Despicable Acts

Giselle, which I saw performed this afternoon by the Hong Kong Ballet, courtesy of the firm's Social Committee, is about a young peasant girl who falls in love with a young man from a neighboring village. The gamekeeper, whose love Giselle spurns, reveals that her fiance is actually also affianced to a nobleman's daughter, and Giselle dies of a broken heart.

(In other words, damn two-timing jerk causes his lover to die. Though who dies of a broken heart? Girl, get it together.)

Both the spurned suitor and Giselle's lover visit her grave, where the Wilis, the spirits of brides who died before their wedding day, drive the spurned suitor to his death (apparently by making him dance to death. huh). They're about to do the same to the lover despite Giselle's attempts to save him, when daylight breaks and the Wilis fade away. Giselle, now one of them, also fades away, and her two-timing lover is left with nothing but fading flowers and his sorrow.

(In other words, damn two-timing jerk should have gotten what he deserved and Giselle should have been all up in his face about it too, but -- oops, gotta keep an eye on the clock.)

I haven't seen ballet since I lived in Our Nation's Capital, and I remember not liking it very much. I appreciated the technical difficulty and the amazing physical feats of the dancers, but I thought it was all kinda hokey.

Well, hk done grown up, apparently, because I loved this performance. The sets and costumes were both so pretty, and the last few minutes, where Giselle is exorably drawn into the shadow despite her attempts to comfort her lover, and her lover's abject form, dropping the flowers she gave him on the floor, made me tear up. (Okay, not really. But it did hit me, nonetheless.)

I love also the fact that the universe? It likes to drop anvils.

Because last night, as I mentioned in an earlier post today, I did one crazy thing and one despicable thing. The crazy thing was climbing to the Peak at 3:30 in the morning, which is the sort of thing that seems like a good idea when you're drunk and enjoying someone's company. (It was actually pretty fun, and the nighttime view was pretty.)


The despicable thing was being kissed by and kissing someone who has a serious girlfriend, for whom he moved to this city almost a year ago, with whom he lives, and with whom I thought he was in love.

The weird thing about it was that after said person left my apartment at 7 in the morning, I took a shower, tried to sleep and woke up feeling completely devoid of emotion. Strange, when you've just helped someone commit infidelity. You think you'd feel something: anger, shame, pride, self-hatred, take your pick.

A number of hours later, after seeing Giselle and going to the gym (where I watched a soothing episode of House -- the gym, awesomely, has DVDs of tons of TV shows and movies), I did feel something. Anger. What kind of person does that? What kind of thinking, feeling person thinks it's okay to cheat on someone, especially someone he ostensibly loves and cares for?

And what kind of person helps him do it?

You may condemn me for this; I am. But as long as we're all condemning me, I may as well admit something: there's a part of me that enjoys this. The drama, the mental handwringing, the potential for disaster. The potential to feel something. Anything. You may call it juvenile; I do. I wonder sometimes if I don't have a warped sense of morality. And whether I will burst into flames when I go sing in church next Thursday.