I wonder if I shouldn't have stayed in bed....the day began and ended with power outages (rather uncommon in the summer); that should have been a clue that the moon was in weird. Instead, I cluelessly sallied forth, and my day happened as follows....
1) I managed to dent my bumper (badly) when, as I was pulling into a parking space near my house coming home after walking the dog, I smacked right into the brick surround a neighbor had put around his street tree (exactly to avoid damage from idiots like me, I'm sure). Flustered and angry at myself (I'm not the best parallel-parker at the best of times, but I usually don't run into anything), I grabbed dog, hoodie, keys, cell phone, wallet, and self and got us all up the stairs and into the house without further incident.
2) I'd gone home between the afternoon rehearsal and evening's performance. As I was driving back to work, I did something I've NEVER done before in my life, and it rattled me pretty badly; I ran a red light. I'd stopped and waited, as usual, and when the car in front of me made a (perfectly legal) right turn, I simply trundled right through the intersection after him as if the light had changed, only realizing my mistake after I'd cleared it and the bright red color of the light registered in my foggy little brain. I am incredibly grateful that I didn't hurt anyone. I am ALSO incredibly grateful that I didn't get busted for it, because I would have been in deep Kim Chee--
3) When I went to lock up my cell phone, wallet, and keys before going onstage, I discovered my wallet was missing. That's right--if I'd been pulled over, I would not have had my drivers' license to show Mr/Ms. Police Officer. What fun!
But, all's well that ends well...I was able to get through the performance without letting the day's events throw me, I got home safely, and sure enough, my wallet was sitting in the pocket of my dog-walking hoodie--right where I'd thoughtlessly shoved it when I got home this morning. And there was a beautiful full moon accompanying me on my way down 101, playing hide and seek with the fog and reminding me that whatever had happened--whether I'd actually lost my wallet or not, whether I'd been cited or not, whether my car was messed up or not--it was going to be OK, that it was really a small blip in the grand scheme of things.
Now, if I could just get my 'check engine' light to turn off before I drive up north to visit my family tomorrow....
RM
Friday, June 29, 2007
Sunday, June 17, 2007
Moi, Je suis un Flaneurette...
This morning, it being that glorious warm sunny day so supposedly rare in this city, and me in desperate need of some sort of exercise, I wandered off towards the valley of Noe to deliver a note and a couple of dollars to a person from whom I had purchased a bistro set the previous day (many thanks to you, J.N., and happy trails in Santa Cruz!). Being the navel-gazer I am, I have learned that I am definitely meant to move at a slower speed than many of my demographic; I've tried jogging (yes, smartass...more than once) but found it only served to reinforce my contention that if God had MEANT for us to be runners...he'd have made better predators. (Just sayin'.)
I have also long held that one cannot truly KNOW a place until one has travelled it on foot. For instance, there are a few antique stores on Church street I hadn't known were there, even after living close to them for 13 years--I was too busy zipping along in my sealed environment, concentrating on my driving, to notice them before. I also get to take in small architectural and botanical details on foot that I cannot possibly absorb in a car--the way someone put a stepping-stone next to their Abutilon just so a neighborhood tabby would have the perfect spot to sun herself, or a tiny stained-glass window above someone's door catching late-morning sunlight, or that a local cafe is owned by a very sweet-faced Greek man who waves and shouts "HI!" at me as I go by.
I'm currently reading Rebecca Solnit's book of essays entitled Wanderlust; A History of Walking, which is actually much more interesting than it sounds from the title alone. I'm on a chapter that speaks about a character that appeared in Paris sometime in the early 19th century, called a Flaneur:
"What exactly a flaneur IS has never been satisfactorily defined, but among all the versions of the flaneur as everything from a primeval slacker to a silent poet, one thing remains constant: the image of a solitary (man) strolling about Paris."
(Wanderlust, pg 198.)
"The flaneur, visually consuming...while resisting the speed of industrialization and the pressure to produce, is an ambiguous figure, both resistant to and seduced by the new commercial culture." (p 199.)
I kinda like that idea...especially having an 'ambiguous figure' myself (t'hee.)...it speaks to me of a person who chooses to ignore the relentless call of the consumer culture, who takes their pleasure in truly savoring, experiencing the world, at their own speed and in their own way.
Of course, the thing about being out and about on foot is that it DOES mean occasionally interacting with other people.
Mostly, this is not a traumatic experience, but at one point in my perambulation I found myself cornered (literally--it was the corner of Sanchez and 29th!) by an earnest group of six or seven well-dressed evangelicals (I THINK they were JWs, as those are the ones I usually see working the streets--but as I am not religious, I can't spot them on sight, and I didn't talk to them long enough to get a positive ID, so...) trying to save the collective soul of Noe Valley, and even if I didn't live there myself, by gum, I was still in need of savin', and I was gonna GET some, whether I liked it or not. One of them, a chunky dark-haired lady of about 50, stepped in front of me and held up a bible, saying:
"Good morning ma'am! Have YOU found JESUS?"
For a moment, I was taken aback--but fortunately, my tongue seems to be permanently implanted in my cheek, and with the sweetest, calmest tone I could muster, I said;
"Yes. Yes, I DID find Jesus. But my mommy taught me never to take anything that didn't belong to me, and so I put him right back where I found him."
(Father forgive me, for I have sinned. I am an incurable smartass. )
Well, it could have been worse--I didn't swear, and I didn't yell. And it worked...the tailwind from their open mouths caught my sails, and soon enough, I found myself safe and sound back home, where I belonged.
I love a happy ending, don't you? :-)
I know, I know--I promised Iphigenie, and gave you JWs. I'll try to be better next time.
RM
I have also long held that one cannot truly KNOW a place until one has travelled it on foot. For instance, there are a few antique stores on Church street I hadn't known were there, even after living close to them for 13 years--I was too busy zipping along in my sealed environment, concentrating on my driving, to notice them before. I also get to take in small architectural and botanical details on foot that I cannot possibly absorb in a car--the way someone put a stepping-stone next to their Abutilon just so a neighborhood tabby would have the perfect spot to sun herself, or a tiny stained-glass window above someone's door catching late-morning sunlight, or that a local cafe is owned by a very sweet-faced Greek man who waves and shouts "HI!" at me as I go by.
I'm currently reading Rebecca Solnit's book of essays entitled Wanderlust; A History of Walking, which is actually much more interesting than it sounds from the title alone. I'm on a chapter that speaks about a character that appeared in Paris sometime in the early 19th century, called a Flaneur:
"What exactly a flaneur IS has never been satisfactorily defined, but among all the versions of the flaneur as everything from a primeval slacker to a silent poet, one thing remains constant: the image of a solitary (man) strolling about Paris."
(Wanderlust, pg 198.)
"The flaneur, visually consuming...while resisting the speed of industrialization and the pressure to produce, is an ambiguous figure, both resistant to and seduced by the new commercial culture." (p 199.)
I kinda like that idea...especially having an 'ambiguous figure' myself (t'hee.)...it speaks to me of a person who chooses to ignore the relentless call of the consumer culture, who takes their pleasure in truly savoring, experiencing the world, at their own speed and in their own way.
Of course, the thing about being out and about on foot is that it DOES mean occasionally interacting with other people.
Mostly, this is not a traumatic experience, but at one point in my perambulation I found myself cornered (literally--it was the corner of Sanchez and 29th!) by an earnest group of six or seven well-dressed evangelicals (I THINK they were JWs, as those are the ones I usually see working the streets--but as I am not religious, I can't spot them on sight, and I didn't talk to them long enough to get a positive ID, so...) trying to save the collective soul of Noe Valley, and even if I didn't live there myself, by gum, I was still in need of savin', and I was gonna GET some, whether I liked it or not. One of them, a chunky dark-haired lady of about 50, stepped in front of me and held up a bible, saying:
"Good morning ma'am! Have YOU found JESUS?"
For a moment, I was taken aback--but fortunately, my tongue seems to be permanently implanted in my cheek, and with the sweetest, calmest tone I could muster, I said;
"Yes. Yes, I DID find Jesus. But my mommy taught me never to take anything that didn't belong to me, and so I put him right back where I found him."
(Father forgive me, for I have sinned. I am an incurable smartass. )
Well, it could have been worse--I didn't swear, and I didn't yell. And it worked...the tailwind from their open mouths caught my sails, and soon enough, I found myself safe and sound back home, where I belonged.
I love a happy ending, don't you? :-)
I know, I know--I promised Iphigenie, and gave you JWs. I'll try to be better next time.
RM
Thursday, June 14, 2007
I'm ready for my close-up, Mr. De Mille....
...so, I made my 'mainstage debut' last week, in Der Rosenkavalier, as one of the three Noble Orphans (the one on the right...and straight on till morning...). Strangely, I wasn't as nervous as I thought I would be, in spite of it being my first solo, as it wasn't really a solo--after all, there would have to be TWO orphans for me to be the third, right? ;-)....ironically enough, I found myself comforting one of the other orphans, who had had an anxiety dream about being fired by Shane Gasbarra (artistic administrator at SFO) and was paranoid about her performance....I told her, "Just don't go to any artists' receptions, and you'll be fine!!"* Bear in mind, this was a soprano (and stop that snickering, you there in the cheap seats--'soprano' is NOT necessarily Italian for 'high maintenance') who has done many solos at SFO in the past and has a GLORIOUS voice--no good reason for her to be worried. Still...I guess there is an awful lot of pressure in doing a solo. I dunno...I guess my attitude was (at least subconsciously), "If I ain't doing Octavian....what have I got to worry about?"
As for how I did? Well...I actually felt pretty good about it, vocally, although I DID have a bit of a 'wardrobe malfunction'. We are costumed in gorgeous dark navy blue (almost black) gowns with a train, and during our final bit of singing, we have to curtsey, back up a few paces, curtsey, back up a few paces, then curtsey once more before vanishing into the wings. Not being the girliest girl on the block (yes, I play in the hetero sandbox, but I also throw, bat, and climb trees....sort of like Eddie Izzard's 'executive transvestite' but with REAL tits), I don't have all that much experience with big skirty things, so when I began to back up, sure enough, my heel landed on the hem of my dress, and I began to pull myself backwards with each step as I walked up the back of the dress. So it went something like...
"Gluck und SEGen, aller WEGen....."
(UH-oh.)
"Euer GNADen hohen sinn...."
(fuck. fuck fuckfuckfuckfuckFUCKFUCKFUCKohshitFUCKFUCKFUCKKK!!!!!!!...)
"Ein geGRABen steht er HABen...."
(OK, I'm looking at the ceiling; this isn't good.)
"Er in unserm HERZ-EN----DRIN!"
(AH-HA! I'm FREE!)
WHEW!
A couple of hours later, Ian (the chorus director) sidles up to me backstage and slyly says, grinning, "I hear you stepped on your dress...."
(@%$&#$!)
In case you haven't noticed, word gets around, around here.
Sorry I haven't been very good about posting; I'll try and do a little better. Next up; Iphigenie! Whee fun!
RM
*In case you don't keep up on opera dirt, there was a HUGE kerfuffle a couple weeks ago around here when a soprano, Hope Briggs, was unceremoniously fired from Don Giovanni AFTER the dress rehearsal (Not done. Ever. Well, hardly ever). From what I've heard (I'm not in the show, so I wasn't there for the fireworks), she wasn't right for the role in the first place; but the WAY in which she was fired--she was pulled out of an artists' reception (hence my joke) after the dress rehearsal, with no warning (at least according to her), to receive the bad news--was pretty declasse, especially for a director who prides himself (and actually is generally known for) being artist-friendly.
As for how I did? Well...I actually felt pretty good about it, vocally, although I DID have a bit of a 'wardrobe malfunction'. We are costumed in gorgeous dark navy blue (almost black) gowns with a train, and during our final bit of singing, we have to curtsey, back up a few paces, curtsey, back up a few paces, then curtsey once more before vanishing into the wings. Not being the girliest girl on the block (yes, I play in the hetero sandbox, but I also throw, bat, and climb trees....sort of like Eddie Izzard's 'executive transvestite' but with REAL tits), I don't have all that much experience with big skirty things, so when I began to back up, sure enough, my heel landed on the hem of my dress, and I began to pull myself backwards with each step as I walked up the back of the dress. So it went something like...
"Gluck und SEGen, aller WEGen....."
(UH-oh.)
"Euer GNADen hohen sinn...."
(fuck. fuck fuckfuckfuckfuckFUCKFUCKFUCKohshitFUCKFUCKFUCKKK!!!!!!!...)
"Ein geGRABen steht er HABen...."
(OK, I'm looking at the ceiling; this isn't good.)
"Er in unserm HERZ-EN----DRIN!"
(AH-HA! I'm FREE!)
WHEW!
A couple of hours later, Ian (the chorus director) sidles up to me backstage and slyly says, grinning, "I hear you stepped on your dress...."
(@%$&#$!)
In case you haven't noticed, word gets around, around here.
Sorry I haven't been very good about posting; I'll try and do a little better. Next up; Iphigenie! Whee fun!
RM
*In case you don't keep up on opera dirt, there was a HUGE kerfuffle a couple weeks ago around here when a soprano, Hope Briggs, was unceremoniously fired from Don Giovanni AFTER the dress rehearsal (Not done. Ever. Well, hardly ever). From what I've heard (I'm not in the show, so I wasn't there for the fireworks), she wasn't right for the role in the first place; but the WAY in which she was fired--she was pulled out of an artists' reception (hence my joke) after the dress rehearsal, with no warning (at least according to her), to receive the bad news--was pretty declasse, especially for a director who prides himself (and actually is generally known for) being artist-friendly.
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