Bonesetter
"The Bonesetter's Daughter" must be one of the least appealing titles ever hung on a work of performance art, but no matter. For Marlou and I are already underway, hurtling north on the great freeway of life, toward San Francisco. Every mile seems fateful. The recent tire blowout I had on another stretch of the same motorway has left its mark. Anything can happen anytime. And it's hard to know if I should stay in the right lane, forever ready to pull onto the shoulder if disaster strikes. Or just forget it, and drive.
There is no answer. Only more miles. And the two of us, Marlou and I, have the good sense to praise the parking gods as I pull my massive van into the disabled space behind the Opera House. One should not take this for granted. One should not take anything for granted. Here, on the ground floor of a massive and often overflowing carpark structure, is a space, an empty space, for me. Our seats in the dress circle are less than 300 meters from my parked van, as the crow flies. And, I am convinced, some crows are actually flying. There's something about "The Bonesetter's Daughter" that attracts crows, and I'm not being snide. The opera is full of dark fate and death, and a black bird or two would hardly be noticed.
Marlou and I both brighten at our safe arrival, at the sense of urban hustle in this part of San Francisco. We have lunch where we always do. The menu has changed slightly, but oddly our table never does. We have been together long enough to have, and to appreciate, certain pleasant routines. Marlou goes for the fried green tomatoes Florentine. I have a breakfast sandwich that is not a sandwich. Not to worry. My double latte is doing the trick.
I need all the caffeinated tricks I can muster these days. Sleep is unsettled, insufficient. Marlou's cancer news has unnerved us both. Things are improving, however. Last night, for example, I woke briefly, downed about an ounce of chocolate, and hit the slumber road. A better night, but there seems to be a backlog, some sort of sleep deficit. Which may explain why as soon as the opera house lights go dim, I go dark.
I catch the first part of the Amy Tan epic onstage, but as the story unfolds, I keep drifting into the sleepy darkness. Finally, the drifts add up to a rest and I return to the action. There are spirits flying through the air of an opera stage scrim, followed by a scene in a San Francisco restaurant. A Jewish couple is dining with a Chinese-American couple, united in the enjoyment of what both cultures agree is a ritual meal: Chinese. I'm thinking that these people on stage should have ordered take-out, for the first act is dragging. The bonesetter turns out to have nothing to do with orthopedics and lots to do with melodramatic bad behavior. The guy is a scumbag on a truly operatic scale. The scale, however, is repetitive. Three notes and a gong, as Marlou describes it. Followed by another three notes, another gong, and, you guessed it, more of the same, until intermission.
By the time the final curtain falls, I feel rather glad to been there. The final scene is a hospital room. And something about this moment seems the most authentic. A woman is trying to retrieve stories of her life, pulling them in like netted fish from the sea, before she drifts away forever. I notice that Marlou is crying beside me in the darkened house. I say nothing. Nothing needs to be said. Mortality and the shortening and summing up of life is on both of our minds these days. We don't know what's going to happen, I keep telling Marlou. Life and illness may have some pleasant surprises for us. While this is true, the sad possibilities confront us.
"Us" is, quite miraculously, what we are now. Even with the national economy tanking, Marlou and I are more concerned with each other. There's a presidential campaign happening out there, but what's happening in here, in our apartment, is us. It's hard to say how or why this has happened. Marlou turns to me over a post-opera coffee and tells me something about work. It's an amusing anecdote, a moment in an office meeting, but the amusement comes from the teller. Marlou understands the story's irony in her own particular way. These days her face, while it contains sorrow, also contains her. I sense her vulnerability, appreciate it, and am grateful for it. For this seems part of a grand mystery, one only opening to me late in life. Vulnerability is something we share. It is the channel that connects us. Keeping that channel open has become natural. It has become our life.
There is no answer. Only more miles. And the two of us, Marlou and I, have the good sense to praise the parking gods as I pull my massive van into the disabled space behind the Opera House. One should not take this for granted. One should not take anything for granted. Here, on the ground floor of a massive and often overflowing carpark structure, is a space, an empty space, for me. Our seats in the dress circle are less than 300 meters from my parked van, as the crow flies. And, I am convinced, some crows are actually flying. There's something about "The Bonesetter's Daughter" that attracts crows, and I'm not being snide. The opera is full of dark fate and death, and a black bird or two would hardly be noticed.
Marlou and I both brighten at our safe arrival, at the sense of urban hustle in this part of San Francisco. We have lunch where we always do. The menu has changed slightly, but oddly our table never does. We have been together long enough to have, and to appreciate, certain pleasant routines. Marlou goes for the fried green tomatoes Florentine. I have a breakfast sandwich that is not a sandwich. Not to worry. My double latte is doing the trick.
I need all the caffeinated tricks I can muster these days. Sleep is unsettled, insufficient. Marlou's cancer news has unnerved us both. Things are improving, however. Last night, for example, I woke briefly, downed about an ounce of chocolate, and hit the slumber road. A better night, but there seems to be a backlog, some sort of sleep deficit. Which may explain why as soon as the opera house lights go dim, I go dark.
I catch the first part of the Amy Tan epic onstage, but as the story unfolds, I keep drifting into the sleepy darkness. Finally, the drifts add up to a rest and I return to the action. There are spirits flying through the air of an opera stage scrim, followed by a scene in a San Francisco restaurant. A Jewish couple is dining with a Chinese-American couple, united in the enjoyment of what both cultures agree is a ritual meal: Chinese. I'm thinking that these people on stage should have ordered take-out, for the first act is dragging. The bonesetter turns out to have nothing to do with orthopedics and lots to do with melodramatic bad behavior. The guy is a scumbag on a truly operatic scale. The scale, however, is repetitive. Three notes and a gong, as Marlou describes it. Followed by another three notes, another gong, and, you guessed it, more of the same, until intermission.
By the time the final curtain falls, I feel rather glad to been there. The final scene is a hospital room. And something about this moment seems the most authentic. A woman is trying to retrieve stories of her life, pulling them in like netted fish from the sea, before she drifts away forever. I notice that Marlou is crying beside me in the darkened house. I say nothing. Nothing needs to be said. Mortality and the shortening and summing up of life is on both of our minds these days. We don't know what's going to happen, I keep telling Marlou. Life and illness may have some pleasant surprises for us. While this is true, the sad possibilities confront us.
"Us" is, quite miraculously, what we are now. Even with the national economy tanking, Marlou and I are more concerned with each other. There's a presidential campaign happening out there, but what's happening in here, in our apartment, is us. It's hard to say how or why this has happened. Marlou turns to me over a post-opera coffee and tells me something about work. It's an amusing anecdote, a moment in an office meeting, but the amusement comes from the teller. Marlou understands the story's irony in her own particular way. These days her face, while it contains sorrow, also contains her. I sense her vulnerability, appreciate it, and am grateful for it. For this seems part of a grand mystery, one only opening to me late in life. Vulnerability is something we share. It is the channel that connects us. Keeping that channel open has become natural. It has become our life.
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