Belated wishes, and all that. Still singing. Back with LD who is horrible and wonderful, but really, mostly wonderful as I am learning to sing. Really.
Yesterday in our lesson she said I had finished sound. Wow.
Still so hard to get it right, but I am getting there.
Off to practice now.
More later….
I am entirely unashamed to tell you that this movie makes me cry like a baby. There are not a lot of movies that have that effect on me, and I’m wondering tonight what power this film holds over me.
As a little girl, I waited impatiently every year for Christmas to arrive, my stomach full of iced butter cookies — my all time favorite sweet to this day, although I’ve never found any baker anywhere that could make them with the same finesse as my mother. They were a little bit of utopia, those cookies. She’d found the magic formula of butter, sugar and flour and every year, she made dozens of them, all delicious, all perfectly baked and frosted. She’d hide them away in the metal fruitcake tins with the Christmas cowboy theme that my uncle from California would send us. No one but my father could stand the fruitcake and we were more than happy to see them so delectably re-purposed. Being that we lived in Ohio, the garage was a second freezer in the wintertime, and she’d stack up the tins in there, bringing them in one by one as guests or family came by. Anything was an excuse to brew a pot of Constant Comment tea and open up those tins, and oh was I glad to have an excuse. I would scavenge every cookie I could get until she’d close up the tin in embarassment or a full-blown scolding if it was only family. I didn’t care. I only had one chance a year to get my high off of them, and shame was simply not going to stop me.
Every now and then, I buy myself an iced sugar cookie. It’s never right. The icing is hard. Or the cookie is too thick, or not enough butter, too much sugar, or vice versa. The closest I can get is when I make them myself, but I avoid that as I know it’s guaranteed weight gain, and I’m a lot more careful about my arteries than I used to be. But I do long for them and sometimes I give in at Christmas and make a small batch.
But back to Rudolph.
I watched a bit of ‘Polar Express’ the other night, which is the 21st century answer to the questions of Christmas. I was impressed with the pixel pyrotechnics… but it’s not Rudolph. Too much made sense, too much left any room for the leap of faith that a little movie like Rudolph requires. And I found myself wondering what children are missing by having so many of the blanks filled in like that. Rudolph requires that we suspend our rationale for an hour or so and allow ourselves to believe… and something essential to the meaning of Christmas is to be found in that, I think.
And maybe that’s why I cry, every time. When Rudolph is chosen, when the misfit toys are picked up at last, and Rudolph glides off into the moonlight with jolly ol’ Santa wishing a Merry Christmas to all… I can feel what it felt like once to believe — that dreams do come true, that rights are wronged, that the lost are found and that reindeers can fly. I think I cry because I feel how much I want to believe, still, and how hard it is sometimes to do so… to believe that the sun shining is enough, that one footstep will follow the other, and that today will not bring anything I cannot handle.
I think I cry because Rudolph gives me hope and that opens up the floodgate of my tears. Perhaps I’m hoping more than I realize, most of the time.
* * *
This can be a hard time of year for me. My large and very dysfunctional family remains in a few estranged and broken clusters of people who share the same DNA but haven’t spoken in years. Sans the brother who died last spring. His death did nothing to make us better. I don’t know what it would take, but it would have to be something monumental. Because not even death seems to shift things. We are a sad and tragic group, and as I said, this is a hard time of year for me.
Watching Rudolph brings up the hard memories, but the good ones too. Christmas was a magical, wonderous time in our house and I can enjoy those memories in spite of ugly things.
Watching Rudolph reminds me to Have Myself A Merry Little Christmas, in spite of it all. And so I do. We put up our little Christmas tree with the tiny little decorations that I love so. And a little light of hope is lit in my heart for a while.
My husband hates Christmas, much more than I. It’s only in keeping our Christmases small and very real that he’s been able to enjoy them with me. A little Rudolph never hurts either.
I’ve resolved one thing this year though: I will never say ‘Happy Holidays’ again. It makes me angry that I’m supposed to suppress my Christian background simply to make someone else feel better. Does any other religion have a term like ‘Happy Holidays’? Hell no, they don’t, and I’m really done doing what other people tell me what I have to do/say to make others feel better at this time of year. And yeah, I know, the red-green, Christian-dominated theme is everywhere at this time of year… but why shouldn’t it be? This is our heritage, this is what a large percentage of Americans come from and I’ll be damned if I’m going to suppress that for anyone. It’s no less wonderful than Hannukah, Kwanza, etc., and just because it’s in the majority (albeit a thinner and thinner majority), doesn’t mean there’s anything wrong with it. And yeah, it’s everywhere and it’s annoying at this time of year… but that’s the commercialization of Christmas and it annoys us Christians or those descended from a Christian background, as much as anyone else. So… Merry Fucking Christmas, whether you like it or not! Ha!
* * *
The last lesson with Opera Man went very well. I’ll start again with La Dolce in January. She told me to take a break for a few weeks. I’m impatient to start again. My heart sank when OM confirmed that they are leaving for the East Coast sometime in May. They’re from there originally, their stint out here was short-term only. They have a house to get back to, and something tells me they have babymaking on their minds as well. Alas, I only have them for a short while longer and I fear replacing them will not be easy. So I will have to make these last months really count… and I guess I just have to believe, huh?
Third lesson with La Dolce’s man today, who I shall refer to as Opera Man from here on out. He lucked out as La Dolce’s hammering, melding and sculpting of my vocal chords took effect just as she was taking off for being fabulous elsewhere. We had one last lesson where I was consistently rather fabulous for the entire hour and then she was off. Opera Man has been reaping the benefits ever since. As have I.
The first few months with LD were, to be really honest, kinda hellish. It was totally different from anything I’ve been doing in the choirs for the last 5-6 years, it was very different from anything I did with Blackbeard. I consequently now think that Blackbeard is basically a total fraud and more than once I have wanted to write him a scathing email. But I refrain and try to stay with the positive.
Something kicked in with that last lesson with LD, and suddenly… I could sing, really sing again. I like what I’m hearing coming out and so do LD and OM. They only have two kinds of comments: change this/do this/not like that or yep/that’s it/gorgeous. It’s been way more of the latter lately. I feel like a piece of wood or clay they are sculpting. I’m not done yet, but I’m starting to take shape.
On the day that I ‘got it’ finally with LD, I had a sudden flashback feeling: this is what I used to sound like when I sang so much in high school. And it made think that maybe I wasn’t dreaming, maybe the things people used to say to me about going for it, having a beautiful voice, really were true and not something my fragile ego had made up to soothe the pain of not ever having been good enough. It’s really hard to say for sure, and I might be wrong… but lately, I’ve been beginning to think that I might have been good enough. And maybe even, I still am.
What does good enough mean? It means that the voice teacher who told my mother at the [fairly well respected] local music school that yes, she could have a career in opera if she wanted, wasn’t lying. It means that I didn’t dream that. It also means that those days and that opportunity are gone because that was well over 20 years ago. BUT — and that’s a big but which is why I wrote it in all caps — that was a different opportunity and what I have now is possibly a new one. Like, maybe roles in local opera. The Met and La Scala? I’m not supposed to say never, and the silly little optimistic in me doesn’t want to… so rest assured I’m a realist when it comes to all this stuff, but like any dreamer, I leave that door open. Beverly Sills sang for the first time at the Met in her early 40s. Why not me… you know? I know, just play along, will ya?
Opera Man has been wanting me to let go, stop thinking so much, feel the music and let that music come out. A refreshing change from the hammering of La Dolce. I didn’t mind her hammering, but I’m talking entire lessons where I would sing two notes and be interrupted. Hard work, let me tell you. So now, I’m getting a longer leash and he wants to hear the music. It would be easier if he played the piano so that he could accompany me. But in some ways, singing accappella — especially what I’m working on now, Bellini’s Casta Diva — has it’s own beauty. Or, it would if I could just really let go. I think I need to imagine myself singing it all alone in a beautiful concert hall. Not in some dingy practice room with harsh neon lighting, or their somewhat scrappy apartment where we usually have our lessons.
Anyway, the technique is sticking, something is happening, I am happening and I had to note this here because I will likely have plateaus and I must remember that plateaus are only temporary and just when you think you can’t… is when you often have that breakthrough.
I found this poem on another blog tonight, and liked what I was reading there so much I’m blogrolling her. I need to read more stuff like this to keep me in the right frame of mind. To keep my star shining. Twinkle, twinkle.
A Star Without a Name
When a baby is taken from the nurse
it easily forgets her and starts eating solid food.
Seeds feed awhile on ground
then lift up into the sun.
So you should taste the filtered light
and work your way toward wisdom
with no personal covering.
That’s how you came here,
like a star, without a name.
Move across the night sky
with those anonymous lights.
—Rumi
Better in many ways, still freaked in others. Had a mammogram on Friday, waiting for results. Waiting for medical test results sucks, big time.
To keep myself sane, I read a lot. Here’s what’s on my current reading list, past and present:
NAKED + BARREL FEVER, David Sedaris (have read)
Just how much do I love David Sedaris? So much that if I hadn’t been still feeling kind of whacked out in general, I would have driven about an hour alone last Monday night to go and see him. So much that I have come very, very close to writing him fan mail. A real letter, of course, because he loves letters, and that is a person who is near and dear to my heart. Actually, I don’t really know if he loves letters, but from the way he wrote about them in one story, I’m going to bet he does.
He also writes about my hometown from time to time, and that is too wonderful for words. Of course, the best thing about him is that he writes about crazy families and people and no one gets crazy down as well as he does.
I was distinctly disappointed when I learned he was gay, but I’ve come to accept it. Especially some of his stories with that as the theme are particularly hilarious.
David, you saved my life on the plane back from NYC the other day, and for that, and all the laughter you’ve brought me, I will read everything you will ever publish, in hopes of the wonderful feeling I get when I read your stories: he GETS me, he really GETS me. I will try not to gush if I ever get to meet you.
MOZART’S WOMEN, Jane Glover (am reading)
Loving music and Mozart as I do, I bought this hoping it would be as good as it sounded. I am happy to report that it is. No dry biography here, Mozart’s world and personality come to life as Ms. Glover writes about his relationships, both personal and professional. Lots of quotes from his letters (both to and from him), and I feel like I know darling Amadeus even better now. I listen to his music with that much more understanding. I have a short list of people I’d like to meet in heaven and ol’ Wolfie is high up on that one. With this book, I’ll know exactly what to say. And I’m only half-joking there, of course. This one is worth including in your library, if you are a Mozart fan.
THE BROOKLYN FOLLIES, Paul Auster (am reading)
With the exception of Barrel Fever, I bought all of these at the Barnes & Noble on Broadway in the West 80s. I’m always worried when I buy new authors, many have disappointed. Not this guy. He really knows how to tell a story and I can’t put this one down. He’s written several others, so I’m going to read those as well. I have a feeling he will not fail me. Mr. Auster is a wonderful writer — gifted and skilled with the written word, funny and astute. His bio shot ain’t bad either. That the stories unfold in places I’d love to live in, as well as a hints of other locales I know well, it’s easy to escape into the worlds he creates.
—
Thank god for writers and their books. It’s the only relief I seem to find these days.
P.S.: singing is going great, better than ever. I dreamed last night I was offered a major role, by my teachers no less. Studying with La Dolce’s hubby right now, as she is off auditioning and competing and being generally fabulous. I like them both very, very much. I feel very luck to have found them. And they make old Blackbeard look like the charlatan he truly is. Se-ee-ee-ah-ah-ah-ee.
Update: Feeling much better. Ate some dinner, watched Pushing Daisies (cuz Lee Pace is hawt and the writing on the show is pretty damn good), talked to my husband while looking at his picture on my desktop. Did I mention I’ve also consumed an entire box of shortbread cookies? Nothing like a little butter and sugar to calm this girl down. Screw my waistline, I’ll dance it off when I’m back home. Just consider the following an exercise in me trying, not very successfully, to write away my anxiety. I bought ‘Naked’ by David Sadaris today, one of my favorite authors. Oh, and a box of sleeping pills. Hopefully, between all of those, I will have some relief in the form of sleep this evening. Manana, babies.
I have been feeling strange for quite some time. Since late July, actually. It’s gotten to a point where I don’t even want to have a drink for fear of what the anxiety of feeling out of control will do to me. Normally, I thoroughly enjoy a little drinky now and then, but I am feeling so fragile right now that I don’t even want it. That’s a whole new kind of fragile for me.
I don’t know what’s going on with me. Is it just the European extravaganza? Getting sick afterwards? The recent news of my brother? Coming to the sorry [and expensive] realization that making significant plans with ‘internet friends’ is, in general, a bad idea? Feeling very shitty about coming to the realization?
I feel like I’m on a bad merryground ride and I want off. I want it to all be okay. I want a nice woman to come and hold my hand, wrap me in a blanket and say soothing things to me that let me let go of this horrible feeling inside. I want it to be about 4 months ago, and I want to redo a whole bunch of stuff. I was in a better place back then, and I’d like to get back there, real soon.
Manhattan is still glorious, but I’m not having a good time. I’m spending a lot of time in the [very cute] place a rented, not out in this beautiful city. And it’s making me think too much about the failed internet friendship and mostly, it’s making me feel really lonely, which is a hot button for me.
I’ve spent far too much time alone in big cities and I think, in different times, I would have been totally okay to come here alone. But now I’m realizing it was actually a bad idea. A very bad idea.
So… I’ve booked a flight back home on Saturday. I would like to see my brother before I go, otherwise, I seriously think I would leave tomorrow. It’s just not the right time for me to be having this kind of adventure and I should have admitted it to myself before I left.
My brother is refusing to listen to the doctors about what he should do. They are recommending surgery or chemo, pronto. He is refusing it. I am terrified he will change his mind only when it is too late. I am also wondering if it’s his way of, consciously or not, getting off of his own merry-go-round, in a very permanent kind of way.
Jesus, everything feels so completely fucked up right now… I can’t seem to feel grounded. I thought I was going to even have a panic attack at some point, I think on the plane here, I can’t even remember when exactly… and that’s not good. I don’t get those anymore, ever. To feel the green-headed monster of panic starting to raise its snakey little head means I’m in a dark and lonely place I should get out of fast.
I’ve not slept well in 3 days, that has a lot to do with things. I bought a sleep aid today, and I’m really hoping it will work. On top of everything else, I’m worried about getting run down and getting sick again. Probably won’t happen, but my mind seems to be spinning in viscious little circles of anxiety and despair.
Maybe I should stretch and do some Pilates. Movement is often a great cure for these kind of doldrums. And I’ll be home soon.
I can admit to you now that I seriously considered bringing my teddy bear on this trip [yes, I have one.] And I’m really wishing I had now.
Where is the beautiful fairy witch, in her pink puffy gown, descending with a mercurial laugh to make it all better…? Click your heels three times, and say…
therefore, I must go. I’m a little freaked out about this trip. Le husband is sure I will be happy as a clam once there. I will see my brother who has peace [for now] with Prednisone. I am very, very, very worried about him. Please God, do not take him from me too soon. It will break something in me that I don’t know can be repaired. I’m trying to think of the fact that bumming around NYC with him is actually kind of a dream come true.
Singing is much better. An excellent lesson on Saturday. La Dolce’s husband sat in, and somehow, it was the kick in the pants I needed. I had breakthroughs. I will be studying with him while LD is off blowing ‘em away. I like his vibe, and I’m pretty damn sure he won’t be hitting on me, so all is good.
Strangely enough, the woman whose flat I’m renting is a singer, and there is a piano in the flat. Perhaps this was all meant to be. Except I’m seriously beginning to not believe in that shit any more.
This week’s tumult has crystallized a truth in my scrambled little head: Everyone is crazy. With each relationship, you simply have to decide, is this the kind of crazy I can handle? If not, you’ll know exactly what to do, babies.
Till next time…
Class with La Dolce was awesome today. I felt like quitting after practicing this week. I felt so far away from being anything close to how beautiful she is… but today… there is hope. I must sing through my nose, I must sing through my mask, and everything sounds much, much better.
I feel so much better, so much lighter, the yuck of the past few days feels much farther away today. Do re mi fa so la ti do, indeed!
It’s been rough waters, lately. Let’s take a look:
1. I returned from my wonderful yet exhausting 5-week vacation only to come down with a sinus infection that has taken be about 3 weeks to fully recover from.
2. The antibx I took for the SI led to a YI and for some reason, I also came down with a UTI. I have had more YIs and UTIs then I normally get ever lately (YIs not a lot, and UTIs, until this year, only once before.) The only thing I can connect it to is it seems to be happening more since I got pregnant last year. That’s a long story that did not come to fruition and that for the moment, I don’t care to write about. But I wish things would calm the fuck down.
3. My ‘internet friend’ turned out to be an unreliable neurotic who I told, in no uncertain terms, to go fuck off yesterday. I told someone off in Yahoo Messenger. It was kind of weird, but it also felt really good to tell her *exactly* what I thought. Which I don’t always do. I often walk a fine line of biting my tongue around the numerous people in my life who I find to be, frankly, a little nuts. Maybe YM was the only thing that made it safe to be honest, but god it felt good. And given her response ["well, my friends think you're neurotic for considering canceling a trip to NYC just because you had a sore throat" — oh, do seriously fuck off, sister], I know I did the right thing. Onward.
4 & 5. Here come the two most painful: I haven’t written at all about this, but my one brother with whom I am very, very close [as opposed to the 6 remaining living siblings who I do not allow in my life due to their insanity issues] has prostate cancer. He found out earlier this year and told me before we left on our trip. I am terrified of losing him at times. And yeah, I know PC is not that bad and you can live with years for it, blah, blah… but when it’s someone your that close to, it’s not a cocktail party. To boot, he has refused the standard treatment [surgery or chemo] due to his fear of some rather unpleasant complications. His choice frightens me although once I researched things, I came to understand. But I am scared. And now he is telling me that he is having very strange and as yet inexplicable joint pain. So bad that he can’t sleep at night. He’s been tested for everything under the sun, including spreading cancer, all negative. I’m thinking it’s too many herbs or supplements. And I’m praying for some relief for him. He is much older than me and I’ve always known I would lose him one day… but I don’t know what I will do if that day comes sooner than I ever expected.
My youngest brother, who has a habit of writing me passive aggressive emails about once a year, along with the occasional drunken phone call when he’s in a particularly painful spot, like the end of yet another failed relationship, had the misfortune of sending me another one of his masterpieces yesterday. It was the wrong day for him to do that.
On the tailwind of my YM honesty session with my Internet Friend, I decided that it was time to get down to it with C. So I took him up on his passive aggression, and I threw it right back at him… except with clarity and logic and several years of therapy in my back pocket. I know his deal. I know where he comes from and just what kind of fucked up he is, and in his arrogance or ignorance, he assumed I don’t. Wrong. As usual, faced with the Words of Truth, he backed right down, calling me crazy, naturally. But also admitting that ‘I made some valid points.’ Shit yeah, I did.
It felt good to tell him exactly what I thought as well. It is possibly the last time he and I will ever speak. It made me sad to ponder that, of course, but as always, I left the door open. He knows that when he wants to straighten himself out and get real with me, I am ready for it. I just don’t think that there will be any straightening any time soon. And anyway, were we really speaking before? The only difference will be that I will no longer be upset [hopefully] by his dysfunction. He’ll have to hit somebody else up with that.
So yeah, I send ‘em packing. I am so sick of crap from people. I don’t think I’m the only one to feel this way. And yet, it seems like something that’s not talked about enough. I sometimes think a lot of people wander around in an ambiguously disconnected state, never really knowing what it is they really think or feel, pushed along down the stream of life like a dead leaf. Aren’t we supposed to do more than that with the time we have here?
Or, at the age of 43, is it that I’m just incompetent when it comes to dealing with people? Is the hermetic life my eventual conclusion? I sometimes think it will be. I ensconce myself away with the only person I think I really, truly trust in this world, my husband. And my cats. And that may be all I need.
***
Singing is very hard right now. La Dolce is asking me to do strange things, difficult things, insisting it will bring results. 10 weeks off of vocalising is not a good thing to do for singers, so I guess I’m paying my dues getting back to where I was. It is hard. But the arts are hard, so there’s no room for complaining, just room for work and dedication. Maybe it’s the cure for my ills. Do re mi fa so la ti do.
I’ve learned when sad or feeling bitter as I am today, to turn to beauty. I just sang for the first time in almost 10 weeks. There were some nice sounds, and also much work to be done. Blacklightblue shall perservere, as always. My time in NYC, I realized, will be well spent spoiling myself with all kinds of sensory wonders, and lo and behold, the flat, I just learned has a piano. So there will be singing too. Seems meant to be, ya’ know? And what better than a flat in Manhattan to get a few more pages of that story you’ve been working on since last year written? Maybe I’ll make some serious progress.
And finally, here are words that I love. Ted Kooser, former American Poet Laureate. What a noble title. And he deserves it. When I read this, I just want to be on that road, waving to somebody… Enjoy, babies.
And P.S. Donna: you are a friend, and I look forward to getting to know you better, too. Thanks for commenting today, it helped.
So This Is Nebraska
The gravel road rides with a slow gallop
over the fields, the telephone lines
streaming behind, its billow of dust
full of the sparks of redwing blackbirds.
On either side, those dear old ladies,
the loosening barns, their little windows
dulled by cataracts of hay and cobwebs
hide broken tractors under their skirts.
So this is Nebraska. A Sunday
afternoon; July. Driving along
with your hand out squeezing the air,
a meadowlark waiting on every post.
Behind a shelterbelt of cedars,
top-deep in hollyhocks, pollen and bees,
a pickup kicks its fenders off
and settles back to read the clouds.
You feel like that; you feel like letting
your tires go flat, like letting the mice
build a nest in your muffler, like being
no more than a truck in the weeds,
clucking with chickens or sticky with honey
or holding a skinny old man in your lap
while he watches the road, waiting
for someone to wave to. You feel like
waving. You feel like stopping the car
and dancing around on the road. You wave
instead and leave your hand out gliding
larklike over the wheat, over the houses.
