in the garden of eden.

the virtuoso. anthony griffiths. The unending amends you've made Are enough for one life Be done I believe in innocence, little darling Start again I believe in everyone I believe, regardless I believe in everyone

[virtucso]

T H E   V I R TU O S O.

written by adrian (he&him)

* SKELETON / INTRO / MUSINGS / PLAYLISTS

[sentrysvoid]

Moulin Rouge! dir. Baz Luhrmann | 2001

[photografya-deactivated20230917]

[cchaosstude]

#these monologues are giving me life

[ritikajyala]

As a child, I was always searching for the meaning of it all, the big Why; and my father always said that there is no one big purpose but I had the most ripe orange today and kissed my cat goodnight, I think that's enough purpose for a day.

-Ritika Jyala, excerpt from The Flesh I Burned

[virtucso]

the crook.

Being agreed with always feels good, especially for Salvador. He casts a glance over towards Tony in response. His expression remains plain, calm, allusive, though his insides stir. 

“Well,” Salvador starts padding around the room. He settles on the opposite side, examining the extra shelf of books adorned within the wall. He doesn’t recognize a single title. Salvador didn’t allow himself much time to read, aside from a few classics that he forgets about the minute he sets the novel down for the evening. Besides, books were boring, and Salvador didn’t enjoy being bored. “Rich people love to show off. It’s all they have outside of all that wealth, because when you’re rich you never know what or who’s true. So, you drown yourself in lavish events and items. You show off, you make a scene.” He continues, shrugging his broad shoulders. Perhaps Salvador’s thinking is helplessly black and white, simple, but it’s not something he’s ever been able to shake. He had his prospects aligned already and his opinion was difficult to sway no matter the subject.

Salvador moves to approach the other man, settling a few feet beside him before the bookshelf Tony was exploring carefully. He glances down towards the book in his hand then, wondering what might have intrigued him enough to pick it up. Another obstinate projection within Salvador is that he believes every action has some kind of motive. Nothing is ever simple. Nothing is trivial in pursuit of mundane pleasure. No, everything was something and something was everything. And as Tony turns to him now, putting away the book, Salvador averts his eyes to his face, observing his expression carefully. “I wouldn’t be surprised if it was. I mean, the man is letting us prance around his home as if it’s nothing. I’m surprised others don’t find that curious even in the slightest.” Or maybe Salvador was simply just not trusting. For a moment, Salvador feels a brief sense of nervousness at the sight of Tony, and he’s quick to look away once more. Maybe it was the fact that the cogs inside the other man’s mind were certainly working, questioning Salvador’s own words and motives. With his eyes settled elsewhere, he continues, “You’re smart to question.”

.

“Hmm. Then I’m glad I never became this sort of person. I’d hate to have become so—shallow,” Anthony admits. He wonders then, is that what his parents used to do? The answer springs into his mind immediately—of course they did. He remembers all the dinner parties they used to throw when he was a child, all those times he’d try to escape his governess’ watchful eye and sneak into the smoking room late into the evening, to see his father talk and drink with his friends. Sometimes, his governess would consciously look away and let him and for some reason, neither his father nor his mother would get mad. Most of the time, they had Tony play something on the piano in the library in front of everyone and he always happily did so—he loved the attention. 

But now, even though his parents aren’t very happy about the fact that they can’t host like they used to anymore—both because they lack the funds and because their so-called friends turned their backs on them the moment their wealth dropped down to an unsatisfactory level—Anthony is. Most of the time, he finds these balls a waste of time. He prefers his gatherings smaller, more intimate. And yet, he’s still not sure what to think of tonight. At least anything other than how absolutely bizarre it’s been.

Anthony notices the way Salvador’s gaze follows his movements. “Coleridge. I had a friend at school who was obsessed with reading him. We learned some of the poems by heart,” he explains, a fond smile spreading across his face at the memory. “A couple years back I was inspired to write a concerto after reading Christabel—never finished it, though. Probably because Coleridge never finished the poem in the first place,” Tony adds as he trails his finger along the book’s spine once it’s back on the shelf. 

“Mister Ashton’s been smart enough to provide people with distractions. The food, the music, the drink. There’s hardly any room for thinking when you have wine and champagne flowing this freely.” Anthony himself has made sure to stay relatively sober tonight—even though he’s been rather excited about tonight, there’s still an element of distrust that governs his thoughts. “Have you tried to leave, though? I haven’t seen the carriages since they dropped us off. And no matter where you go, which gate you seem to pass through, you always come back into the gardens. I tried going twice—the first time around I just thought I took a wrong turn. But then I tried again and the same thing happened. I don’t really know what happened. I keep thinking I must’ve imagined it.”

It did not bother Anthony this much before but now that he’s told another person about this, it gives him a fright. He wonders what the other man will make of this—whether he’ll think of it seriously or blame everything on the excitement and alcohol. The latter is exactly what Anthony’s been trying to do to rationalize what happened.

The comment Salvador makes draws a hearty chuckle out of Anthony. “I’m really not,” he says as he drops his gaze to the floor. A smile remains on his face, though. “I think I’m rather dull.”

[virtucso]

closed to: @ruthleveen​ rose garden

He strolls around rather aimlessly, having grown a bit overwhelmed by the ballroom, and by the inside of the mansion in general. He appreciates this evening very much—it’s been a while since the last time Anthony’s got to come to a party like this, meet a handful of friends and enjoy himself properly. He thinks back to the day he received the invitation and how quickly he made the decision to attend. Once upon a time, Tony would’ve tossed the envelope without a single thought, all in favour of another late night spent at the theater, frustrated over some song he thought to be not perfect enough.

Now he feels grateful. The faint sound of music, the smell of the flowers, the soft breeze—it all makes Anthony feel so alive. 

The smile on his face grows as he spots another friend—he’s so glad to have run into so many of them tonight. “Ruth, hello,” he greets her. It feels odd to see her outside the theater, since that is usually where they meet one another. That itself makes Anthony realize how very little he actually knows about her and that’s something he desperately desires to change. “I'm so glad you’re here! How are you finding the whole thing? Quite...unusual, isn’t it.”

[weltenwellen]

Ada Limón, from “Lover”, The Hurting Kind

[virtucso]

the crook.

open to everyone. where: inside ravensmoor manor. when: evening.

Exploring came easy to him. Salvador was a natural weasel, so to speak, weaving in and through corridors and rooms with ease. The manor was certainly grand, exceeding many of Salvador’s inner expectations. In truth, he almost didn’t come. He mostly had his proclivity for partying to blame for his sudden attendance. What you need to know about Salvador Ruiz was that he didn’t like to be alone. A man with many vices, loneliness very easily took the top spot. And it’s not a kind of loneliness that so often come with the craving for another. No, he did not think of love or romance, nor did he wonder about companionship within any capacity. He just doesn’t enjoy the quiet. The creaking walls of his empty home, bringing to light the voices that vigorously cling to that same quiet. 

It’s why he whistles in this moment, alone in an office on the second floor of the manor. He picks up a paperweight and tosses it in the air, catching it as it falls back down. “It’s all a bit overkill, no?” Salvador muses aloud, looking to the person who appears in the doorway. “The whole thing. The masks, the manor, these strangers.” He swats his hand through the air as if that might further his point. “I reckon something conspicuous is afoot, my friend.” But when did he not? Perhaps this was an empty sentiment coming from Salvador, as he was always strategic and questioning. 

“It is,” Anthony agrees wholeheartedly, his curious eyes roaming around the room—he’s immediately drawn to the books neatly lined along the tall shelves to his right. He runs his fingers down their spines and notices there isn’t a single speck of dust for him to leave a mark in. He can only imagine how many people it takes to clean this entire place and make it look as tidy as it does. That’s something striking about the manor—it is full of things, books, ornate furniture, art, but none of it looks displaced. It’s like everything has its own place, that it all belongs to some particular, neat design and anyone who dares to disturb it ought to be punished. 

“I just—don’t understand this. Him. I don’t get why people like him feel the need to...show off like this,” Tony shrugs as he takes a book of the shelf and flips through it; so much for not disturbing the design. 

Once upon a time, Anthony had that kind of money too. Perhaps not nearly as much as their host but enough to buy him a small peace of heaven in the countryside with enough rooms to house all of his friends and then some. His earnings have admittedly lowered these past few years but even before that the idea of throwing a ball like this, with all its intricacies, would never cross Anthony’s mind. It always struck him as silly. Perhaps it’s because his lifestyle was never particularly lavish; Tony’s a man of rather modest and unpretentious needs. The only thing he ever spends large sums on are his instruments but that’s a must—if a craftsman wants to make something beautiful, he needs proper tools first.

The book is slot back in its rightful place, Anthony turns around and leans against the bookshelf, gaze falling on Sal so he can figure out what the other could possibly mean by the word conspicuous. “I really hope this isn’t some—I don’t know, game? I wouldn’t be surprised if it was, though, and Mr. Ashton just forgot to tell us the rules.”

[heartshop]

Keith Haring, Journals

[weltenwellen]

Adonis, tr. by Khaled Mattawa, Selected Poems

[lifeinpoetry]

“I burst into tears. “I just feel so terrible about living,” I said. “I feel too self-conscious about living and it’s driving me crazy.””

— David Wojnarowicz, from Close to the Knives: A Memoir of Disintegration

[poetic--elixir]

Art is to console those who are broken by life. —Vincent Van Gogh

[weltenwellen]

Adonis, tr. by Khaled Mattawa, Selected Poems

[weltenwellen]

“James Baldwin, The Art of Fiction No. 78”, An Interview by Jordan Elgrably

[virtucso]

the actress.

As Zoya walks through the hallways, she’s struck by how the manor seems to have come out of a fairytale. From its mysterious owner to its secretive guests, their names unattainable like a fae’s true name, nothing about Ravensmoor seems quite real—even the way she arrived seems touched by enchantment. The melody drifting from an open door only adds to this thought, something nostalgic about its tune. 

But when she finds the source, the person at the piano is as real as real can be. So that’s why it sounded so familiar. She likes seeing Tony like this: unburdened and unshackled, as if everything has fallen away and it is only him and song that remain. It suits him far more than the exhaustion of years before, when his craft was more of a curse than a gift. So begs the question—how much of yourself must you devote to your art until you lose yourself?

Yet in his playing lies an undeniable truth: Art will always call you home.

Not wanting to disturb him, she leans against the doorframe as she watches, a smile on her lips. “Far better,” she replies when he finishes and turns towards her. “Ashton should’ve hired you instead.” She crosses the threshold, settling gracefully into a chair. “I haven’t heard this one in a while. I’ve always liked it, though. What story is it telling?”                                         

.

The answer Zoya gives him makes him laugh. “Perhaps you’re right. But then I wouldn’t be able to enjoy myself the way I am now,” he admits, his fingers trailing across the keys. Anthony presses a few of them again—no song in particular, just a few notes he thinks ought to sound good together. It gives him time to think about what else he wants to say. “Do you know anyone from the orchestra? I thought, surely, I must know or, at the very least, know of some of them but I can’t seem to recognize anyone. It’s odd. And very annoying. It means there’s competition I had no idea that even existed.” Anthony makes sure to deliver the last words with a slight smile, to highlight that he’s joking. The days of worrying about people being better than him are over—at least Anthony likes to think so. Not being able to recognize the members of the orchestra feels more like a blessing, actually—it’s easier to just enjoy the music this way instead of spending too much time comparing himself to the other musicians. 

But nothing compares to this right here. Despite all the confusion of this ball and the mystery that both the host and his house are, this room, sitting here at the piano and being able to play so casually feels so comforting. His music, he thinks, should always feel like this. Anthony shudders at the memory of the time it didn’t. 

The question draws out a warm smile out of Tony. Immediately, a string of memories that inspired the song come to his mind and the nostalgia feels almost overwhelming—in a good way. “First love,” he says fondly. At the same time he realizes that he hasn’t told this story to anyone else before. There isn’t a better person more fit to hear it than Zoya. 

“We went to school together and I used to spend my summers at his family estate. They lived by the coast. I think he’s the reason why I like the sea so much,” Anthony gives a quiet laugh. “We used to sit at the beach for hours. Watch the sunset every night. We were seventeen and it was absolutely magical. Very romantic,” Anthony chuckles. He keeps the fond expression on his face, even though the thought of what he’s about to say next breaks his heart. 

“We lost touch when I started working for the theater. I didn’t really have time for—well, anyone back then. You know that.” Anthony presses a few keys again, a couple gentle sounds to soothe him. “Anyway, I wrote it when we were still friends and then rewrote it once we weren’t. That’s why it sounds so...I don’t know, melancholic.” Or perhaps it’s just Anthony—so many people use this very word to describe him. Gloomy, wistful, melancholic. They’re probably right. “It’s one of my favourites too. I can’t even remember when was the last time I wrote something this good. This meaningful.”

“Enough about me, though. How are you enjoying tonight?” he asks, eager to hear the answer. “You look very beautiful.”

[virtucso]