Never have I loved life so much

Memory is a funny thing. My dad, Jon and I went to see Tosca last night. When I was a teenager I was able to intern at Opera Colorado in Denver. They did Tosca while I was there so I heard it countless times. I think the last time I saw Tosca was in Los Angeles in the early 90s, before I moved there. I doubt I've listened to it since.

The first act is a bit long and there isn't much action. I remembered it well, with the exception of the Te Deum at the end. It's odd, but I forgot about it completely. That was a nice thing because I was able to re-experience the profundity of it as if it were the first time. The juxtaposition of the villain's aria about possessing Tosca and the religious chant is textured in a way that reminds us of all that we are as human beings. I was moved in ways I hadn't been moved in a long time. Truthfully, the only thing that has the capacity to move me completely is opera.

When I watched the second and third acts it felt as if I had just heard Tosca the day before, and every day before that. The familiarity of the music, the knowledge of it were produced only through the repetition of seeing Tosca over and over again as a teenager. It was as if those memories were freshest in my mind because the experiences were recent. It was more than putting on an old coat or seeing an old friend; it was like I was finding myself in the music all over again. That was the me I have been missing, the me of my past.

I know that I won't have the benefit of those kinds of memories anymore. I have my past, but anything after the strokes is something that will remain fuzzy unless it produces profound emotion or thinking. The comfort I felt in the fold of music was so vivid because it was richly textured with memories that were layered and organic. My memories now have a flat quality that comes from the struggle simply to remember. They lack a certain depth that most memories possess.

This memory issue may be why so many stroke patients want desperately to get back to the person they were before the strokes. It simply feels more intense because all of our existence is played out in memory. The present is the most elusive aspect of time because it is in constant flux; the past doesn't change, the future can't change because it does not exist to change. The present, however, is nothing but change and therefore can't be grasped. It is in this way that memory is what we are and the way we understand life and living. The loss of the depth of the thing that enables us to be fully human is tragic.

Remembering Tosca's pain as she discovers Mario's death and the despair and defiance that leads her to leap off of the parapet was easy. The Victorian idealism of love and loyalty are easy to understand because they are so broad and all encompassing. The subtler parts of memory or experience are trickier; the shade of red of Tosca's cloak as it floats over the parapet or the feel of the bass drum in your chest as it mimics the true nastiness of Scarpia's intentions. These are the things you should cherish, simply because you can.