I watched Moonstruck this weekend. Besides being shocked that there was a time when Nicolas Cage could act, I am surprised how I can't seem to shake it (It isn't some profound classic--it is definitely the 80s--bubble skirts, big hair, loud New York Italians, weirdly-quirky melodramatic moments). I'm not sure if it is the Opera or just the longing feeling you get waiting for love (I know, I should be more cynical, but the closet Romantic in me has to peek her head out once in a while).
I adore the Puccini (And in fact, it led me to listen to accurradio's opera station all Sunday). In high school, I used to love our local Public Radio's Opera Saturdays. My brother Nathan, not so much. But every so often, if I wanted completely naked emotions shouted to the heavens, I would listen and weep. When Puccini speaks, your heart soars as the first few strains catch your ear and then your heart is laid bare with an aching that sears so very deeply, and it is almost enough to make you believe in it all. There is something about that depth that allows you to painfully long for love, life, and all the craziness that comes with it--without feeling foolish about it--which is possibly why I can only listen sometimes.
"... Why you wanna sell your life short? Playing it safe is just about the most dangerous thing a woman like you could do. You waited for the right man the first time, why didn't you wait for the right man again?"
"He didn't come!"
Sigh. . . Too bad real life is nothing like the Opera, or the movies. But a girl can be fanciful every so often, right? Aaaaand. . . back to real life.