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Mikhail “Misha”
The chandelier lights are dimmed, the velvet curtains are drawn, the conductor in black tie takes up his baton. This is where reality and fantasy begin to intertwine, where the musical and the dramatic fuse into a single art, where mere words and bare notes are brought from page to stage. And this, too, is where Mikhail lives.
He has lived a thousand lives here. The great lover Caraf, enduring trials at the risk of death for the hand of Princess Turandot. The Greek god Orpheus, breaching the boundary of the underworld. The murderous Don José, filled with unbecoming desperation for Carmen’s attention. The infidel Prince killed by the water spirit Rusalka. Night after night, Mikhail has lost himself in each pain and each passion, each joy and each sorrow, each comedy and each tragedy.
He has sung a thousand songs here. Che gelida manina, he sings, what a cold hand you have, let me warm it for you. Nessun dorma, nessun dorma, he cries, none shall sleep! La donna è mobile, he intones, woman is fickle as a feather in the wind. Vesti la giubba, he laments, put on the costume and powder the face, for the people are paying and laugh when they please. And indeed they laugh - and cry too with equal measure - as Mikhail’s rich tenor soars in the aria and culminates in a steady vibrato.
But at the end, he takes just one bow, and steps out into just one world. The world outside is grey asphalt to the stage’s gilded brocade; cold emptiness to the theatre’s filled seats; uncaring apathy to the audience’s warm applause. Yet he is undeterred, for is not all the world a stage? He makes each step a new spectacle, each movement a piece of music, every gesture and every word a new chance to make the people laugh as they please.
And little by little, with song and scene and soliloquy, he turns the world around him to nothing less than the grandest stage that any player has ever graced.
The chandelier lights are dimmed, the velvet curtains are drawn, the conductor in black tie takes up his baton. This is where reality and fantasy begin to intertwine, where the musical and the dramatic fuse into a single art, where mere words and bare notes are brought from page to stage. And this, too, is where Mikhail lives.
He has lived a thousand lives here. The great lover Caraf, enduring trials at the risk of death for the hand of Princess Turandot. The Greek god Orpheus, breaching the boundary of the underworld. The murderous Don José, filled with unbecoming desperation for Carmen’s attention. The infidel Prince killed by the water spirit Rusalka. Night after night, Mikhail has lost himself in each pain and each passion, each joy and each sorrow, each comedy and each tragedy.
He has sung a thousand songs here. Che gelida manina, he sings, what a cold hand you have, let me warm it for you. Nessun dorma, nessun dorma, he cries, none shall sleep! La donna è mobile, he intones, woman is fickle as a feather in the wind. Vesti la giubba, he laments, put on the costume and powder the face, for the people are paying and laugh when they please. And indeed they laugh - and cry too with equal measure - as Mikhail’s rich tenor soars in the aria and culminates in a steady vibrato.
But at the end, he takes just one bow, and steps out into just one world. The world outside is grey asphalt to the stage’s gilded brocade; cold emptiness to the theatre’s filled seats; uncaring apathy to the audience’s warm applause. Yet he is undeterred, for is not all the world a stage? He makes each step a new spectacle, each movement a piece of music, every gesture and every word a new chance to make the people laugh as they please.
And little by little, with song and scene and soliloquy, he turns the world around him to nothing less than the grandest stage that any player has ever graced.
Tar #1249086 on Furry Paw s Written by Tar #1249086 on Furry Paws
Sibling of: Galina/Ninette/Sascha/Alex/Phantom/Romi/Remi/Rune