Recently I attended a small show by a Viet artist couple from France. The husband is a well-known musicologist, the wife a singer.
The lady has had a long career , having performed with big-time American entertainers in the 50's and 60's , according to the bio I got. I'd never had a chance to listen to her when she had been in her prime, but the last show was a major disappointment. There was no juice in her voice, just the dehydrated pulp so to speak.
On my way home I thought of her and other performers whose heydays have long passed. Well, everything has to come to an end, the cosmos included. Still I wonder how they feel watching their careers dry up.
In other words, how does it feel to be a wilted flower?
Monday, May 28, 2007
Friday, May 18, 2007
It was early springtime. I was slowly driving out of the apartment complex where I lived when I saw a very small boy, so fresh and beautiful, clutching his dad's hand and bumbling his way straight to a colorful flower bed. He squatted and touched a yellow pansy, his little hand clumsy, his expression grave and fascinated. There was absolutely no doubt in my mind that it was his first spring and he was meeting his first flower.