Messiaen, and a couple of rambling thoughts on why I do what I do

I attended my friend Jonathan Dimmock's organ recital of the Messiaen piece "La Nativite du Seigneur" last night, in the magnificent space of St. Ignatius' Catholic church (really, for architecture I prefer the neo-Gothic gorgeousness of St. Dominic's, but for sheer grandeur....wow. Just wow. And for the musically inclined among us, the acoustic in St. Ignatius can't be beat. But, as usual, I digress).

If you had asked me before I left why, exactly, I wanted to hear this concert, I couldn't give you a compelling answer. I'm not a Messiaen fanatic (I've sung "St. Francois D'Assise", and five hours of Messiaen is about as much as anyone should ever have to endure in one go, thankyouverymuch), although I like his creative energy. It's not that I was sick with a sinus infection and had a bit of cabin fever (although I did). It's not even a piece I'd go out of my way to hear again. The movements were performed perfectly, in a supremely suitable environment, but I've had many an opportunity to hear similar musical offerings in similar environments.

I realized, about two-thirds of the way through the hour (despite its being nine discrete movements, it only takes about 55-60 minutes to perform the entire piece), why, in fact, I wanted to hear Jonathan play it--because I had read an interview with him in SF Classical Voice in which he described the experience of playing the Messiaen, in almost ecstatic terms:

"By the time I get to the end, to those last chords, I am moving out of my body, my skin can't hold the dimensions of the music, it's as if my fingers are exploding. It's then that I feel like a channel rather than a performer. I realize it's not about me."

The real reason I was there was to see WHY Jonathan was so passionate about it. I wanted to see what it felt like--to have that almost out-of-body experience while performing--since I so rarely felt that moved by my own performing; and never, to my recollection, as a soloist--I've always felt my 'peak' moments came within the context of a group. I've never felt that sense of transcendence as a solo artist--I think it's because my performance anxiety precludes that.

The times I've felt most lifted, most alive, were when a group with whom I was singing did everything 'right': moved, breathed, thought as one entity. The most magical moments for me came out of the symbiosis, where one is part of a larger whole, integral but not individual.

It's the same thrill I get when watching the Blue Angels perform their aerial acrobatics, or a synchronized swimming team at the Olympics--the ability to put one's individuality aside for the good of the whole, and the generosity inherent in that precision of agreed-upon mutual movement. One plane alone, one swimmer alone, just isn't as exciting or interesting to watch, no matter how beautifully executed the routine may be. It's seeing two or more people, doing the exact same thing, in perfect sync--in perfect harmony, really--with each other, that makes us gasp.

It occurred to me then that that's why I've never really been a 'solo' artist--at least, not a very successful one....in that sense. I feel too naked, too unsupported. Don't get me wrong, I enjoy singing solos when I get them--but performing solos in front of an audience isn't the point for me: I honestly don't care much for that. For me, the validation comes from being Alpha dog for those few measures--first among equals. That's when my ego fluffs with pride. And that's enough for me--I can meld in with the rest of the pack, after that.

So, when I look at my 'career' from THAT angle--that of being respected among my peers (if the generous feedback from them, all of whom are soloist-worthy in their own rights, are any indication!)--I can consider myself pretty successful, after all.

RM

'Tis the season....

....when the To-Do list grows longer as the Ta-Da! list grows shorter....

*sigh*

RM

Grump of the day*

Note to local arts organizations: Please update your artists' rosters once in a while....it's kind of insulting when I've sung with one group in particular for over three years, and have, in addition, donated my time to their fundraising events on several occasions...and I'm STILL not listed on their website. Grf.

RM

*why yes, I'm stuck at home with a head cold feeling like crap and wasting time online....why do you ask?

One door opens, another shuts behind...

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8lK5lzyd37A

My mantra for the day: this song.

Over the past couple of years, I've been working on making scarves, arm warmers, and other accessories from upcycled felted cashmere sweaters, as well as getting into canning and making jams after being taught the basics by my neighbor across the street. I gave away much of what I made last year as Christmas presents and it helped my meager gift budget go a long way. People also loved getting homemade goodies, and I got a lot of positive strokes for my work (which is not often the case in performing arts, as we well know....). Too, it was a creative outlet for me in a way that singing hasn't been for a long time: I could make whatever I wanted (fig jam with port? blackberry jam with chocolate? WHY NOT?), without being told what to do or how to do it.

As it turns out, that same neighbor called last night and asked if I wanted to go with her to bring a bunch of our jams and jellies to a market in North Beach...they don't care that we don't have a license, or a commercial kitchen; they just know that we make homemade jams, and that's what they want.

A couple of months ago, a friend talked me into bringing some jams, as well as some of my work in felted cashmere, up to her place in Petaluma for a trunk show. She invited a bunch of people she knew...and only five people showed up.

BUT.

All five of them (plus my friend) bought cashmere AND jam....I walked out of there with $350.

.....and a renewed sense of what was possible.

I don't know whether this is going to turn into anything major for me, but I DO know that this is a potential income stream...right when I'm looking for ways to get out of having to sing full-time.

Maybe the universe really is looking out for me, after all....

RM

PS....thank you, Richard Thompson. I love this song.

Hey! I'm not the only one!

I came across this on my Facebook page (what addiction? I can quit ANY. TIME. I want. Really.) today and it so perfectly describes what it can feel like to be depressed--but with more humor and wit than I could possibly muster up, so instead of whining about how deep in the hole I am and how much I hate my miserable life, check this out and have a laugh instead:

http://hyperboleandahalf.blogspot.com/2011/10/adventures-in-depression.html

RM

Meditation on the Possible

(WARNING: Navel-gazing alert. You may wish to skip this entry and move on to something more entertaining....like another blog, for instance.)

I was reminded this evening of a documentary I had watched a few years ago on Henry Darger, a reclusive, eccentric man who worked a menial job, never married, lived in the same small apartment for forty years....and spent his time creating a fantastic alternative universe, in words and paintings, that were only discovered near the end of his life. I won't say more exccept that the documentary, "In The Realms Of The Unreal" (http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0390123/), is pretty powerful stuff (in fact, I think I need to watch it again myself).

Around the same time, I saw another documentary, also about an artist, but this time a living artist who is not only recognized but celebrated--Andy Goldsworthy (Rivers and Tides-- http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0307385/).

What blew me away at the time (and still impresses me now) was that both of these men were following their creative impulse against the tide of culture and society--one secretly, one openly. They weren't worried about what anyone thought of them--they simply did what they were compelled to do, which was to create. These films expanded my sense of what was possible in the world--that one didn't have to follow the same straight lines, or even stay within them, to be able to survive--and thrive. The little boxes one would check when asked, "what do you want to be when you grow up?" in school probably didn't include "Oh, I wanna write a fifteen-THOUSAND page epic complete with watercolor and ink illustrations about seven little girls who lead a civil war against their abusers, even though I was an orphan, never went to art school, had no formal training, had no family and no support for my work" or "I think I'll go out in the woods somewhere and build works of art out of whatever I find there--ice, clay, straw, branches, leaves..."

(I mean, I remember being JEALOUS of Andy Goldsworthy while watching this, thinking, "You mean, the type of shit I used to do as a kid just screwing around, he gets to do every day? --and gets PAID for it?!? OODLES OF MONEY???!? GAAAHHHHHH!!!")

It's funny that I'm reminded of these films tonight, when I'm circling back around to trying to figure out what it is that I want to do with myself, and more importantly, getting over my fears of actually DOING it.

A better question to ask, I should think, instead of "What do you want to be when you grow up?" (who wants to grow up, after all?) is, "What did you love to do when you were ten or twelve?" ...back when you didn't give a shit about what anybody else thought about what you did, when everything was done in a spirit of play, and creativity was as natural, as fearless, as unintimidating, as breathing?

I am somewhat embarrassed to admit that when I was twelve, I wanted to be one of two things: either a writer for Isaac Asimov's science fiction magazine (a friend had loaned me several back issues and I was hooked) or a Not Ready For Prime Time Player. Still, it's interesting that expressing myself in words and fantasies, and being funny, have been a through-line in my life, even though I'm not currently working for Mr. Asimov OR Mr. Michaels. Neither of these through-lines have generated income....yet.

I'm not sure yet what, exactly, all this means, or where it will lead. That's why the title reads "meditations on-" as opposed to "things I know for sure about-". But I think that it's the meditation--and the exploration--that will eventually show me the next step.

RM

Consciousness shift

I was sitting in the terrace at Davies Symphony Hall last night at two minutes to seven, with the rest of the chorus, score in hand, waiting for the rehearsal to begin. All of a sudden, very clearly in my head I heard a voice (my voice):

"I don't want to do this anymore."

Huh? Wha-? Really? I thought.

It's the Verdi Requiem, I told myself. One of my all-time favorite pieces! It's got a dream team KILLER quartet of soloists (Sondra Radvanovsky, Dolora Zajick, Frank Lopardo, Ain Anger)! It's with one of the best orchestras in the world! It'll be awesome!

--and my mental response was

......'shrug'. 'So?'

I know I've vented my frustrations many times here with my choice of career, but this was the first time I'd really gotten such a clear message from my Self telling me it was long past time I considered moving on. I've joked about accounting, but (laugh if you like) there's something about a regular day job with a regular paycheck that's awfully attractive when you've done freelance all your life. Too, I know too well that singers, like any other person who relies on their body to do their job, have a finite shelf life, and that, now that I'm over 40, I should begin to at least consider what I want to be when I grow up, what I want to do with this one wild and precious life before my voice starts to veer into Florence Foster Jenkins territory....

So, the question in front of me now is the big cosmic, the one everyone asks, the one everyone MUST ask, whether in small scale or writ large in their lives, and more than once:

OK...Now what?

I don't have an answer to that yet. I have an idea of what I'd LIKE my life to look like, but the pesky issue of sustainable income casts a pall over my rosy domestic picture.

I am pretty sure of one thing: I no longer will be a full time singer. I feel better, not worse, when I say that, like a little popcorn jolt of YES! in my solar plexus.

I don't think I'll quit completely, either, especially without another source of income ready to go (anybody know a good sugar daddy?, she asked, only half-joking....

'sound of crickets'

OK, never mind....).

What is obvious is that I need to give this some serious thought. I'll keep ya posted.

And no, I won't be changing the blog title anytime soon. :-)

RM

Bad day at work

Just got home from a rather brutal sitzprobe which was going well until the conductor suddenly decided to rehearse approximately eight bars of music (which, in the grand scheme of things, would take something like, oh, MAYBE twenty seconds of a three-plus-hour opera in performance) for an. entire. HOUR.

The LAST hour. Of a three hour rehearsal. Which had sounded JUST FINE up to that point.

....all of which will ultimately prove useless because once we are actually singing those eight bars on stage with the staging given to us by the director, on set, in costume, it will sound totally different anyway--all the precious little adjustments the conductor asked for will be diffused into nothingness.

I would rather receive an anal probe from angry aliens than EVER have to relive that hour again. The only thing that kept me (and, probably, several other people as well) from either nervous breakdowns or (in my case) psychotic episodes was the mantra I repeated over and over in my head: $44.10. (This is, in case you were wondering, the hourly rate of pay for non-tenured chorus at the major opera house where this rehearsal took place. Looks great on paper until one realizes that due to budget cuts there are MAYBE three to ten hours per week that one receives this princely sum....for the privilege of rehearsing eight bars for one hour.) When I asked a colleague, only half-joking, why he was doing this to us, she sighed, "...because he CAN."

Seriously....there is no headache quite so bad as the one engendered by the repeated bashing over one's head with the blunt instrument of a conductor's ego.

I'm in my happy place now (which involves a BIG glass of a refreshing alcoholic beverage, so I hope that this post will maintain coherence, though somehow I doubt it...).

Seriously....is it too late to go into accounting?

RM

Random Thought

Number of clear, non-foggy days in the past ten years for the Gay Pride parade: 10
Number of clear, non-foggy nights in the past ten years for Fourth of July fireworks: 1

Still think God hates fags?

Journal of a Silence, Day 7

....and the LAST day! w00t!!

Only my brother and ex-husband made the obligatory "why couldn't you have shut up sooner?" joke (and the ex at least had the decency to preface it by saying, "Do I get to make the obvious joke?" and immediately apologized for it afterward), and I got asked "Did anyone think you were deaf?" a lot--but oddly (or not), only one person MIGHT have mistaken me for deaf; the salesgirl at ISDA&Co. wore a big smile but I could see the gears turning in her head as I mouthed at her, thinking, "Is she....?"

It's been interesting. It's made me realize all too clearly that, even though I may be more conscious of the fact than many of my colleagues, I STILL derive a large part of my identity from my voice, and were I to quit, it would be difficult, but necessary, for me to find work that would give me the same positive validation (especially as I don't have a partner or family to give me that mirroring)....

I'm not talking quite yet--I'm holding out till this afternoon, 'cause I'm anal like that and to start now would feel like I wasn't strong enough to make it the WHOLE WEEK. So there.

I have no idea how well this has worked. I won't know until I vocalize later today--and more specifically, after tomorrow morning, when I have a 9:30am three-hour rehearsal call for the B Minor Mass. (Well, it could be worse--it COULD have been a Wagner opera...)

RM

Journal of a Silence, Day 6

I had a very quiet day at home. I mostly worked in the yard; weeding the flower garden, hacking back the overgrown lavender, planting some poppies, being entertained by the finches and sparrows at my feeders, and cutting some greens for salad, in between the gentle showers that seem to come and go with regularity. I've managed silence all day, but only because I haven't left the house (and you know what that means...CABIN FEVAH!). Boring as this all is, at least I can assuage my frustration by knowing I've accomplished something.

Still....I have an odd sense of discomfort, like something bad's going to happen. I don't associate that with the vocal rest, though--more with my general antsiness, and the fact that I drank a cup of hot chocolate to warm up after I came in from the yard work. I've noticed that the worst thing about growing older is that I can't just eat/drink whatever I want anymore--for instance, a cup full of sugar and half and half leaves me feeling antsy, slightly nauseous, unfocused, and irritable. I never used to be this sensitive to things like that--what happened?

It also seems to make me the most boring blogger in the free white Western world, it seems.

Grf.*

I'm less than 24 hours away from freedom....but it still can't come soon enough.

RM

* Grf.=a small, polite growl, usually of frustration with the current situation.

Journal of a Silence, Day 5

Kill me. Kill me now.

As I think I mentioned previously, I have been mostly avoiding going out this week so as not to have to use my voice. Well, the cabin fever got so bad I couldn't stand it any longer, and so I planned a sortie to hit a couple of outlet stores (momma gots to do her shoppin' SOMEtime, children--youknowhutimean? I can only stands this austerity shite for so long!) and then to Walgreen's for some toiletries.

Well, I screwed up. I admit it. I whispered to the clerk at Walgreen's, I whispered to the clerk at the Nordstrom Rack, and--worst offense--I ran into a neighbor while walking home and inadvertently replied to her greeting with a full-voiced "Hi, how are ya?"--shocking myself by hearing such a loud noise emanating from my mouth after so many days of quietude. I immediately retrenched, smiling sadly and mouthing "Oops--I'm not supposed to talk--sorry!" to her coupled with my now-usual slashing finger motion across my throat, but the damage was done--not so much to my vocal cords, which, I'm sure, by now are as fine as frog's hairs, but to my mood, which until then had been buoyed by the thought of the additions to my threadbare closet. I was so mad at myself, and my inner critic had a field day bawling me out--how fucking hard could it be to not talk for a few days, dumbass? Sheesh, you've been practicing for five days now, and you STILL fuck it up. Idiot.

I'm pretty frustrated. I'm really over this 'vocal rest' stuff. Really. I'm not supposed to have dairy or alcohol, either, as both are bad for the voice (one causes mucus, the other dries out the cords)--so guess what I've been craving all day (even though I never normally eat this way!)?Yep: a big ol' fucking pizza (extra cheese, please), with a pint of fucking ice cream for dessert, washed down with a whole fucking bottle of red wine. Fuck, yeah. Screw you, vocal cords.

Except that--oh yeah, this is the hard part--to order a pizza, I'd actually have to pick up the phone and TALK to someone.

'sigh'.

Pardon my whininess (as well as my swearing--I don't think I've ever blued up an entry this badly before!), but DAMN. All home and no talk makes for a realllllllly cranky mezzo.

Hurry, Friday, hurry....

RM

Journal of a Silence, Day 4

...Argh. (said silently, to myself)

I went out into the world today--I had to; the poor pups were out of kibble, and I was out of a few necessities myself. So, off to the pet store and the grocery store. Yes, I wound up breaking the silence, because otherwise I wouldn't have been able to complete my transactions (did I THINK to bring my pad and pen with me? NnnooooOOOOoooooo....). My voice sounded odd after four days of absence--barely a whisper, hardly there at all (as if I could mitigate my sin by speaking more quietly?). I scurried back home as soon as I could and breathed a huge sigh of relief. Lord, this is hard--I still don't think I'm used to self-imposed silence, even after several days' practice. Maybe some judiciously applied duct tape....?

At least I could still maintain radio silence while walking the dog; my trick of smiling brightly and mouthing 'Hi' or 'good morning' seems to be working just fine. Too bad I can't keep it up in my interactions beyond the basic greetings...

It's also weird because this whole week doesn't feel so much like a vacation as a lost week--without the structure imposed by my schedule, all of which--even the non-singing parts--include verbalization, I feel a bit at sea, unsure what to do with myself. I keep having thoughts like, "I should be at my voice lesson now", "I would be getting ready for church now", "I'm not downtown right now. Hm. How odd". And then the corollary: "Well.....NOW what?" I feel I should be taking advantage of this unplanned downtime.

And here I am, noodling around on a blog instead. I don't even feel like I've accomplished something by navel-gazing about this, though I'm finally posting more often than once a month.

'sigh'.

:-(

RM

Journal of a Silence

In December, I came down with my Annual Holiday Upper Respiratory Disease--this year, instead of the usual sinus infection, however, it was a cold that knocked me sideways. Moreover, for the first time in my life, I lost it completely--my voice, that is. For a week, I could barely make any more than the most pathetic, mole-like squeaky noises, as the laryngitis had its way with me. Since I didn't have the luxury of downtime, I had to push on through and sing before I was really ready. Thanks to good technique, my faithful Neti pot, and sheer bullheaded stubbornness, I made it. Unfortunately, my voice never quite came back 100%, even after a week's rest. In January, just as I was feeling like I might be on top of it all, the cold (or another one--who can tell?) came back and bit me in the butt again, if only temporarily. After, my voice remained somewhat less than optimal; the cords themselves felt thick, and there were times when I would feel them come together--and nothing would come out, especially in the high part of the range, or on pianissimo vowel entrances. Too, I would get vocally tired far too easily; I would be trashed after a three-hour rehearsal, even when I was marking half the time.

For someone who has had cast iron vocal cords all my professional life and could, no matter what, still make a good noise--I sang a Christmas concert last year that sounded just fine, although my speaking voice resembled that of an 80-year-old chain-smoking drag queen--losing control of my voice in this way (and not knowing WHY it wasn't getting better) scared me spitless. For the first time in my life, I had to contemplate the possibility that I had permanent damage, or nodes, and might have to stop singing altogether. Think of it this way: a singer's instrument is inextricably linked to their physical body. To be told I could no longer sing would be akin to an athlete being told s/he could no longer use their legs, or their arms, and would have to figure out another way to earn a living, to boot. This went on for a good two months, with me limping along on my bum cords trying to pretend they would get better, until I finally realized that it wasn't going to 'just get better', and so I trundled over to my friendly neighborhood ENT to find out what the hell WAS going on.

The good news--there is no sign of infection, inflammation, nodes, strain, or any other damage.

The bad news--the hard fact is that, as one ages, the cords, like any other muscle tissue, sag a bit, and simply don't bounce back as quickly after an illness. I hadn't given myself enough time to fully recover from the ravages of December, and so, by continuing to sing through it all, had continued to strain my already-compromised cords.

The prescription: one week of TOTAL vocal rest. That doesn't just mean no singing--it means no singing, no talking, no whispering, no noise whatsoever. AT ALL.

Think it's easy? try it sometime. You'd be surprised (as I was) to discover just how often one verbalizes during the course of the day--and how hard it is to keep from mindlessly speaking. To myself, to my neighbors in passing, to the clerk at the supermarket, to my DOGS, fer chrissakes....to everyone. It's extremely difficult to get through without giving in to the little social prompts to say "good morning", "hi", "excuse me"--I've begun to get strange looks from people when I don't respond to THEM, as if I'm being rude, or there's something wrong with me, or maybe I'm a foreigner who doesn't understand English...? I carry a notebook with me but I just can't write fast enough to explain my situation to a stranger who's given me an exasperated look and is already twenty paces away before I can write ten words to excuse myself after I've bumped into him by accident. So, I find myself mainly staying home, so I don't have to come in contact with a lot of people. (Why, yes, I AM getting cabin fever--what makes you ask? Oh--the fact that this entry is longer than ANY OTHER I've EVER done? Nope, don't see a connection at all....)

I'm noticing it's getting slightly easier. I'm learning that if I'm out on my morning walk and mouth "hi!" or "good morning!" as I pass, people see my face and lips move, and their minds seem to register the idea without realizing they haven't actually HEARD me say those words out loud. I'm also not blindly talking to myself nearly as much (playing music while I'm by myself helps). I still talk to the dogs, though (don't tell the doctor!)--whether I like it or not, no amount of scribbling in my notebook would be able to explain all this to THEM....

RM

....and, a couple more haiku:

7.

Sorry, ovaries;

didn't hit baby jackpot.

Maybe next lifetime?

8.

Online dating? -nah:

When one goes trolling online,

one often finds trolls.

Some Bitter Haiku for Valentine's Day (AKA "You're a Pathetic Unlovable Loser Because You're Still Single" Day

Meant PURELY tongue in cheek....no, really....;-P

1.

Longing for Paris,

Settling for a stale croissant....

Story of my life.

--

2.

Watching him settle

Seismically into the couch-

The romance is dead.

--

3.

Thinking on the men

Whose company I have known-

I prefer my dogs.

--

4.

The next time you say

"Better to have loved and lost...."

I might just kill you.

--

5.

The next time you ask,

"But wasn't it worth the pain?"

I'd have to say, no.

--

6.

Cupid's feathered darts,

Tipped with a vicious poison,

fatal to the heart.

--

Intentions, Not Resolutions

Well, hello, 2011. You certainly did sneak up on me, didn't you? But then, I'm easily distracted--it's not difficult to ambush me with a New Year.

As I curl up in bed with a wee bit of malaise brought on by over-indulging in the Veuve Clicquot last night (hung over on New Year's Day. Sheesh. I feel like such a fucking amateur), I've had the luxury of giving some thought to what I want 2011 to look like (in short--better than 2010 did, thanks, and MOST CERTAINLY better than 2009, and for heaven's sake, universe, don't you farking DARE make it look anything near as god-awful as 2008, thankyouverymuch!!! As the bumper sticker says, "Oh no--here comes another 'learning experience'!" Had enough o'those to last quite a while...).

Many of my friends have asked about "Resolutions", and to be honest, I've spent a lot of time this week pondering them. Funny thing is, I've become so jaded and bitter that I feel like I know better than to come up with resolutions that I won't follow through on anyway: The classic "Lose some weight, you freakin' cow" one? Yeah. That's an oldie but a goodie--and it STILL hasn't happened yet. "Go back to school"? Fagedaboudit. "Eat better", "Meditate more", "Exercise more"? Well, I can state I've made some progress on those, but not nearly as much as I'd like. "Win the Nobel Peace Prize"? OK, so I never resolved to do that one....but it looks good on a resolutions list, doesn't it? Especially next to "Lose some weight, you freakin' cow"...

So, instead of 'resolutions' per se, what seems to come to mind for me as I careen wildly into the New Year are single words, intentions, if you will, that seem to encapsulate ideas of what I'd like to integrate more of into my life:

Change. Love. Write. Health. Awareness. Joy. Focus. Relationship. Clarity. Creativity.

Here's hoping we all integrate more good stuff into our lives in 2011.

RM