The house felt very subdued after Elektra's death, but outside the fall continued its very slow march across the garden. Somehow we didn't get around to buying mulch this year and instead decided to buy a leaf mulcher. (What's the expression: give someone a fish and they'll have dinner, give them a net and they'll have a fishing career.) I didn't want to sweep up all the leaves, though, until they had fallen off the trees, which may take another two or three weeks.
Meanwhile, a single bellflower bloomed in a crevice between the bricks and the house.
On Saturday, I went downtown to see Eurydice at the Metropolitan Opera. It was my first time attending a performance in the city since I went to see Torche at Saint Vitus at the beginning of 2020. (My ears are still ringing from that show.) I arrived early to the Met and took a walk through Central Park. It felt good to be outside in a different part of the city.
It also felt good to be back at the Met. I felt like a teenager, just by virtue of being decades younger than most of the attendees. The opera was beautiful; the music was grand and modern as it moved between lush and melodic, crashing and playful. It took me into and out of myself, in the way that only opera can do. I thought about the differences between this version of the Eurydice myth -- which focuses on Eurydice's relationship with her dead father -- and the one I told in my novel #gods, in which Eurydice is a singer and Orpheus -- who is also gay -- is a musician who accompanies her.
Back home, I saw the garden with new eyes.
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