was in ecstatic, an opportunity! One, two, and me. Took the opportunity. Sunday 8 P.M. 

    Back and forth I went through group chats and to-do list, ensuring that this evening, is free of clutter. With the sigh of relief was me, and my completed submissions of academic work. All that's left is to reap what I have sowed. Preparing for the anticipating event, Lied my neatest navy sleeves, stuffed shoulder bag, and steaming bath. Despite being an Avid fan of Opera's and Orchestra's, never once have I attended one live. I would witness recordings rather, thus, my interest in classical music grows. I myself love the company of classical symphonies, grand ones at that. They turn my o' shabby of a room into the ever breathtaking swiss fields. Rich greens, fresh breeze, and a clear blue horizon was the illusion such pleasant pieces would appear before me as I ponder, alone, on any chance I get.

    The air blower shuns any evidence of a shower, sleeves cover excited arms, and perfume wafts around the room as I prepare to leave our comfy abode. The mall was a walk away, yet enough to make a sweat drop. As I walk through rays of orange and yellow, I contemplate of whether I wore an appropriate outfit to a theatre. An Opera at that! I've learned aristocratic etiquettes enough to know that these sleeves and white shorts would make heads turn if we were in the late 1980's. But I was confident that won't be the case. Upon arriving, there I met was one of the two others who agreed to go upon this event. Aljohn. Stands there with an outfit neither informal nor formal. He caught many eyes. In we go through the theatre as we wait for the other, Sophia.  

    We took our tickets whilst nervous as neither three of us has ever experience such, more so of the mesmerizing interior of that Samsung theatre. The soft champagne lights complimented everyone in that bustling lounge. Tick, goes an hour before the show. While wait for Sophia, my mother called me and Aljohn to go by the restaurant in front of the theatre for dinner. With stomachs full and Sophia with us, we are as evermore as ready to let go of the tickets that hasn't stayed for more than an hour in our Hands.

The Crown of the Dove and People. (My Name)

 

Stephanie is a feminine name derived from the Greek name Stephanos, meaning ‘Garland Crown’—Crown of glory. A popular name among daughters within the nobility. Followed by my second name Collinette, according to my parents, meant ‘Tiny dove’ in French—a gift from above. Google, on the other hand begs to differ, defining Collinette as ‘Victory of the people’ in French as well. Combined, my name could be interpreted as A Tiny dove with a crown, or perhaps ‘A crown for the people of victory. Albeit knowing this for many years, I’m still left appalled of how can someone like me hold a name basking in splendor. I felt obliged yet motivated to fly like a dove with the mindset of a queen.

 According to my mother, I was to be named as Therese Marie Shane. As a tribute to her name, the Virgin Mary, and her father. Nonetheless, it was no longer considered when my father was watching a show that had a character named Stephanie—his ears perked from the elegant name. I take pride in my abilities in poetry, music, and art. Some of the abilities that suggest to be connected to the nature of my name. I adore tranquil scenery, isolation accompanied by classical symphonies, the showers of light in hues of champagne and gold as the clock strikes three in the afternoon, and the company of those I hold dear.