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ph_logs2025-03-29 08:17 pm
pumpkinhollow) wrote in ph_logs2025-03-29 08:17 pm
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MARCH SADNESS - A Symphony of Sorrow
SYMPHONY OF SORROW
If the Audience Would Please Take Their Seats
You find yourself at the theatre.
You may be asking how you got here, why you are here, when did you arrive. But none of that matters, does it? Nothing matters. Whether you are shocked at yourself for thinking so or whether you have known that nothing matters for years on end does not matter either. Whatever meaning there was to be had in any of this escapes you now. Who you were and what you wanted, what you valued and stood for, it all seems now like such a hazy dream. Out of reach.
There is a ticket in your hand. It tells you where to go. You follow it dutifully. Ticket stubs are exchanged for playbills. A schedule of performances. Whatever. You numbly proceed to where you belong. Performers and stage crew to their places, orchestra to the pit, workers to their positions. All with the knowledge that there can be only pain.
A four-armed conductor in moth-eaten robes raises his baton, and there is music.
You deserve this.
You deserve this.
You deserve this.
You may be asking how you got here, why you are here, when did you arrive. But none of that matters, does it? Nothing matters. Whether you are shocked at yourself for thinking so or whether you have known that nothing matters for years on end does not matter either. Whatever meaning there was to be had in any of this escapes you now. Who you were and what you wanted, what you valued and stood for, it all seems now like such a hazy dream. Out of reach.
There is a ticket in your hand. It tells you where to go. You follow it dutifully. Ticket stubs are exchanged for playbills. A schedule of performances. Whatever. You numbly proceed to where you belong. Performers and stage crew to their places, orchestra to the pit, workers to their positions. All with the knowledge that there can be only pain.
A four-armed conductor in moth-eaten robes raises his baton, and there is music.
You deserve this.
You deserve this.
You deserve this.
Observer’s Overture
First Movement in E Minor
adagio, con dolorePP
Lights down on the chorus, who sits in the stands. They are playing the role of the audience. Ad lib spoken word between chorus members seated near one another. Soft music begins to swell eerily.
Lights up on the stage. A performance begins, apparently in media res, where the chorus is meant to observe.
vacillante, improvvisato
cresc. P
The performers on stage play out their acts, appearing fearful. The chorus ad libs quiet uncertainty from the stands. Some of them will look down at their playbill and find their own name on the schedule of acts to come. There is a brief description on the page of the act that is scheduled for them. It is clear by the state of the ones already on stage that this isn’t something they have a choice in.
Chorus members attempt to rise from their seats, but cannot. Not yet. Foreshadowing to a later movement. For now, they must endure the overture.
Opera Infernale
Second Movement in Various Keys
( A medley of vignettes, performed in various styles)
chorale concerto a tutti, con affettoF
Various chorus members rise between songs and make their way to the green room, where they are costumed. They have some time to talk with other incoming acts. They will find themselves and their loved ones being prepared for their acts.
segue
Those who performed before stop in the green room again. They look drained. A fate which awaits the incoming acts.
segue
On the stage, each act is a musical recreation of trauma. A worst fear, a most painful moment, an act of cruelty, a time of hardship. The styles will vary accordingly. If the other players in a given tale are present, they will receive their role without question. If a cast member has no fellow performers from their own world present, an understudy will be chosen to play any other roles from those that they are close to. Everyone is off book. Vocal quality is adjusted to match the conductor’s standards. Staff ensures there are no interruptions. The show must go on.
CODA: Für Nimona
A Coda in A Minor
There is a stranger in the green room, unmoving. Pale glowing eyes peer out from an ungulate-shaped void perched atop a high end suit. Antlers leer overhead. He is waiting for someone. Staff take no notice of him. Ensemble's Lament
Third Movement in G Minor
bocca chiusaPPP
There are other places to be besides the stage. Other roles to play.
pesante
Behind the stage, the stage crew toil under Baritone, the stage manager and the Viscount of Suffering. There is a pipe organ built into the man’s chest, and the bell of a horn where his heart ought to be. It shows. He is as cruel as he is miserable. He runs a tight ship.
declamando, letando
There are others in the pit, if they have the musical skill for it. And while this part of the performance is managed by a kinder sort, the Contessa of False Comforts is not so named for no reason.
The opera is long. There are no intermissions. The orchestra plays until their lungs ache and their fingers bleed, while Sonata assures them that it will all be over soon. Surely she cannot be lying. Surely there must be an end…
freddo, pietoso
Just outside the auditorium, there is work for the chorus serving food and drinks, taking ticket stubs for the endless stream of audience members, cleaning messes, or all other manner of soulless work. Perhaps these ensemble members simply did not interest the Conductor. Or it could be that they were made more miserable elsewhere.
Reprise - Observer’s Overture
Fourth Movement in E Major
impetuosoFF It would seem that once a chorus member’s concerto is complete, they are free to move about the premises. At least until they are scheduled in a supporting role for another soloist. This means a chance to explore--- or escape.
presto repente, bellicoso
cresc.
Those attempting to escape will be met with resistance, however. Guarding the doors are shades, creations of the Conductor who can wear the faces of those held dear by those that look upon them. Escape, more likely, will come from within.
Members of the chorus who attempt to do battle with the Conductor, however, will find themselves up against something far more dangerous. Figures of glass, in all different shapes. Some abstract and solid, some hollow and human-like, and everywhere in between. Perhaps some chorus members will find one to be familiar.
The Hero will need an ensemble of her own to make it through and strike at the Conductor. Perhaps a resistance can be formed in a hidden location near the green room.
Homeward Aria
Fifth and Final Movement in C Major
tiempo di fanfara, vittoriosoF
When a dagger of Aster is driven into the heart of Prince Efrain of Sorrow’s Song, at last, the illusion fades. The members of the chorus relinquish their roles and find themselves on the summit of Crane’s Ridge.
It will be an arduous journey home, but it can be done with the solace that there is one less Demon Prince to trouble Pumpkin Hollow. Music in a joyful major key swells, then decrescendos.
enfatico, mancando poco a poco
| CONTENT WARNINGS: altered states of consciousness, entrapment, grief, depression, mood control, loss of bodily autonomy |
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(If Zivia looks close, it will be familiar from that stay in the casino. Fever had explained it was medicine for her particular headaches, always kept near in case of emergency.)
Finally, in a soft voice:
"I can feel you standing there, you know."
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A pause.
"I'd ask if I could come in, but I feel like you might tell me no."
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Is that less than hospitable of her? She knows, but she doesn't care.
"I'm not going to make a fuss if someone drops by."
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She steps in, her gaze following Fever's to the box.
"If your head's bad, I can be quiet."
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Two is pushing it already. But she doesn't care - if physically, she feels grotesque, it'll match her mind.
"Just...please don't say you're sorry."
That might be too much to bear at this time.
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"I won't, then." Her tone is steady, and still sober. "Are you getting a lot of that?"
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Necessary, she had said to Ellen, after shattering a mirror in humiliated rage.
"Frankly, you should be more worried about the other. She thought she killed me."
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A pause.
"I wanna be clear here though. I'm not saying I'm sorry, but if I did say that to you, right now, which I'm not, it wouldn't be apologizing."
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Setting the case down, she glances at where Zivia would be in the mirror. A fractured image, but real.
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"Sorrow," she says. "It's the same word in my language. Yours too, I guess, if that's how it's translating. Inconvenient as hell, if you're trying to say you feel bad for someone else's trouble without implying that you're taking responsibility for it."
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"What you heard and what you saw is something that no one should feel sorrow for. What happened to me was only my own fault."
Her fault, if she didn't see it coming. Her own fault, if her fate led her down a road so far that this was the consequence. And every one of her victims probably drank a toast to it in whatever afterlife they dwelt in, watching for what came next.
"Perhaps I just needed to get a reminder today to stay humble."
Her tone is light, but Fever's eyes remain detached, trying to mask the brittleness with weak humor.
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And it's the bare minimum of what she deserved.
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A beat.
"In my experience, anyway."
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(her grip is tightening, but the riverbanks hold, she remembers who this is, she remembers where she is)
And when her voice comes back, it's softer.
"I was remembering what happened as it happened. I...had only guessed at it before. Now I have confirmation. That's...that's how I lost my memory."
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And it's an active effort to keep from saying anything any closer to I'm sorry.
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Breathe in. Breathe out. Try to focus, to see a path forward that's not wrapping herself up in a dozen robes and screaming until her voice gives out, something that's not putting out someone's eyes to say and now you will see no more.
(And yet, a subtle curve to her shoulders, trying to fold in on herself.)
"It felt like I was watching myself at the same time that I was there. Seeing myself fight even though I knew I was fated to lose." She shakes her head, keeping her tone neutral. "Kind of pathetic, when you know the ending already. When you know it has to happen a certain way, for everything after."
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"Pathetic?"
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She clicks her tongue, shakes her head.
"And it's not like I didn't know that it would inevitably be my turn on stage."
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She takes a long breath.
"I'd like to think you wouldn't say that, if it were me up there."
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"What? Why would I ever say that about you?"
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Is it better or worse that she's calm about this? Calm in the way a patient under sedation is calm, removed from reality just enough to not react.
"It wouldn't make sense to say it about anyone else."
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"Maybe you did deserve to be killed, at the time," she says, just as steadily as though the very idea doesn't revolt her. "I can't speak to that. Though I certainly didn't see any due process of law determining it, but regardless. That doesn't mean you deserved to be made to relive it, or to have it splashed in front of everybody on stage. And it certainly doesn't mean anybody should hold you in contempt for being hurt."
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"...I have no right to complain about any of it."
Make her dance through it, again and again. Put it on display to let everyone know how she was broken. Let whatever they see be their amusement, their satisfaction. It's all paying the price, isn't it? It's part of carrying all of it with her, wherever she goes. Things will happen. Endure.
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