Before I begin, I must confess that my entire grasp of the Italian language consists of what appears on the labels of “Chef Boyardee” cans. I hope that this review will do the opera justice. This is my interpretation of the opera, “The Wastelands”, most excellently performed by “The Children of the Wild”.

 

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   I am compelled to give an account of a most remarkable adventure, one that I not only witnessed, but also became very much, a part of.

 

   I stood on the side of a hill, in wait, and in wonder. I had been summoned to this spot, and did not know what to expect.

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   A specter appeared and crossed the parched grass, and headed for a lone, dead tree at the crest of the hill. The skeleton of a woman, dressed in black, an antiquated jacket with tails and a top hat, black leggings and a layered short skirt, her bare bones were visible near the top of her vest. You could see that at one time, she was very beautiful, but ages and circumstance had stripped her of what she used to be. The only flesh left to her skull was her hair and her eyes set in deep sockets. She carried a black violin. Her dark stare seemed lost in remorse, and as she raised her fiddle to play, her piercing gaze caught mine, and I instantly felt the cold emptiness within her, for she was the spirit of despair.

   Her hair blew in the wind as she drew her bow across the strings, and a somber moan emanated from the cursed instrument, as if it were the wind crying out. She began a melody, a melancholy tune of just a few notes, repeated as a beckoned request, a longing unrequited. Her melody became a tonal poem, which varied through what seemed like infinite changes, as if to restate her unanswered longing, like a child, begging for something they know they can not have, and each time her eyes turned to meet mine, I also longed for the answer to her unspoken question. Then a moment came, where I suddenly had to break my stare, for she had looked through me, as if to say, "Look behind you."

   I turned, and saw a woman, dressed in a long, worn out, lab coat. She wore safety goggles, and on her back was a pack made of scraps of wood, that held tubes and old rusted meters, and a jar, partly filled with some dirty water. The look on her face was that of a broken and desperate soul. She was searching for something. Then, I saw her parched lips, and knew she was looking for more water to add to her jar. She had a sort of hand operated pump with a hose that led to her makeshift backpack. She placed the end of the nozzle on a bush and manipulated the pump, then looked at the meter hanging by her side. Her face showed disappointment, as it did when I first saw her. She continued, moving from one spot to another, repeating the process, with no results, but she continued without hesitation, for she was the seeker.

   The music from the violin continued. Its dirgelike melody, now deep within me, stirred me to desperate concern, and captivated me beyond my ability to break my attention. She played her theme, building and receding, quickening and slowing, sometimes letting out a moan from her gloomy, black violin. The tune went on, relentlessly refusing to give way to any finality, beckoning and begging, asking and proclaiming in desperation for an ear that would be willing to hear the dark message, hoping for anyone who would discern and find a solution to the enigma deep within her empty soul.

   Suddenly, the haunting melody was interrupted. Despair turned to where a figure appeared before her. Dressed in a garment made of objects and experiences, of memories and regrets, weighed down by the past, the figure had endured a lifetime of journey, always hoping, but never expecting the end to their trek, a final home, for this was the traveler.

  From the deep sockets of the eyes of Despair, a glimmer of pity showed, for, Despair was not without a heart. She approached the traveler and stripped away the garment of baggage that had so much weight. To Despair, this traveler was someone who may be able to interpret the music, to understand the question, and maybe,… just maybe, find an answer.

   Then, I remembered the seeker. Maybe she could benefit from this new alliance. I turned to look for her, but she was gone. I tried to call out to her, but I found I was unable to speak. My heart sank in my chest.

   Then Despair spoke to me. She told me of a voyage that we were about to undertake. She gave me warning of the things I may feel, and she told me to be led by the music. I felt myself as a spirit, among many spirits, and left the weight of my body behind as I drifted with Despair, the traveler, and other minstrel spirits, characters of emotion that had yet to reveal their identity. They played and sang in somber monotone groans as we began to move down the hill. I had no idea of the series of canumdroms I would bear witness to, which would pierce my very soul.

 

   We were taken to the seeker, where she diligently worked on the makeshift still, that she had constructed from old metal drums and hoses. She worked formulas on a wall, with great care, to find the way to distill the little bit of water she had found, and not lose a single drop. Water, although abundant in the nearby river, was rarely consumable in a world that had been destroyed by its greedy inhabitants. She carefully collected the precious amount that she had refined that day. It was barley enough to fill an eye wash cup, but when she turned away, one of the minstrel spirits touched the water, and tainted it, so it was bitter. He was cleaver, for he would even taunt the poor women with visions of success only to dash her dreams again and again, for this was the spirit of discouragement. In utter fatigue, she collapsed to the ground as if dead. The traveler felt a need to help, but did not know what to do.

   A cloud appeared overhead. A glimmer of hope came to the face of the seeker as she attempted to retrieve the water that surly was pure and clean in the soft puff of vapor, but soon, it was apparent that this was a cloud of poison that no one could breathe. Once again, she collapsed in broken surrender and once again, the traveler attempted to help. Despair stopped the traveler, as if to say, "Do not help her. She is not the one. She can not help, but only hinder us." The traveler did not understand.

   The seeker needed nourishment of some sort. She prepared to eat. She had found some sticks of wood that day, and thought she may be able fill the void in her belly with some of this crude vegetable matter. She gnawed at a piece of wood that cracked into a mouthful of splinters, which she promptly spat out. She picked up an old writing tablet and pulled a page out, and began to chew it. Discouragement came to visit again. While she chewed the paper, she had a vision of being served a wonderful meal. A place setting appeared before her in a most animated and amusing fashion. Her dry mouth almost watered as she anticipated what food may come to her. Her hopes were dashed as a rock appeared on her plate, then another one, then another and another. She made a valiant attempt to chase Discouragement away. It was hopeless. She could not bare it anymore. She decided to take her mind off her situation.

   There had been happier times before, but now, they were only memories. Sometimes the poor woman would break away from the monotony of cleaning the dusty structure she called home. She would lose herself in memories of the days with her lover, who had passed on. Her shrine of a mock grave displayed a cross, made of small branches, and an old picture of her lost love, dressed in uniform, a service man to which she never had the chance to say goodbye. She would dance with a mop, a bucket placed on the top, and one of his old jackets hanging from it. With her arm in one of the sleeves, she would pretend he was there, dancing with her. She would make love to herself while her heart broke and tears ran down her cheeks. Her love for him was too deep to ever let him go. Discouragement came to her to relentlessly attack her, repeatedly taunting her, to rob any joy she could find in her memories. Discouragement would stand innocently in the corner, waiting for the next opportunity to once again break her will to continue on. She would not tolerate it. In a furry, she chased Discouragement from her home as he continued to relentlessly taunt her.

   The traveler saw the broken condition of the seekers life. There had to be something that could be done for this woman. The traveler, had such a strong desire to try to pull everything together for her, but Despair once again retorted, “You cannot help her. Nothing can be done for her. She is the wrong one. Don’t you understand?”

 

   A mighty battle took place between the seeker and Discouragement, who, at this point, had taken on physical form. With fire, and fury, the two fought for control. With relentless motivation fed by the need to only survive, the seeker held her ground, not willing to give in to Discouragement, up until the point of exhaustion. Once again, the seeker fell.

 

   The music then led us to a place where there was a wide staircase, which led to a structure, a monolith of twisted steel and rust. It was a monument to the desolation of man's achievement that he so diligently sought after, at the price of the good earth. At one time, the earth contained and supplied all that was needed for man. Everything for sustenance and healing, pleasure and beauty, all in perfect balance was included in the earth. Everything that man needed had been replaced with concrete and steel, and greed, which brought on sickness, and hatred, and war, and desolation. The minstrel spirits hovered around the symbol of mans failed attempts, and mourned with somber music and groans of song. The traveler joined them, knowing that their plea was of disparate importance, and wishing an answer would come.

 

   All at once, the seeker arrived, standing tall, for she had risen above all that she had encountered. Driven by an inner motivation, never willing to give up, she faced the spirits that tried to defeat her. Grabbing a dead branch, she moved strait to the twisted monolith, and climbed to the very top; to plant the branch at the crest of the sad reminder of the destruction of mans misguided goals. The traveler looked on, in awe.

    Then, the eyes of the traveler were opened. It was not the woman who needed help. She had shown that she could take care of herself through many trials. The traveler had finally understood the desperate cry that was in the music and visions we had all bore witness to. The one that needed help was…the Earth.

   Despair stood with a look of longing for a conformation that the answer was finally understood. She had known the answer to this desperate problem all along, but it would never have been enough to give the answer. It had to be sought after until it was found. Only then, would the answer have true meaning. Yet, there remained another answer that she waited for. One that was even more important.

    The traveler reached out and touched the face of Despair, and a light of hope came from her tired eyes, and a tear ran down her cheek. I felt her heart begin to beat with hope, for this was the answer she was looking for. There was someone who understood, and who cared enough to begin the process of healing, to fight the good fight.

 

   Then, one of the many silent spirits that I had felt around me, was given a voice, and they cried out to the rest of us, with warning, and urgency, with a proclamation of hope, and a promise that if we all joined together, we could heal the poisoned lands. It would take the work of all of us to spread the word, and gather more who were willing and able, who still had hope that the wastelands would not be our final state of mankind. We can change the world back to the way we found it, if only we cared enough. We have to lay down our greed and selfish wants. We need to care for the earth that supplied life to us all. It was not the cars and computers and factories and machines that we needed, for these were things that had destroyed the planet. It was not borders of land, or money, or power to control that would help us. None of these things will do. We need but one great power to accomplish out task, and it is called love.

 

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   I found my self, walking down Broadway, with all the other people who had traveled with me in spirit. Now, there were voices, now there was conversation and consideration, but curiosity still compelled us to follow the music to an undisclosed location.

 

   We arrived at the city art counsel building, where artisans gathered and shared their talents. The room was filled with various artworks, some not yet finished, some used for plays at the Palace Theater. There were refreshments, and people meeting each other and discussing the play. I found this to be a good opportunity to hand out my web site link, and to get to reconnect with some of the play actors. It was only a couple of days before that I had met them in rehearsal as I was crossing the bride to go home from downtown. One of the play actors, "Discouragement", was interested when I mentioned that I was looking for some voice actors to dramatize a book I had written. After the most of the people left, several of us sat to discuss the condition of Lorain, and what we could do to awaken and activate the public to improve the city. The encounter was recorded in audio to document the meeting and make it available for review. It was past 10:00 p.m. before we finished. One of the people in charge gave me a ride home. My knee was bothering me a lot by then, and I was grateful for the ride.

 

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Sub note

 

   I wish to state that my account of this experience falls far short of the full spectrum of the play and its actors. I did not even come close to telling the full story. The theater group consists of multitalented musicians, and singers, acrobats, jugglers and deeply emotional acting talent. Except for a couple of bits of monologue directed at the audience, the entire play was sung in Italian. The physical nature of the play even came close to being dangerous, all for the sake of dedication to top quality performance and execution of a message that desperately needs to be heard by all.

   I would like to thank the actors, whom I got to meet personally, for their amazing talent, which they have donated free for all who are interested. They are traveling from city to city to perform. Being that they must contend with an ever changing stage, dictated by existing structures, I must commend them on the optimal use of all the elements in the location they chose to perform the play. I could not imagine a better backdrop for this story. Every single scene was brilliantly executed. I am honored to have met such a talented group and I hope to remain in contact with them, maybe even see them again some day.

   There is one more spirit I must mention. This spirit was the one who would magically teleport objects, bringing them in and out of existence, and who interacted, and guided the souls who were privileged to be a part of this enchanting story, for this spirit is the Sprite, moving in and out of scenes, unseen and unacknowledged. She has a most important job, and deserves consideration.