Because sometimes it is easier to express thoughts or opinions when masked, I am sending this postcard to you. This one is about Madame Butterfly, recently performed by the Australian Ballet. Would you like me to send you similar, from time to time? I’m happy to do so. I've plenty of ink.
It was in a hail of blossom and beauty executed to seemingly effortless timed perfection that I found myself deliciously drowning. Seated in the hushed red velvet stalls, the music it crept and then roared, and Madame Butterfly she unfurled her delicate wings so readily crumpled. It was in Nagasaki long ago; it was now with Love and Loss as our guides. They whisper and they boom a story orchestrated to reach into one’s very chest and grab at the heart. Not gingerly. I said, grab. Those dancers, they must know that they pull upon long giant and golden ropes from inside the fleshy trunks of all seated in the theatre. Pulling at heartstrings, literally, why, this is the stuff to make your forearms prickle. Goosebumps! These physical sensations, all part of the thrill. Not merely a heady experience, this ride is for the body too.
Swords gleam and lanterns glow, feet move fast, so fast they are winged, I am sure. Such delicious beguilement. Cannot we go again? Cannot we be woven into that tale where we are all sure of foot and our step light?
Yours blinded by the footlights and with giant soaring leap,