If Even Havoc From the Heavens

A person I know gave up their Dreams and is now living a happy and fulfilling life. 

The added sixth of a chord is an increasingly bull's-eye solution to a mental ear problem I've been having.

Heroism in Scandinavian mythologies shakes within me more so than that of other cultures' stories. 

Is "Head Over Feet" by Alanis Morissette one of the best popular love songs ever? 

Should I just give in to sleep and attempt this blog again tomorrow?

If I had a million dollars for each month spanning this post and the prior, I would be a quasi-nonomillionaire, and could retire for–well, not as much in the old days, now that, thanks to inflation, time isn't worth what it once was. You would have my apologies, if I believed it were my duty to process posts at regulated speed; the sorries would be for me anyway, since this is mainly for myself. Name check this blog's title. 

There is upon my desk a stuffed frog of love, an amphibian of Valentine's, that I bought when I worked at Walmart, because his face mirrored mine so well in its dejected sense of "so, this is what my life has come to be?" A common enough facial setup these days: a slant of straight mouth line slightly askew, and eyes looking into the distance, as though one were looking across some sunny wideness of plains and wondered where all the stuff was. Every now and then I would look at this forlorn frog and sigh an agreement, and then return to my dear, Netflix.

Are we born a clean slate of plains or mountains? My own story makes the plains personally important; I'm sure you can figure yourself out. Unlike some people, or most people–I don't know, I don't speak for the people–I am fascinated by these vast stretches of land. I have several times traveled I-55 between St. Louis and Chicago, and I am rarely bored from simply staring out the window. One of the earliest dreams I remember having involved me, little child I was, being sucked out the window of our moving car and into the mysterious fields, entering some kind of Midwestern Wonderland. Anyway, what do I find alluring? The solitary things that appear neither suddenly nor slowly, but at your own pace, whether rising from the horizon or peeking round the imaginary corners we build in our moving space. Or awake, and after gazing about you see a loner tree; then connect-the-dots to a stream nearby; cast the line further into the years, as the stream supports a shelter, which brings in more refugees, who build further and further for the city they themselves project in the future. It is a city of streams, for these refugees have only their sadness for materials; it is a city called in the tall-tales Dodge, for people are always getting outta it. Sleep again, and wake again, but now eye a different patch of sky, where naught but dirt is considered population. Here will other refugees settle, but they will hit pay dirt, for it is fertile; and they will hit pay dirt because they are refugees to and not from: they are the hardy folk, and they build a city of constant directions, for their materials are visions and hopes and dreams. Oh, but will it withstand the weather of the plains? What wanderers will find themselves in your plains, and what shall they find, and what shall they add? Just as most gatherings of hovels never become more, so to will loss fall about. Just as aged and aging farming towns stick to the country lands, so to will the strong feelings wither about. But benefit is every when, and who is to deny a thing its springtime, even though it should happen in winter?

Hey, though, the spring of my soul is aligned with the spring of the times, and as harvest begins, I can early-call a bounty of a good year, a year that could weather the bad times of January and any possible difficulties of these last months. If even havoc from the heavens, 2014 is a better year than 2013. Survival blossoms into thriving. Wandering ivy clambers towards the sun. There is direction in more and more sensibilities. 

This is the crop yielded from six months of love. Reader, i.e., myself, he loves me, he is here, fa la la la fa la. And I sing, how I do sing, in return as well, "he loves thee." Into the char and ash of my smoldering bitterness he happened, and now the greenery has returned, and forecast into the bleak midwinter it will continue. A charge zings through these plains within, and all locales are electrified. Are those new windows in the small town store? Is that a new family renovating the rundown farmstead? Now is the tingle of possibility before blossom.

Two months ago I got another person to call niece, and a few weeks ago she was over here. Considering her size, the stuffed toy I thought most appropriate was the forlorn frog on my desk. Since then, he has not made his way back. 

There is a new sound trying to find its way out in my (instrumental) music, and the plaintive qualities of the added 6th are intriguing to the point of being decided upon.

And perhaps the Dream wasn't necessarily abandoned; for me, just as I was giving up again, my dream was revived unexpectedly.

Finally, cynics beware: from the moment he walked in the joint, he had already won me over.

A Ciao for Now, In Which I Restrain Myself

The weather comes down upon us, releasing more and more in its build towards a wicked winter these next few days. Before the temperature could drop further and the winds rise faster, I took a quick stroll around, sifting through the powdery snow more than walking on it; it was pleasant, even with this slight cold I have (and unexplainable pain in my left foot). A shade, though, was threatening to form all that while, this bitter chill casting light upon my self and in the shadow revealing a dark aspect I have been stifling. Blow, freeze, bite, the winter wind is urged on, for the vicious forces of nature do not pain as much as the vicious forces of our hearts. And boy do I know those vicious forces.

I am leaving Facebook, for now, perhaps permanently--we'll see. It is become burdensome to keep myself from bitching, kvetching, and otherwise caterwauling on a platform that gives breath to some of the problems I would thereof complain: non-productivity, loneliness, and most bitterly, comparison. Seeing pictures of trips, reading about the latest successes--Hell, just yesterday two of my FB friends married and another celebrated his first anniversary, and I don't even have night cheese to work on--all of this and more has inbred such bitterness that I can't continue to let it fester, so I'm killing at least two birds with one stone with this profile deactivation: removing such immediate sources of comparison, and freeing myself to actually do things, or maybe stuff. When I first signed on, I was reluctant, mocking those for whom the Internet was more of a home than physical ones, and now I am become an object of my derision. But I got an account as I said, because social pressure (i.e., the cool kids were doing it); however, it seems all the cool kids these days are diversifying their (social media) accounts and Facebook is, like, so last Tuesday (tchya, as if). I'm not a cool kid, though, so I'll be selling my stock, to speak figuratively, and ridding myself of a bad...something (blew the metaphor!). (Actually, I'll be deleting my shortlived Twitter account as well, because I don't use it.) ...Investment! That's the word I was looking for--I think. Fording this stream-of-consciousness, when I started I limited myself to two or three FB visitations a day, checking notifications, scanning the News Feed, and then being done with it. Now it seems FB allows me two or three visitations a day with the physical world, excepting real obligations, and that has to stop. Knowing myself, I can't just limit myself partially: it must be cold turkey or bust. 

What have I been restraining? The initial urges of envy upon seeing the latest engagement, the first signs of derision when reading about someone's dreams and goals, but most fully, bitterness and its incestuous relation regret. A few weeks ago I just sighed and said "I don't know anymore." Everything and nothing seems possible; each time a foothold is made, vexation after vexation is met, and I, for whom much used to come easily, would give up. But stronger yet is regret--and now a story:

A little boy, whose mind and heart breathed in knowledge for themselves and breathed it out for other like minds and hearts, discovered early on his delicate path through the shifting woods of life-- shifting, because in the wild, all around is scary when one is lost and meanders; when a way is found, though all does not become perfectly bright and clear, one can appreciate the dark beauty of the chaos of the trees and thickets. He knew that just as he loved learning, so too must others, and he would help them along. There was happiness for this boy to find this path so early, yet he carelessly ambled along it, taking for granted his abilities, his support, and his future. After all, despite some minor difficulties, it was all a clear and easy going. Into this naivety strolled the Well-Meaning Distraction and his accomplice the Convincing Counterpoint. Together, Distraction and Counterpoint filled the boy with other ambitions and other ideas, and their voices so resounded that the woods around seemed to second their every word, the echoes chiming in with affirmations of the boy's intelligence and likely greatness. For years these baubles were dangled like a carrot before a donkey, and as he aged the boy continued to believe he was on the same path, as the initial dream still remained in memory, until one day--or week, so inconspicuously it appeared--a faint siren call from behind joined the mix of chatter that Distraction and Counterpoint had continued with, and a kernel of confusion popped up. Then other voices from the wood would whiz past, against which the true meaning of the boy's two companions became clearer and clearer. Suddenly, the tonal mirror was complete and all he heard was his own voice--yet, so hollow and foreign it sounded that he didn't believe it was his. You, Reader, might think this to take the usual turn and that I will say "and yet it was," but that is not quite the truest picture, for in that doubt came through, with the help of Instinct, the boy's original Point, or at least his Point's sickly hand. For the truth is that it his voice saying these things, but while his mouth and vocal cords were moving in unison with those of Distraction and Counterpoint, the truest of his thought and feelings were trapped along Point; yet Point had heard that siren, heard the other voices, and stirred the confusion and shame which were necessary to shake open the boy. Seeing the threat to their work, all pretense from Distraction and Counterpoint was dropped and a bitter battle was fought around and within the boy, and for over a year there was much attrition. Yet Point, with focus ever on that siren call, kept gaining ground, until, when physical and inner natures both turned towards bleakness and cold, Point seized full control, and Distraction and Counterpoint began dissipating. With a freshness of sense long-since lost, the boy looked around--and was terrified. This was not the path he thought he was traveling; he had not been a boy for some time; and though his Point now revealed that the siren call was the voice of Original Vision, it could not help to discern from whence it came nor how to find it. Turning this way and that, all that was lost was returning to him, but he himself was lost, and he just didn't know anymore. Yet, with ear turned carefully to the siren, he began one step after another.

What shall I--[cough], I mean, our hero--do to get back to what he was meant to do, which is to teach? What further anguish must be endured? Find out next week when return to the exciting adventures of--and you get the picture, regret at losing what had once seemed so obvious. But I don't want to fill myself with regret anymore, nor distraction, so that dissipation of those two misleading characters must continue, and part of that, at the moment, is removing myself from Facebook. Granted, even as write this it all sounds so dramatic for such a trifle as a social media thingamajig, but we don't always get to pick our peculiar downsides. 

If there's something I really won't miss, it's all the FB people who don't have even a modicum of self-control that I will allow myself to applaud myself for having. I mean, wow, I thought I had problems, but you're deluding yourself if you think your naked narcissistic aggression is somehow a sign of strength, confidence, intelligence, or beauty; most importantly, all of it is interesting only as a warning. (Of course, being narcissistic, you are already delusional.) There, I will allow myself one unrestrained comment, and I feel better.

This doesn't mean I'm removing myself to a hermitage, just focusing on the actual and physical realm instead of the digital one. I still want to see friends, speak to friends, even write to friends should that occasion arise. I am, however, in tandem with renouncing the social media world turning from the dating world. That's a whole kettle of stinking, unattractive, self-obsessed, emotionally squashed--sorry, my bitterness is showing--fish, but that has proven a destructive area for me and for now am not actively seeking it. Sure, should someday he'll come along, the man I love...and he'll be big and strong...and maybe that'll be tomorrow, and I hope to ever be open for that, but gone for now is the heartaching search.

Squirrels, Walking, and Carnegie Hall

The less time one has, the more freedom one feels to not give a crap. With precious little time to sight-see, I disregarded any sense of being both a typical tourist and trying to hide that fact when I, along with some 250 members of the St. Louis Symphony Orchestra, Chorus, and Staff went to New York City to perform at Carnegie Hall on the 100th birthday of Benjamin Britten--more on that later, as this post's title suggests.

As a morning person, it wasn't too odd that I was out of my hotel and out on the street by 5 am. A couple days before, torn between winging it and planning it, I decided to work out to some detail what I would do on Friday, as we had a 1 pm rehearsal and a 7 pm concert and being late to either was not an option. I wanted to be downtown before the sun rose, so I had to catch the subway around 6 am. With an hour to spare, I wandered the blocks near our hotel. Thankfully, it was chock full of good sights.

(I like getting some love in the morning...)

(30 Rock! Totally thought of Liz Lemon quotes)

(Ermahgerd, Lergos! The tower of Isengard 

across from the tower of Rockefeller.)

Picking up my train at Columbus Circle (dear God, what elaborate stations they have; at least St. Louis Metrolink stations look better...), it was a quick ride to the Chambers St. station, which dropped me off close to the World Trade Center site, the construction of which got me a bit lost, but I refound my way. Famished, I ate at Pret a Manger, and would recommend it to anyone (not that the food is especially good, but it is a charitable business). 

Then I ambled my towards the Brooklyn Bridge. Here are some things I saw:

A squirrel, you ask? I was in City Hall Park, when a squirrel scurried right up to me--I even called to it, and it came yet closer. Amused, I went to find more such critters, when, to my delight, I discovered this guy sitting on a bench and feeding the squirrels in his lap. Three thoughts came to mind: 1.) squirrels in St. Louis don't do this (though we don't feed them like this, either); 2.) a memory from New Orleans, where, in a shop on Jackson Square, a pigeon followed us in and the store owner knew it by name; and 3.) this might be the real highlight of the trip (kidding...mostly). Whatever was running through my head, though, I'm sure the thoughts in the passersby heads as I snapped this and other pictures of the squirrels were "tourist" or "escaped mental patient."

Leaving the Land of Friendly Squirrels, my next stop was the Brooklyn Bridge. I wish I had some Hart Crane memorized for the occasion, but oh well. 

(Liberty is so far away...)

I arrived at the subway stop a bit early, which was a blessing, because after so much walking I needed to sit. From there, it was off to the Guggenheim museum.

...but I wasn't about to pay $22 to enter. Unfortunately, overestimating my physical prowess, I had figured to walk back to the hotel; by now, though, I was tired (when I left the museum, I had already been awake for six hours, and it was only 10:30), cold, and my left foot was starting to give out. Which made getting lost in Central Park all the more fun. At least I got to see a "castle," Cleopatra's Needle, and that bastard Alexander Hamilton. 

 (Belvedere "Castle")

 (Isn't there some controversy over this?)

Winding up on the wrong side of the park, I then walked over 20 blocks back to the hotel, where I promptly almost-died. No rest was to be had the inn, though, as rehearsal was to start soon. But! they let us go an hour early! So I went with Dr. Carter to Lincoln Center, where I was Met Opera dreaming (as a composer, not a singer).

But there was magic to do, so it was back to change and then on to Carnegie Hall...

...where we kicked ass and took names. Like, important names:

http://jeffreycarter.wordpress.com/2013/11/24/more-from-nyc/ (Actually, that's Dr. Carter's blog, but since he did the hard work already, I'll just share his compilation)

http://classicalvoiceamerica.org/2013/11/26/peter-grimes-nets-carnegie-triumph-for-st-louis-so/

http://www.wqxr.org/#!/story/review-st-louis-symphonys-intense-empeter-grimesem-caps-britten-centennial/

http://classicalsource.com/db_control/db_concert_review.php?id=11571

I'm still waiting to see what Alex Ross at The New Yorker has to say: he did, after all, devote a whole chapter in The Rest is Noise to Benjamin Britten, with an emphasis on Peter Grimes, AND he tweeted the link to St. Louis Public Radio's broadcast of our St. Louis concert. Apparently, he'll have a very favorable review (the hardest critic we've had is our hometown one, but she's difficult to please on a good day... however, she was appreciative).  

After the concert, I limped down to Times Square (my left foot is still somewhat lame), which was neat for a cool 3 minutes before I got tired of all the damn people.

(Aren't bright lights and digital cameras fun?)

(Statue of another bastard.)

And that was that. Up early next morning for the flight back home (the major fear of flying I thought I had never materialized, and except for the migraine I got halfway on the return trip, it was actually pretty awesome).

Except, it was more than just "that." It's not everyone that gets to perform in one of the premiere classical performance venues in the world in front of the premiere cognoscenti in the world (or so I would think) with one of the premiere orchestras in the world, doing one of the premiere 20th century operas on its composer's 100th birthday (and St. Cecilia's Day), in a one-of-its-kind performances (the program noted that this was the first time a complete concert version of the opera was done at Carnegie); of course, I was not alone on the stage, but part of a chorus and orchestra, yet that hardly diminishes the impact--indeed, I wouldn't have had it any other way (as a performer; as a composer, I'm looking forward to my works being performed there all on their own--one can dream). Sharing this kind of ovation with others makes it all the more thrilling and fulfilling:

My next post will be about Peter Grimes, and how this experience significantly improved my opinion of the opera and of Britten.

Are You Trying to Tell Me Something, Life?

It is very tempting to make connections out of chaos, which can be delirium-inducing for a coincidence "believer" like me. And when the coincidences cascade like a waterfall with a lot of water--hmm--it can make a doubting Thomas of one's own doubting Thomas-ness...hmm. In the past week or so, there have been three articles in particular that I read online in which (most of) my life's problems are openly discussed, and such concentration of topic is striking.

The first of them, "How Not to Talk to Your Kids," is a more thorough and, well, correct example of those "these damn kids with their bajillion trophies and self-esteem" articles that wonks like to litter the internet with. In this concise piece, Po Bronson examines ever-growing research that debunks the idea that (positive) self-esteem is the most important thing to have, at least to the extent that it is built on praise of attributes and traits. I break it down thusly: Praise is a powerful positive reinforcement, moving us to do what we can to get some mo' o' dat sweet sweet drug. Next, you have two different sides: being and doing: this is a vital binary. If we are praised for being something, we will want to ensure we continue being that, whereas, if we are praised for doing something, we will want to continue doing that. Perhaps because the simple grammars of our languages lump being and doing into one category, verbs, we tend to think of them in nearly identical ways. Yet, one is static and the other is not, and in a dynamic world, it is action that carries the day. The research is finding that when praised for being, say, smart, people will do what they can to continue being perceived as smart; this causes people to lean towards easier tasks, avoiding anything they fear will make them look dumb; they will be harshly critical of others, striking down others to make themselves seem better; and so. When one's effort is noticed, however, one will be moved to put more effort in, risking failure and possible embarrassment along the way. And in a world that expects people to get off their rumps and do stuff to be considered worthwhile, that is the important quality: persevering effort. Very few people get paid to just be. Praising efforts, though, and being specific about it is hard to develop when the habit is to praise attributes. When I read this article, I was almost quivering with recognition: I fear failure incredibly so, I can be overly-critical, being perceived as stupid frequently paralyzes me with anxiety--and so on. Combine this with my manic depression, and I'm a hot mess. Thankfully, I have been moving in the right direction over the years, but for those of us who were praised for being something, putting effort into making an effort is a hard task indeed.

I remember in fifth grade failing a major project, which was the first time I had done so. Considering the shame I felt when I told my mom about, one would think I had murdered someone. (My mom, for her part, more or less shrugged it off, saying I would do better next time or some such motherism.) This is the plight of the perfectionist. "14 Signs Your Perfectionism Has Gotten Out of Control" shares several ideas with the previous article (surprise, surprise, smart-appraised people tend to be perfectionists), and to a number I identify with each of the points listed here, though some are mostly latent anymore. Especially the last one, "You have a guilty soul," which is well-nigh Biblical. My own path to dealing with it is realizing that perfectionism is an end-game; to be literal, in grammar the perfect tense is the finished past, it is an action (or state of being) done and gone; and so I will only reach perfection when I am done and gone: how would I enjoy it then? Instead, to tie back with the previous article, it is vital to enjoy the process, to seek satisfaction in effort and moving.

Loneliness can be a powerful force of unbeing; as someone frequently prone to the pangs of it, one path I have taken to be rid of it is to be a people-pleaser, hoping then people will like me. Instead, this led to a build-up of resentment that finally broke...this past summer. If I were a less rational person, Lord knows what I might have done or become, but what carried me through was my reason, like a lighthouse to the tide-tossed ship of my self. To be exact, my knowledge that there is (almost) always a way forward helped me move forward. Now I am trying to refind who I am, Me, Christian Hendricks, one of the delicates, and then accepting that not everyone will like it. So I think I should perhaps take up this mantra: "I am not for everyone and that is okay." In her article, life coach Kira Sabin realizes "the sooner we can let go of people pleasing people who will never be pleased, we can embrace all of our shit and start surrounding ourselves with amazing people who like us, for us. That is where great love shows up. That is what we are doing here." I remember a few years ago, when things were going "right," someone shared a quote with me (they thought it might come from Goethe), that when we decide on a course of action, life has a way of falling into place. Perhaps the clustered occurrence of these three articles (and who knows what further ones are in store) will make me believe that life cares enough to do that, but I think I'll remain too focused on my life to worry.

The Critical Love of Total Identification

"This is nothing," cried she: "I was only going to say that heaven did not seem to be my home; and I broke my heart with weeping to come back to earth; and the angels were so angry that they flung me out into the middle of the heath on the top of Wuthering Heights; where I woke sobbing for joy. That will do to explain my secret, as well as the other. I've no more business to marry Edgar Linton than I have to be in heaven; and if the wicked man in there had not brought Heathcliff so low, I shouldn't have thought of it. It would degrade me to marry Heathcliff now; so he shall never know how I love him: and that, not because he's handsome, Nelly, but because he's more myself than I am. Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same; and Linton's is as different as a moonbeam from lightning, or frost from fire."

Wuthering Heights, Chapter IX

The destructive identification between Catherine and Heathcliff may be matched by the Nature of their realm in bleak fervor, but Nature does not give its blessing, nor does society, and the two entities collude against the two lovers, annihilation through sickness and status not just them but many who happened to be in the way, while scarring the survivors. This maelstrom of passion, however, is necessary to clear away the build-up of past enmities, even if by obliteration, and the junior Catherine and Hareton, after Heathcliff finally dies, are free to attempt a new way.

Or so new thoughts and old memories make of it. I confess to not having read the novel again since I first read it around eight years ago. This is not an exegesis on the novel, though, so I am undeterred. Emily Brontë's violent vision came to mind as I watched again Stephen Sondheim and James Lapine's musical Passion. The similarities are abundant and obvious: a love triangle, a passionate love that comes at the cost of not much less than everything, a desolate and remote location, sickly people. Yet, my real concern here is the idea of complete yielding, and that such a thing as demanded in the worlds of these two words is demanded also by great art.

Clara is beautiful and still young enough that Giorgio, himself young and handsome, is "hopelessly in love" with her (one wonders if Sondheim was aware of Cecily's rebuke of that phrase in The Importance of Being Earnest). Joined through pity, they do as lovers do and believe they are not just another love story. Then Giorgio, a soldier, is sent to some provincial military post and meets Fosca, who is sickly, homely, and embittered by life; her only escape until Giorgio arrives is through reading ("I read to fly!"). All it takes is Giorgio's initial pity and general gentlemanly conduct, and the spark is lit and grows until the fire illuminating the bonds between him and Fosca also go on to burn away  his honor and his shallow love for Clara.

In both of these works, morality has little to no relevance: indeed, they are more proscription than prescription, and no one should carry on in the real world as such--even if we actually do. But, as with much other art, that is hardly their point, as far as interactions between people are concerned. Aesthetic interactions, though, are different, as they are our selves in dialect with ourselves, carried on in the echo chambers of the art which possess us. The abuses we suffer of our own doing are overlooked in a way that abusings of others are not; they are doubt, guilt, anguish, and so on. We are not moved to change when content, when Clara's and Edgar Linton's are moved just enough to love us as we are, to meet us just enough past convenience; but a new life, a new self emerges in the clearing love that Fosca's and Heathcliff's demand--and yes, manipulate--us to rise to. The inner voice of actualizing change that frequently torments us needs an agent to affect us, this agent being seemingly possessed by this voice the way Heathcliff and Fosca can seem possessed by some foreign passion, and this agent needing the sublimity of these two characters instead of the beauty of a Clara. Outside of our selves, what we find in this real world of ours are, most personally and therefore most profoundly, our experiences with art.

Passion, when it premiered, was lauded by critics but derided by audiences. Sondheim said in reply:

The story struck some audiences as ridiculous. They refused to believe that anyone, much less the handsome Giorgio, could come to love someone so manipulative and relentless, not to mention physically repellent, as Fosca. As the perennial banality would have it, they couldn't "identify" with the main characters. The violence of their reaction, however, strikes me as an example of "The lady doth protest too much." I think they may have identified with Giorgio and Fosca all too readily and uncomfortably. The idea of a love that's pure, that burns with D.H. Lawrence's gemlike flame, emanating from a source so gnarled and selfish, is hard to accept. Perhaps they were reacting to the realization that we are all Fosca, we are all Giorgio, we are all Clara.

[Thanks to Wikipedia for the above, whose citation credits Sondheim's book Look, I Made a Hat: Collected Lyrics (1981-2011)]

The demand of Fosca and the eventual yielding of Giorgio is analogous to the thorough submission that art, great art, demands of us. To be Catherine confessing her complete identification with Heathcliff, that he even surpasses herself as her self, is the truest form of love-criticism we auditors of works can and should have. The Clara's of art are the pretty distractions that come and go: all the movies, all the books, all the music which we profess to like, which we acclaim to be "cool": how much of it all remains, haunting our hearts and thoughts the way Fosca haunts Giorgio, or Catherine literally haunts Heathcliff? When a work of art possesses me, I learn about myself, and when I possess it in return--can we say that it learns more about itself? The critical is forever the personal, and while great works fill the canons, the greatest works are the vocations of our individual canons, works "hopelessly in love" with the lovers who find them and are found in return, a love that is not a choice but what they are, and who we are as well. This criticism by total yielding of identity marks me as a Romantic, and is almost literally Narcissistic: we are transfixed by our reflections, and who's to stay the reflection, or the reflector, is not transfixed with us?