Changing Goals

August 20, 2002. Exactly ten years ago tonight, a friend and I went to a theater on Long Beach Island to see one of my favorite musicals, Lerner and Loewe's Camelot. I had read the play in tenth grade English class, and it became an instant favorite. The music was dynamite, and something about the character of Arthur just clicked for me.

However, after reading the play and picturing it, I was severely disappointed by the actual performance at the theater. The curtain rose on a flamboyant knight (in retrospect, I suppose flamboyance could work for a colorful place like T. H. White's Camelot, but it just struck me as being way out of character for the piece). The Merlin was stiff, melodramatic, and sing-songy. I suppose the Guenevere was okay. But the Arthur, my God. From first moment to last, the actor came across as snobby and cynical, which is all wrong for a character who, like Cinderella, was orphaned, raised as a servant to a noble, wealthy family, then pulls a sword from a stone and suddenly becomes "King born of all England." Arthur, in this play, is not cynical; he is boyish to the very end, even when he has lost everything he built and everyone he loved. He is—most of all—idealistic. He wants to create a society where there will be no war or suffering, where people will be governed by law and fairness, and where might does not make right, but where, instead, might is used FOR right. If ever ideals made for a better future, these are they. That is why T. H. White called his book The Once and Future King; these are the ideals for the future—they have to be fought for and worked for. These are the ideals that we as a culture—and I—want to live by.

But the performance of this play wasn't so hot. So when we got home, I turned to my friend and told him that in exactly ten years, I wanted to play King Arthur on stage and do it right. I even wrote down the date and put it in my hardcover Camelot libretto.

This was not the first time I wanted to one up a performer. When I was in middle school, my grandmother and her friends took me to hear Andrea Bocelli sing at the Meadowlands. I was very jealous of the attention these ladies had been paying to Mr. Bocelli of late, and as I wasn't as impressed by his voice as I was by Luciano Pavarotti's, I decided that I could beat Andrea Bocelli at his own musical game. That was when I decided to become an opera singer and travel the world.

That decision was fourteen years ago, and so much has passed since then. I started loading up on opera cd's. I must have learned the music of three or four operas by heart that year. I would close the door to my room and enact the closing scene of Rigoletto, until I gave up that opera for Lent. Little did I know, I couldn't actually sing a note just yet, so I started taking weekly singing lessons from a retired baritone from the Met. I always showed zeal for my interests.

But something about singing (and acting) never quite fit for me. Maybe it was that school work came more naturally for me than music. Maybe it was that I had an easier time learning Italian than I did reproducing and sustaining musical tones. I picked up much Italian vocabulary exclusively from the operas I had memorized and learned the grammar from a Barron's book. Additionally, I was making top grades in my French and Spanish classes at school. And I picked up a few words of Russian from opera and from my aristocratic Russian neighbor, who was like a great-grandmother to me. I loved opera, but I was being pulled (only partly consciously) in another direction.

In college, I continued to pursue language studies, both for class and on my own time. For class, I studied Italian literature, as well as Latin and Ancient Greek. On my own, I learned a few words of Biblical Hebrew as a freshman and then got into Wagnerian opera big time as a junior. Once again, I was learning large chunks of libretto by heart, and this time the German started to make sense using only translations—no dictionaries or grammar books. I also picked up some Icelandic from the Poetic Eddas and some Old English from the epic Beowulf.

Since then, I've been through so much change. My grandmother passed away seven years ago, and I know now how large a role she played in my life, having been a fixture from birth. I lost a cousin in a fatal car accident, and learned for the third time how short life can be. I lost my uncle in the World Trade Center eleven years ago and have seen my large, closely knit extended family torn apart by grief and strife, and known that both sides are in pain because of it. I was once a Catholic, but I stopped going to church a long time ago—when I stopped finding answers to my questions in Sunday sermons—when I started having questions that were not brought up in Sunday sermons. I've questioned God, justice, life, religion, psychology, subjectivity, reality, suffering. In short, the entire foundation on which my life had been built has broken down. My coming of age was distinctly marked by change, both real and symbolic. But I asked questions. And I have found people who could find complex answers to some of those questions. I did not do the traditional thing. I did not go directly from college to work or to grad school. I did go, however, to the works of artists, scholars, filmmakers, and philosophers who had passed that way and had asked the same questions before me. I have found answers, at least a few working answers. I once stood in a pile of rubble. But the cloud of dust has cleared. And like the skinny Englishman and the title character at the end of Zorba the Greek, I laugh!

In the end, the ten year goal I set for myself has not come true. I am not on Broadway or at Lincoln Center singing Camelot or Rigoletto. But I am really happy with the course of my life anyway. I did the Bohemian artsy thing, like any young artist should do. I set out with a career plan, with a variety of plans actually, but I changed when time changed. I haven't tried to force my way headfirst through a wall. I feel at peace. I'm following the Dao, and am in harmony my own nature, which makes me much happier than trying to become an opera singer or a literary scholar. I know more about myself and what to expect from myself than I did ten years ago. Looking back, I think I can see where my natural talent was all along. And I think I have a few ways to go about my goals in life using those talents in particular.

So like Arthur at the beginning of Lerner and Loewe's play, it can't be said that I've achieved my destiny; I've "stumbled upon it." And like Arthur at the end of the play, I haven't let disappointment and destruction break my spirit. I look forward to a future where, in spite of tremendous labor against the darkness, there is hope for the survival of a little bit of light. Impermanence does not deter me anymore. Positive action, whether it has meaning or not, and knowing it, is the solution. It's this that makes life worth living. It's this that gives meaning to the suffering which is everywhere. After many years, Camelot, with its resilience, still means something to me. And that meaning matters more to me than any dream I made for myself years ago.