Dulcinea and Aldonza, (revisited)

I’ve been doing a lot of thinking about Man of LaMancha a lot lately. Yesterday I was reflecting on the importance of seeing Aldonza through the Dulcinea. Reflection last night had me reversing the thought. What about the importance of seeing Dulcinea in Aldonza? Aldonza is the real, but what about holding onto the ability to see the ideal? I turn to the libretto from the musical:

Aldonza
(Having been assaulted and raped by two muleteers, pissed that their usual piece has gotten airs of grandeur, Aldonza takes out he wrath on Don Quixote.)

Take the clouds from your eyes
and see me as I really am!

You have shown me the sky,
But what good is the sky
To a creature who'll never
Do better than crawl?

Of all the cruel bastards
Who've badgered and battered me,
You are the cruelest of all!
Can't you see what your gentle
Insanities do to me?
Rob me of anger and give me despair!
Blows and abuse I can take and give back again,
Tenderness I cannot bear! S
o please torture me now
With your "Sweet Dulcineas" no more!
I am no one! I'm nothing!
I'm only Aldonza the whore!

The hazards of hope. This is what the world can (and often does) do to those who dare to dream. Still, when Don Quixote lies dying, she comes back to him and begs for a return of the dream:

Dulcinea... Dulcinea...
Once you found a girl
And called her Dulcinea,
When you spoke the name
An angel seemed to whisper...
Dulcinea... Dulcinea...

Dulcinea... Dulcinea...
Won't you please bring back
The dream of Dulcinea...
Won't you bring me back
The bright and shining glory
Of Dulcinea... Dulcinea...

The dreams do matter; hope does matter. Hope can indeed kill (as it does Don Quixote shortly thereafter.) But surely lack of hope can kill much more swiftly and surely. Without hope and dreams, the world is a terrible place.

I have had several years of wonder in my life. Times when everything went just right, and the world was filled with joy and hope. There were probably periods of hardship within those times, but I cannot remember anything but the joy. Are those periods in my life any less real than the times of trouble? Of course, they were often followed by periods of deep despair, as the cares of the world came rushing back in. The memory of the wonderful times was too fresh and new, and the contrast was, at times, too much to stand.

Yet for all of that, I wouldn’t trade a single one of those times for anything. I crave the next one as strongly as I ever craved a drink. Particularly in times, like now, when my life is a mess, I find myself yearning to return to a period of joy.

“And in the end, all of life is a series of pictures on the brain; with no difference between those born of outward experience, and those born of inward dreaming. And with no reason to value one over the other.” -H.P. Lovercraft, “The Dream-Quest of Unknown Kaddath”