"L'amour est un oiseau rebelle!" - Georges Bizet

 

Habanera - Carmen **

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    L'amour est un oiseau rebelle
    Que nul ne peut apprivoiser,
    Et c'est bien en vain qu'on l'appelle,
    S'il lui convient de refuser.

    Rien n'y fait, menace ou prière,
    L'un parle bien, l'autre se tait:
    Et c'est l'autre que je préfère,
    Il n'a rien dit mais il me plaît.

    L'amour! L'amour! L'amour! L'amour!

    L'amour est enfant de Bohême,
    Il n'a jamais, jamais connu de loi.
    Si tu ne m'aimes pas, je t'aime
    Si je t'aime, prends garde à toi! (Prends garde à toi!)

    Si tu ne m’aimes pas,
    Si tu ne m’aimes pas, je t’aime! (Prends garde à toi!)
    Mais, si je t’aime,
    Si je t’aime, prends garde à toi!

    L'oiseau que tu croyais surprendre
    Battit de l'aile et s'envola.
    L'amour est loin, tu peux l'attendre.
    Tu ne l'attends plus, il est là!

    Tout autour de toi, vite, vite,
    il vient, s'en va, puis il revient.
    Tu crois le tenir, il t'évite,
    Tu crois l'éviter, il te tient.

    L'amour! L'amour! L'amour! L'amour!

    L'amour est enfant de Bohême,
    il n'a jamais, jamais connu de loi;
    Si tu ne m'aimes pas, je t'aime.
    Si je t'aime, prends garde à toi! (Prends garde à toi!)

    Si tu ne m’aimes pas,
    Si tu ne m’aimes pas, je t’aime! (Prends garde à toi!)
    Mais, si je t’aime,
    Si je t’aime, prends garde à toi!

    Choir: L'amour est enfant de Bohême,
    il n'a jamais, jamais connu de loi;
    si tu ne m'aimes pas, je t'aime
    si je t'aime, prends garde à toi! (Prends garde à toi!)

    Carmen: Si tu ne m’aimes pas,
    Si tu ne m’aimes pas, je t’aime! (Prends garde à toi!)
    Mais, si je t’aime,
    Si je t’aime, prends garde à toi! 

** Georges Bizet (1838-1875)

** Denyce Graves (1964 - )

Conducting Business - by Elissa Ely

  Conducting Business
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Elissa Ely
The Boston Globe Op-ed (July 9, 2011)       AS if by wide-eyed coincidence, the calls and letters all began to arrive at the same time. There must be some rule about this in the small print of the industry. No one made a peep until three months after the funeral.
  
That was just enough time to accomplish the small, practical, haunting tasks one cannot do for oneself - no matter how independent in life - because one is now dead. The apartment had been closed. Plants were given away; magazine articles, torn for a future reading, recycled; clothes sent in one direction, small household items in another. We knew the charity donation criteria (“NO TVS OR COMPUTER MONITORS PLEASE’’) by heart.

The medical supply store had accepted their equipment back. They ran a distribution program for patients who couldn’t afford ambulatory aides otherwise. Taking them out of the car trunk was like reviewing the stages of deterioration: first, the decorative cane, then the metal three-legged one; the walker with tennis balls, then the sitting walker; the shower chair, then the wheelchair. Each piece of equipment, during its months of use, seemed the only one that would be needed. But there was always another helplessness to follow, and the medical supply store, while filling one order, was too kind to tell us they would see us again soon.

After three months, the first letter arrived, hand written. “My dear friend,’’ it began, “Our deepest sympathy is extended to you on the loss of your Loved One. Unfortunately, a most difficult task now lies before you.’’

I looked down a paragraph. “Upon visiting our showroom, you will find a complete selection of the finest certified Barre Granite Memorials. You will find our prices amazingly reasonable, and will receive Everlasting Satisfaction through our Certificate of Quality and Workmanship.’’ The return address was in Long Island, where the burial had taken place.

Other letters from the tri-state area were soon flying north. Some enclosed template pictures with labeled measurements. Some had invoices requesting signature and deposit. One was a contract. Each knew the precise date of death. It was creepy.

A few weeks later, the phone rang. A man asked for me by first name. He said he was sorry for my loss, and following up on the letter he had sent about the memorial proposal. It sounded like we were already a team.

I began to tell him that we had made arrangements with the funeral home for a headstone. Before I got to the end of the sentence, he had hung up on me. The consoler had hung up on me in the midst of his consolation. I understood it was not personal. It was just the most efficient thing to do.

I also understood something else, if I hadn’t before. The dead get buried, but the living, conducting business, go on. Everyone has to go on.
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Elissa Ely is a psychiatrist.
© Copyright 2011 Globe Newspaper Company