(Not) the end

No, I didn't fall off the edge of the family circle standing room. It's probably just the crossing into the open void of summer, out of the dark box and into the sun, that's causing this funk. But a mini-funk, rest assured. I got many things to say regarding the last two Met things I saw on the last day of the season, from an unfamiliar but altogether refreshing perch: the Orfeo matinee, which blew me away for the second time, and the Tabarro and Suor Angelica duo that evening, skipping out on the inane Schicchi (a.k.a. Barbiere without coloratura, doubly cursed). I just had to call it a season with Barbara Frittoli's piercing "Salvami! Salvami!" that also ends Angelica's life, and so in these intervening days I've been haunted by the deathful chords that surround it, while spring is wrapping the city in a soft cotton shirt, and while walking around the city in the open light I'm also uttering "Salvami, salvami" to myself and to this cleansing spring.