La Traviata

New York, Central Park,  August  2006

La Traviata

Yesterday. Beautiful night. Gorgeous colors in the summery New York sky in continuous transformation which aims smoothly, softly, sweetly to the dark of the night. 

It is a bow. The day that dies and bows to the night which breaks through, bringing with itself the magic of the stars, the little tiny windows, which open in the dark dark blue. It makes you wonder, and travel, and wish to break those borders, to solve that mystery.

Is it possible in this reality we think we are living? Body, mind, and soul.

I don’t think it is possible to catch the whole picture until we solve the dialectics within. Is this what life is all about? Reaching as close as we can toward that border, being aware though, that we will never touch it, and break it through?

A vague sensation remains though, of an ancient knowledge, a consciousness of the entire-whole-tutto. Yes, I think I forgot about it. Plato wrote about it. An ancient remembrance, that’s there and tickles us, continuously. 

Yesterday. Many people lying on the grass. So many heads, thoughts, and emotions intertwining all together. The faint light of candles illuminated unknown faces, lives.

A thought, sharp and clear, naked and simple as an apple, suddenly flashed:

They’ll all die. We’ll all die. Soon.

Yesterday. A busy stage lighted in the night, crossed by big, dark lines of a gate:

The picture.

While the light was changing, revealing marvelous tonalities of pink, yellow, and blue, 

I realized that I was watching the stage through a gate, the only one, a small one, in a vast field! So, I widened my view, as one easily does with a camera, and the gate appeared as it really was, like a little thing, on the side of the picture. 

The sky was immense. The stage, free. 

Stefania Calabrese