Tired.
Worn out.
Wiped.
People don’t think twice about accepting how tired physical labor makes you. We see it in the blank eyes, the haggard faces, of any laborer after a long day. What people don’t always understand is that an incredibly intense burst of mental energy can really take it out of you, too. For someone like me, who is so easily distracted I can’t even sit still for five minutes in my writing sessions without being tempted to pop up and go do the laundry, or the dishes, or answer that email I’d forgotten about two days before, or grab a glass of water (or pee that water out half an hour later), to be so completely “ON”, with a near laser-beam focus that doesn’t waver, for ninety minutes, is like running a 5k at a full sprint (good thing I’m trained for this, hey?). After last night’s performance, I’m feeling quite logy, mentally fuzzy-foggy, and tired this morning, despite a full nine hours of sleep and a cup of coffee so strong it nearly broke through the cup and lit out to make its fortune in the world.
The Judas Passion, make no mistake, is quite possibly the most difficult piece I’ve ever done. I don’t make that claim lightly; I’ve sung some really tricky shit in my lifetime (‘throws choral gang signs’* SVADEBKA, MUTHAFUCKAS!), having covered the choral spectrum from Gregorian chant to last week’s wet ink, and this pretty much beats them all. It’s as if the composer couldn’t make up her mind whether she wanted to be Stravinsky or Ligeti—so she chose BOTH. It’s spiky, changes meter seemingly damn near every other bar, and has no discernable vocal lines. In addition, it’s extremely difficult to find a pitch, and then, when you do, you must hold it in place against the tone cluster being sung by the rest of the chorale (assuming they’re singing the correct notes, which is not always the case), like protecting your hoard of treasure from a band of marauding invaders, while the police (in this case, the orchestra) deliberately look in the other direction, as if to say, “Sorry—we’ve got our own troubles to deal with!” (which, to be fair—in this case, they DO).
And yet—lest you get the impression this piece is but an amorphous avant-garde blob of randomness—there’s arias! And a chaconne! And a fugue—albeit one in five-eight time, in allegretto no less, which means I’m counting with EVERY. CELL. OF. MY. BODY: “One-two-three ONE-TWO! One-two-three ONE-TWO! One-two-three ONE-TWO!!!” And so on. Jerking around in time with that fugue, I suspect I look to the audience for all the world like I’m having an epileptic fit. And I don’t care. There are no atheists in foxholes; there is no dignity on stage. In other words—whatever it takes, honey. As the philosopher once said: Git ‘er done.
So, yes, it’s exhausting. And before you make any comments about singers being pampered babies, or inferior musicians to intrumentalists, let me inform you that the orchestra—one of the finest baroque orchestras in the world, if not the finest—is struggling just as much as we are. And THEY aren’t dealing with getting the right words on top of the right rhythms and pitches. So you can just knock that shit off. Or I will find you. And I will hurt you.
There’s nothing like being grossly underprepared in performance of an extremely tricky piece, with nobody else to rely on for pitches and rhythms, to narrow the aperture of your mind’s shutter down to the very tip of a conductor’s baton (or, in Nic’s case, his hands); one, two, flutter, flap, downbeat, cue—and off we go, damn the quintuplets, full speed ahead!
My heart was pounding so hard before my first entrance (which, by the way, is also the first vocal entrance of the entire piece. No pressure, there.) I thought that it would reverberate in the cavernous space of Bing Hall, loudly enough for the audience to hear (although, in the case of a modern piece such as this, they would probably just consider it part of the percussion, so…that’s good?).
Blessedly, miraculously, we all rose to the occasion: the performance was an order of magnitude better than even the warmup had been.
(An Unfortunate Truth: Fear is a powerful motivator.)
The chorale was mostly on, with very few pitch misfires or rhythmic stutters—although, not gonna lie: there were many, many moments when it felt like we were perilously close to falling off the track. It was very much a high-wire act, but, for the most part, we bobbled and wobbled along without losing the thin, buoyant wire under our feet. I say that with some sort of battle-scarred pride; I doubt there are many orchestras and choirs who could have done what we did, on fewer than six rehearsals.
While our choir director had fretted aloud to us (albeit in the privacy of the car on the way to the venue) whether the old guard of subscribers would walk out on such an avant-garde piece, to our amazement, there were many people at Stanford who gave us a standing ovation! No reviews yet, but it will be very interesting to see what they think of our sound experiment.
—RM
* = AKA Kodaly
Thursday, October 5, 2017
Wednesday, August 19, 2015
In the Forest of Overwhelm and Un-Knowing, With Only My Tiny Fearful Brain for Company
NB: Whiny existential-angsty post ahead. You may wish to skip this and read something more edifying. No, no need to thank me. I’m a giver.
————
I suppose every writer finds him- or herself at this place eventually.
Even if, starting a novel, they initially feel (as I did) like a cheetah hot-footing it at 75 mph over the veldt, not even a cheetah can sustain such speeds; they eventually must slow to a trot, then stop.
And sit.
….and sit.
….and, SIT.
When I got home from my trip to Europe at the end of May (it was everything I’d hoped it would be, and then some—thanks for asking!), I felt fired up, ready to get back to work—especially after going to several locations that I’d researched and that were important to my novel; after seeing these places and getting a sense of the history that came along with them, I wanted to bring that element into the story I was telling (through letters written by historical characters), thinking it would give it both emotional weight and narrative impetus. I will say, though, that it was scary as hell to discover that I had to write a secondary narrative that would (hopefully!) dovetail with the main one—as I told friends at the time, it was like turning a page over in the plans to the house you are building, only to find HOLY SHIT THERE’S A WHOLE SECOND STORY HERE! WAIT A DAMN MINUTE—I WASN’T EXPECTING THIS!!—but, since I’d already come this far, I couldn’t just toss my hands up and walk away from the project. I had to try and integrate this new information into my book. I felt I was up to the challenge—even though I didn’t (don’t) have a clue what I was (am) doing, never having attempted a full-length (or any length, really) novel before.
So I did something many writers can identify with: I rolled up my sleeves and dove head-first down the Research Rabbit Hole. HARD. I grabbed every book I could get my hands on at the local library that related to my subject.
(I know that, right now, my high school and college teachers must be sitting in some dive bar somewhere made up to look like the break room at PHS, clinking their glasses and laughing their asses off at the irony of the fact that I’m sitting here doing more homework—on my own time—than my lazy ass could ever be bothered to do for them…)
I was sucking down biographies of Victorian scientists like they were shots of tequila, drunk on the thought that my book was going to be BRILLIANT because I was DOING! MY!! HOMEWORK!!! People were going to READ my novel and LOVE the depth of detail I brought to bear, because dammit, I’d spent HOURS learning about how these men dressed spoke wrote thought ate loved felt, and I KNEW them. I could practically tell you what each of them would have ordered from a restaurant menu; or what their favorite colors were.
I was about a third of the way through my fourth four-hundred-page biography in two months (and the seventh or eighth I’d read in the past year), when, one day, I sat up straight, jolted by a question out of nowhere:
“Hey…why am I doing this? This isn’t directly relevant to my book—in fact, there’s a really good chance NONE of this is going to end up in my novel.”
On its heels, the really uncomfortable question: “Am I just spinning my wheels, avoiding doing the real work?” Or, more accurately, “—the right work?”
Going back to my house metaphor, picture saying “OK! I got this!”, grabbing your hammer, and gamely going ahead with that second story—only to discover your measurements are off. You’re going to have to tear it all down—backtrack, recalibrate, and start again.
So, I did. I tried writing every single scene I’d written so far on a 3x5 card and lining them up on a makeshift storyboard to see if that would jog my muse into action. (The only jogging that happened was me jogging to the fridge for ice to soothe my writers’ cramp.) I reread the story, to see if I still thought it was good (I do. Mostly.) and if THAT might jolt a few more sentences loose. It did, but it was false hope—the narrative limped along for a few feet, then flopped back down again. I went back over the copious notes I’d taken from the books I’d read, in desperate hope that they might inspire me. Nope. All it did was add to the sinking sense that I was way out of my depth—completely inadequate to the enormity of the task I’d set for myself.
I spent the rest of that day—and the next several—surrounded by a buzzing hive of thoughts, questions, and ideas, which I couldn’t make head or tail of: Was I prioritizing the wrong things? Was I completely wasting my time approaching the story from this (3x5 storyboarding) direction? Was I going after the right information? Was I doing the right work? Was there something I was missing in how to organize my research?
…and then the tailspin began: Well, will any of it matter, since I can’t seem to retain any of what I read anyway? Am I just making the 3x5s and reading the biographies as an excuse to avoid admitting that I am well and truly stuck? What the hell am I thinking, that I could actually write historical fiction (even if only a few epistolary bits stuck in between the chapters)?
Of course, Depression/Anxiety Brain, sensing a weak spot, gleefully piled on, saying “What were you thinking, that you could actually write a novel? You can’t do this. You’re not smart enough. You’re WAY too scatterbrained to finish this. You haven’t written anything of substance on this in a year! Leave it to the people who DID their homework in high school, who actually learned how to do research, who have MFAs, who are SMART ENOUGH.”
And I mean, damn, if that didn’t just completely knock the pins out from under me. Initially, the stuck feeling was just that—I felt like I was stuck in the mud, but at least I was still revving my engine. Then the energy ebbed and I was left just sitting, without any momentum at all.
The last few days have been the worst. I feel like I’m walking through a blizzard-ravaged forest—I can’t see where I’m going. I can’t see any resting-place or a way out. I’m numb and thick-headed, and each step is a major struggle. And I mean in everything I try to do—not just writing. The past two days especially have been a dull blur, with my brain flea-hopping from thought to thought, not landing anywhere long enough for me to stay with a project to completion.
But, like walking through a blizzard, I can’t stop—because I don’t have a choice. I’ve chosen this hike through the forest and I can’t turn back, because if I do, I will die (figuratively, if not literally).
Then again, perversely, I suppose I should be proud that I’m here; I’ve read enough to know that the slog through the Forest of Overwhelm and Un-Knowing is archetypal—it’s universal; a place everyone ends up, lost and confused, at one point or another. It’s like “Yes! I’m really part of the sister/brotherhood of writers now!” and I can expect to receive my ‘Bat-Shit Crazy Blocked Writer’ merit badge in the mail any day now. (It’s got a picture of a brick wall on it.)
Oh-one more thing. I’m not sure if it’s connected, unless everything is, but I’ve also noticed that if my conscious mind is on the fritz, my subconscious has been working overtime—I’ve been dreaming every single night this week, when it’s been years since I remembered dreams on a regular basis—I used to be lucky if I remembered one or two a month. Weird, detailed, psychosexual dreams, too—or, alternately, incredibly sweet and comforting dreams (mostly involving Hot British Actors).
So, maybe I just need to learn to trust the process and let my brain rest a bit…while I enjoy the nightly television show and wait for that merit badge to arrive in the post.
Unless anybody has a better idea…
RM
————
I suppose every writer finds him- or herself at this place eventually.
Even if, starting a novel, they initially feel (as I did) like a cheetah hot-footing it at 75 mph over the veldt, not even a cheetah can sustain such speeds; they eventually must slow to a trot, then stop.
And sit.
….and sit.
….and, SIT.
When I got home from my trip to Europe at the end of May (it was everything I’d hoped it would be, and then some—thanks for asking!), I felt fired up, ready to get back to work—especially after going to several locations that I’d researched and that were important to my novel; after seeing these places and getting a sense of the history that came along with them, I wanted to bring that element into the story I was telling (through letters written by historical characters), thinking it would give it both emotional weight and narrative impetus. I will say, though, that it was scary as hell to discover that I had to write a secondary narrative that would (hopefully!) dovetail with the main one—as I told friends at the time, it was like turning a page over in the plans to the house you are building, only to find HOLY SHIT THERE’S A WHOLE SECOND STORY HERE! WAIT A DAMN MINUTE—I WASN’T EXPECTING THIS!!—but, since I’d already come this far, I couldn’t just toss my hands up and walk away from the project. I had to try and integrate this new information into my book. I felt I was up to the challenge—even though I didn’t (don’t) have a clue what I was (am) doing, never having attempted a full-length (or any length, really) novel before.
So I did something many writers can identify with: I rolled up my sleeves and dove head-first down the Research Rabbit Hole. HARD. I grabbed every book I could get my hands on at the local library that related to my subject.
(I know that, right now, my high school and college teachers must be sitting in some dive bar somewhere made up to look like the break room at PHS, clinking their glasses and laughing their asses off at the irony of the fact that I’m sitting here doing more homework—on my own time—than my lazy ass could ever be bothered to do for them…)
I was sucking down biographies of Victorian scientists like they were shots of tequila, drunk on the thought that my book was going to be BRILLIANT because I was DOING! MY!! HOMEWORK!!! People were going to READ my novel and LOVE the depth of detail I brought to bear, because dammit, I’d spent HOURS learning about how these men dressed spoke wrote thought ate loved felt, and I KNEW them. I could practically tell you what each of them would have ordered from a restaurant menu; or what their favorite colors were.
I was about a third of the way through my fourth four-hundred-page biography in two months (and the seventh or eighth I’d read in the past year), when, one day, I sat up straight, jolted by a question out of nowhere:
“Hey…why am I doing this? This isn’t directly relevant to my book—in fact, there’s a really good chance NONE of this is going to end up in my novel.”
On its heels, the really uncomfortable question: “Am I just spinning my wheels, avoiding doing the real work?” Or, more accurately, “—the right work?”
Going back to my house metaphor, picture saying “OK! I got this!”, grabbing your hammer, and gamely going ahead with that second story—only to discover your measurements are off. You’re going to have to tear it all down—backtrack, recalibrate, and start again.
So, I did. I tried writing every single scene I’d written so far on a 3x5 card and lining them up on a makeshift storyboard to see if that would jog my muse into action. (The only jogging that happened was me jogging to the fridge for ice to soothe my writers’ cramp.) I reread the story, to see if I still thought it was good (I do. Mostly.) and if THAT might jolt a few more sentences loose. It did, but it was false hope—the narrative limped along for a few feet, then flopped back down again. I went back over the copious notes I’d taken from the books I’d read, in desperate hope that they might inspire me. Nope. All it did was add to the sinking sense that I was way out of my depth—completely inadequate to the enormity of the task I’d set for myself.
I spent the rest of that day—and the next several—surrounded by a buzzing hive of thoughts, questions, and ideas, which I couldn’t make head or tail of: Was I prioritizing the wrong things? Was I completely wasting my time approaching the story from this (3x5 storyboarding) direction? Was I going after the right information? Was I doing the right work? Was there something I was missing in how to organize my research?
…and then the tailspin began: Well, will any of it matter, since I can’t seem to retain any of what I read anyway? Am I just making the 3x5s and reading the biographies as an excuse to avoid admitting that I am well and truly stuck? What the hell am I thinking, that I could actually write historical fiction (even if only a few epistolary bits stuck in between the chapters)?
Of course, Depression/Anxiety Brain, sensing a weak spot, gleefully piled on, saying “What were you thinking, that you could actually write a novel? You can’t do this. You’re not smart enough. You’re WAY too scatterbrained to finish this. You haven’t written anything of substance on this in a year! Leave it to the people who DID their homework in high school, who actually learned how to do research, who have MFAs, who are SMART ENOUGH.”
And I mean, damn, if that didn’t just completely knock the pins out from under me. Initially, the stuck feeling was just that—I felt like I was stuck in the mud, but at least I was still revving my engine. Then the energy ebbed and I was left just sitting, without any momentum at all.
The last few days have been the worst. I feel like I’m walking through a blizzard-ravaged forest—I can’t see where I’m going. I can’t see any resting-place or a way out. I’m numb and thick-headed, and each step is a major struggle. And I mean in everything I try to do—not just writing. The past two days especially have been a dull blur, with my brain flea-hopping from thought to thought, not landing anywhere long enough for me to stay with a project to completion.
But, like walking through a blizzard, I can’t stop—because I don’t have a choice. I’ve chosen this hike through the forest and I can’t turn back, because if I do, I will die (figuratively, if not literally).
Then again, perversely, I suppose I should be proud that I’m here; I’ve read enough to know that the slog through the Forest of Overwhelm and Un-Knowing is archetypal—it’s universal; a place everyone ends up, lost and confused, at one point or another. It’s like “Yes! I’m really part of the sister/brotherhood of writers now!” and I can expect to receive my ‘Bat-Shit Crazy Blocked Writer’ merit badge in the mail any day now. (It’s got a picture of a brick wall on it.)
Oh-one more thing. I’m not sure if it’s connected, unless everything is, but I’ve also noticed that if my conscious mind is on the fritz, my subconscious has been working overtime—I’ve been dreaming every single night this week, when it’s been years since I remembered dreams on a regular basis—I used to be lucky if I remembered one or two a month. Weird, detailed, psychosexual dreams, too—or, alternately, incredibly sweet and comforting dreams (mostly involving Hot British Actors).
So, maybe I just need to learn to trust the process and let my brain rest a bit…while I enjoy the nightly television show and wait for that merit badge to arrive in the post.
Unless anybody has a better idea…
RM
Saturday, May 2, 2015
Thank you very much for your email...
...I am currently away from my desk right now.
...in fact, I am currently away from my desk...my bed...my home...and from everything with which I am comfortable and familiar.
Please leave a message...with the understanding I may not get back to you in a timely manner.
It occurred to me yesterday, as I was re-packing my bag (yes, I was packed several days early. Anal-retentiveness runs in my family. Don't judge.), that it has been almost exactly twenty-five years since my very first trip out of the country, while I was in college, on a choir tour of Italy, Switzerland, and Germany. It was magical and transformative for me, in the way travel always is: you get lost, you see things you never expected, and, invariably, you learn--about the world, but also about yourself, about what you will and will not tolerate, and that you will never be in control of everything, and THAT'S OK.
One of the memories that sticks with me is not about that trip itself (although there are certainly plenty of amazing memories!), but the flight home--specifically, during the New York-San Francisco leg of the trip. I was trapped in the window seat of a 747 with a Korean woman traveling with her two boys, one and three years old, in the two other seats in the row (to this day I do not understand how she was allowed to buy one ticket for two children...but, as usual, I digress). The younger one, bless him, mostly stayed asleep and quiescent the whole way home; the older one, however, was a nightmare--all over the plane (including stomping across my lap whenever he wanted to look out the window of the plane, which was approximately once every fifteen minutes), babbling loudly to whomever would (or wouldn't) listen. When seated, to release his excess energy he would either kick the seat in front of him, or randomly unleash piercing shrieks (presumably of joy) throughout the flight, while his mother steadfastly refused to either corral or correct him, blithely ignoring the icy stares directed her way by the other passengers.
After having been away from home for three long weeks, and awake for far too many hours, and not being a person naturally inclined to look generously on parents who abdicate their responsibilities--especially on a plane--but far too cowardly and tired to stand up and demand redress from the flight crew, it was all I could do to plug my ears as best I could with my headphones and stoically contemplate my impending sainthood (although, had I a better understanding of the justifiable homicide laws in my home country, things might have turned out very differently). It is not too much of a stretch, I think, to say that They Might Be Giants' "Flood" saved several lives that day, not least my own.
Something else that occurred to me is how much has changed in what I'm packing. I'm not bringing any more clothing than last time, I am sure, but for different reasons: in my impoverished student days, I simply didn't own enough clothing to overpack, even with bringing nearly everything I owned; now, I'm travel-wizened enough to know it isn't necessary to bring more than a few days' worth of clothing (although I will never match my friend Renee, who managed an entire two-and-a-half week trip with the equivalent of a tote bag and a checked bag the size of a cat carrier. I bow in awe of her packing mastery).
Another difference in my pack list--and one that boggles my mind...speaking of overpacking: on that first trip, I brought my Walkman (remember THOSE?), ten or twelve cassette tapes, two Radio Shack speakers that looked like desktop Sputnik models standing gray and conical on tripod legs, plus all the wires needed to connect them to the Walkman, PLUS batteries for both speakers and Walkman...in total, my 'gear' must have added a good ten pounds to my carrying weight. In addition, I had a small but decent snapshot camera that was pretty state of the art at that time with a dozen or so rolls of film, plus a list of addresses to whom I was to send postcards--which would take, if I was lucky, and dependent on where they were sent from, about four* to twelve** weeks--if ever***--to arrive.
*(Switzerland, Germany)
**(Italy)
***(again, Italy)
Only twenty-five years later--merely an eyeblink blip in the course of human history, really--I am carrying a small computer, about the size and weight of one of my cassette tapes from that first trip, that carries within it at least ten times the amount of music, along with speakers that are better than my Sputniks, not to mention a camera that takes far better pictures than the old camera did, and not just a list of a few names and addresses but the contact information of every person I know--plus, instead of postcards, I can use that same machine to send a message instantly to any one of those people--along with a picture; a real picture, taken in that moment, not just some stale stock image picked up from a revolving wire stand in some tourist trap gift shop lurking in a museum or hotel.
In addition, I can use it to pull up a map, deposit a check, work on my novel, or any number of things I haven't even discovered yet (it's a new phone. Some slack, please)...or, if I wish, I can just make a mundane phone call.
Plus, the battery lasts a hell of a lot longer than those Duracells in my speakers ever did.
It blows my mind sometimes how much can change, and how quickly.
Some things won't change--there will still be obnoxious children on overcrowded flights; I will learn how very little I am in control; and I will come home with images and experiences I did not have before--which is, of course, why we travel in the first place: not just to expand our sense of how big the world is and how much can change in an eyeblink, but to expand our sense of what is possible.
Oh-and one more thing that hasn't changed:
RM
...in fact, I am currently away from my desk...my bed...my home...and from everything with which I am comfortable and familiar.
Please leave a message...with the understanding I may not get back to you in a timely manner.
It occurred to me yesterday, as I was re-packing my bag (yes, I was packed several days early. Anal-retentiveness runs in my family. Don't judge.), that it has been almost exactly twenty-five years since my very first trip out of the country, while I was in college, on a choir tour of Italy, Switzerland, and Germany. It was magical and transformative for me, in the way travel always is: you get lost, you see things you never expected, and, invariably, you learn--about the world, but also about yourself, about what you will and will not tolerate, and that you will never be in control of everything, and THAT'S OK.
One of the memories that sticks with me is not about that trip itself (although there are certainly plenty of amazing memories!), but the flight home--specifically, during the New York-San Francisco leg of the trip. I was trapped in the window seat of a 747 with a Korean woman traveling with her two boys, one and three years old, in the two other seats in the row (to this day I do not understand how she was allowed to buy one ticket for two children...but, as usual, I digress). The younger one, bless him, mostly stayed asleep and quiescent the whole way home; the older one, however, was a nightmare--all over the plane (including stomping across my lap whenever he wanted to look out the window of the plane, which was approximately once every fifteen minutes), babbling loudly to whomever would (or wouldn't) listen. When seated, to release his excess energy he would either kick the seat in front of him, or randomly unleash piercing shrieks (presumably of joy) throughout the flight, while his mother steadfastly refused to either corral or correct him, blithely ignoring the icy stares directed her way by the other passengers.
After having been away from home for three long weeks, and awake for far too many hours, and not being a person naturally inclined to look generously on parents who abdicate their responsibilities--especially on a plane--but far too cowardly and tired to stand up and demand redress from the flight crew, it was all I could do to plug my ears as best I could with my headphones and stoically contemplate my impending sainthood (although, had I a better understanding of the justifiable homicide laws in my home country, things might have turned out very differently). It is not too much of a stretch, I think, to say that They Might Be Giants' "Flood" saved several lives that day, not least my own.
Something else that occurred to me is how much has changed in what I'm packing. I'm not bringing any more clothing than last time, I am sure, but for different reasons: in my impoverished student days, I simply didn't own enough clothing to overpack, even with bringing nearly everything I owned; now, I'm travel-wizened enough to know it isn't necessary to bring more than a few days' worth of clothing (although I will never match my friend Renee, who managed an entire two-and-a-half week trip with the equivalent of a tote bag and a checked bag the size of a cat carrier. I bow in awe of her packing mastery).
Another difference in my pack list--and one that boggles my mind...speaking of overpacking: on that first trip, I brought my Walkman (remember THOSE?), ten or twelve cassette tapes, two Radio Shack speakers that looked like desktop Sputnik models standing gray and conical on tripod legs, plus all the wires needed to connect them to the Walkman, PLUS batteries for both speakers and Walkman...in total, my 'gear' must have added a good ten pounds to my carrying weight. In addition, I had a small but decent snapshot camera that was pretty state of the art at that time with a dozen or so rolls of film, plus a list of addresses to whom I was to send postcards--which would take, if I was lucky, and dependent on where they were sent from, about four* to twelve** weeks--if ever***--to arrive.
*(Switzerland, Germany)
**(Italy)
***(again, Italy)
Only twenty-five years later--merely an eyeblink blip in the course of human history, really--I am carrying a small computer, about the size and weight of one of my cassette tapes from that first trip, that carries within it at least ten times the amount of music, along with speakers that are better than my Sputniks, not to mention a camera that takes far better pictures than the old camera did, and not just a list of a few names and addresses but the contact information of every person I know--plus, instead of postcards, I can use that same machine to send a message instantly to any one of those people--along with a picture; a real picture, taken in that moment, not just some stale stock image picked up from a revolving wire stand in some tourist trap gift shop lurking in a museum or hotel.
In addition, I can use it to pull up a map, deposit a check, work on my novel, or any number of things I haven't even discovered yet (it's a new phone. Some slack, please)...or, if I wish, I can just make a mundane phone call.
Plus, the battery lasts a hell of a lot longer than those Duracells in my speakers ever did.
It blows my mind sometimes how much can change, and how quickly.
Some things won't change--there will still be obnoxious children on overcrowded flights; I will learn how very little I am in control; and I will come home with images and experiences I did not have before--which is, of course, why we travel in the first place: not just to expand our sense of how big the world is and how much can change in an eyeblink, but to expand our sense of what is possible.
Oh-and one more thing that hasn't changed:
RM
Thursday, November 13, 2014
This morning
Curled up in the accommodating chair-and-a-half in the east-facing front window of my home, through which comes the faint scent of petrichor from last night's rain and the bright glow of morning light as the sun valiantly tries to break through the clouds. I'm wearing my pajamas and thick, fluffy socks (it's chilly). In my lap is my computer, and I'm writing.
I've been (unofficially) participating in NaNoWriMo--the main reason I say 'unofficially' is that they require one to stick with the same novel for the entire month. While I understand the reason for this--the whole point, after all, is to FINISH a novel by the end of the month--MY main reason for participating is to get into the habit of putting my butt in the chair every day to develop the discipline of being a writer, not just dreaming or talking about it. As William Faulkner so perfectly put it; "Don't be a writer. Be writing."
For me so far, it seems that the first twenty minutes to half hour are spent farting around, trying to find a way in, looking for a window, a door, a crack in the walls that I can use to force entry, like breaking into a house. It's frustrating as hell. Those are the moments when the Inner Critic has a field day reminding me just how inadequate I am, how inexperienced, that nobody is ever going to want to read what I write, I’ll never get published, and so on and so on.
But then, something happens--I see a sentence I want to add to, or have an idea about a scene I want to write, and I'm off and running, usually 'waking up' a couple to three hours later with my daily goal met (or, more often, surpassed). The great thing about NaNoWriMo is that it doesn't give one the luxury of listening to the Inner Critic--those words have to be on the page by the end of the day, come hell or high water. In fact, I've gotten to the point where, when the Inner Critic whispers in my ear, "Nobody will want to read this. This is shit!" I reply, "Yeah, I know."--and keep writing. The funny thing is, once I get going, that Inner Critic shuts up right away--it's as if he knows that he can only keep me from writing--he can't stop me once I’ve begun.
And the best part is that it doesn’t feel like work. I can’t tell you how happy I am to be able to do this. I feel a deep sense of gratitude and joy for it all; the morning, the chair, the coffee, the freedom to order my life as I please and not according to someone else’s ideas of what or whom I should be. For this life.
What am I writing about? That's for another post. ;-)
I've been (unofficially) participating in NaNoWriMo--the main reason I say 'unofficially' is that they require one to stick with the same novel for the entire month. While I understand the reason for this--the whole point, after all, is to FINISH a novel by the end of the month--MY main reason for participating is to get into the habit of putting my butt in the chair every day to develop the discipline of being a writer, not just dreaming or talking about it. As William Faulkner so perfectly put it; "Don't be a writer. Be writing."
For me so far, it seems that the first twenty minutes to half hour are spent farting around, trying to find a way in, looking for a window, a door, a crack in the walls that I can use to force entry, like breaking into a house. It's frustrating as hell. Those are the moments when the Inner Critic has a field day reminding me just how inadequate I am, how inexperienced, that nobody is ever going to want to read what I write, I’ll never get published, and so on and so on.
But then, something happens--I see a sentence I want to add to, or have an idea about a scene I want to write, and I'm off and running, usually 'waking up' a couple to three hours later with my daily goal met (or, more often, surpassed). The great thing about NaNoWriMo is that it doesn't give one the luxury of listening to the Inner Critic--those words have to be on the page by the end of the day, come hell or high water. In fact, I've gotten to the point where, when the Inner Critic whispers in my ear, "Nobody will want to read this. This is shit!" I reply, "Yeah, I know."--and keep writing. The funny thing is, once I get going, that Inner Critic shuts up right away--it's as if he knows that he can only keep me from writing--he can't stop me once I’ve begun.
And the best part is that it doesn’t feel like work. I can’t tell you how happy I am to be able to do this. I feel a deep sense of gratitude and joy for it all; the morning, the chair, the coffee, the freedom to order my life as I please and not according to someone else’s ideas of what or whom I should be. For this life.
What am I writing about? That's for another post. ;-)
Saturday, August 30, 2014
PS--
...I still wear cashmere.
(You will pry those sweaters out of my cold, dead, introverted hands, thank you very much. :-) )
(You will pry those sweaters out of my cold, dead, introverted hands, thank you very much. :-) )
Change your clothes, change your life
NB: This post is a bit more self-involved and navel-gazey than usual; you may wish to skip it for something with more substance. Thank you.
-----
I had a conversation with my dear friend Paul last Monday that helped crystallize quite a few things that had been floating in the brain soup. He writes an amazing blog about fashion throughout history and how our sartorial choices affect, and are affected by, our lives—sociological, biological, and psychological factors all come into play, and are put under the microscope. It’s a fantastic blog, and if you are at all interested in how we choose to show ourselves to the world (and why), then this is the place for you.
Here’s a good starting point—it just so happens to be HIS brief exploration of the ideas behind that conversation:
http://attiresmind.blogspot.com/2014/08/inward-becomes-outward.html?spref=fb
We had been discussing how our choices of attire change with the tides of life—how the inner becomes the outer; for instance, when my marriage ended in 2003, my wardrobe took a radical shift from black into technicolor—I AM HERE! it seemed to say. Bright clear tones such as apple green, aqua and turquoise blue, and yellows, dominated. That phase was short lived, however: as I became a little more settled, I shifted into earth tones—rusts, greens, tans, and browns were my go-to color choices. Too, I chose to wear short tailored skirts, heels, and boots that showed off my legs, pretty silk blouses, cashmere sweaters, dresses, and, as much as possible, a retro style. This was my wardrobe for over ten years.
Then, around mid-2012, another shift began. I can’t pinpoint exactly when it started, just that my choices began moving back into a monochromatic pattern…gray, gray, gray. (OK, maybe a little taupe and black in there.) I’ve been living in jeans (or yoga pants at home) or a maxi-length black skirt I picked up on the cheap, paired with t-shirts or loose, simple cotton tops, again in softer tones of gray, light blue, or white.
I wasn’t even fully aware a shift had occurred until around the time I was packing for New York; NOTHING that was going into the suitcase was an earth tone. No skirts (save the black maxi). No tights, no heels. None of my usual go-tos.
What—? I thought. Black? Gray? How boring. How depressing.
The real wake-up call (and the event that triggered my conversation with Paul) came a week ago: I was in the grocery store in my neighborhood picking up a bottle of wine for a TV night in with a friend. After much deliberation, I’d put on an outfit I’d worn many times before: a light cotton shift in olive green, brown leggings, brown boots, tan cashmere cardigan, and a rust/olive/brown/wine-colored scarf. I’d never felt uncomfortable in this outfit before. But last Saturday, it felt excruciatingly WRONG. Part of it, I now know, had to do with my feelings of not belonging in SF any longer, the pull to find ‘home’, wherever that may be; but, as I wandered the aisles of the Good Life, among all the young, toned, shorts-and-jeans-clad hipsters, I felt like a Yeti.
(I will readily concede that it probably didn’t help that I hadn’t shaved in a week.)
I might as well have been wearing a Lord of the Rings costume, I felt so out of place.
I looked at my closet the next day and realized—none of it FIT anymore. Literally and figuratively. Thanks to perimenopause (and, probably, hypothyroid), ten extra pounds have crept on in the past year, resisting all efforts of extirpation. My clothing, while technically still able to be donned, doesn’t look or feel the same on me as it used to. How much of that is physical, how much psychological? I couldn’t tell you. I think it's very interesting to ask these questions, though, and to keep asking them as our lives shift and change.
Still, my weight shouldn’t have an effect on the choice of color or style. Right?
In our conversation, though, once we connected the dots of my current life, it all made sense.
My shift toward more comfortable, loose, less dramatic clothing started when I made a conscious decision to quit singing full time (a very dramatic, outwardly-oriented career) and become a writer (a solitary, inward-focusing career). As my friend put it, it became less about “Look at ME!” as I became much more home-oriented, and more a reflection of my true—read: introverted—personality. My clothing choices became simpler, more streamlined, and, yes, less costume-y, as my life did.
Too, all the clothing I’m reaching for are clothes that pack well—a sign of my subconscious need to travel light, anticipating my trips to Ojai, New York, and (later this year) Europe, as well as my dream of eventually relocating to Europe permanently.
And, instead of schlubby, I am told, my current look is not boring or depressing, but “elegantly simple”.*
That’s my (current) sartorial story….and I’m sticking with it.
….for now, at least.
RM
*OK, so it was my therapist who told me that, and yes, I PAY her to say nice things to me, so I will take it with a grain of salt.
-----
I had a conversation with my dear friend Paul last Monday that helped crystallize quite a few things that had been floating in the brain soup. He writes an amazing blog about fashion throughout history and how our sartorial choices affect, and are affected by, our lives—sociological, biological, and psychological factors all come into play, and are put under the microscope. It’s a fantastic blog, and if you are at all interested in how we choose to show ourselves to the world (and why), then this is the place for you.
Here’s a good starting point—it just so happens to be HIS brief exploration of the ideas behind that conversation:
http://attiresmind.blogspot.com/2014/08/inward-becomes-outward.html?spref=fb
We had been discussing how our choices of attire change with the tides of life—how the inner becomes the outer; for instance, when my marriage ended in 2003, my wardrobe took a radical shift from black into technicolor—I AM HERE! it seemed to say. Bright clear tones such as apple green, aqua and turquoise blue, and yellows, dominated. That phase was short lived, however: as I became a little more settled, I shifted into earth tones—rusts, greens, tans, and browns were my go-to color choices. Too, I chose to wear short tailored skirts, heels, and boots that showed off my legs, pretty silk blouses, cashmere sweaters, dresses, and, as much as possible, a retro style. This was my wardrobe for over ten years.
Then, around mid-2012, another shift began. I can’t pinpoint exactly when it started, just that my choices began moving back into a monochromatic pattern…gray, gray, gray. (OK, maybe a little taupe and black in there.) I’ve been living in jeans (or yoga pants at home) or a maxi-length black skirt I picked up on the cheap, paired with t-shirts or loose, simple cotton tops, again in softer tones of gray, light blue, or white.
I wasn’t even fully aware a shift had occurred until around the time I was packing for New York; NOTHING that was going into the suitcase was an earth tone. No skirts (save the black maxi). No tights, no heels. None of my usual go-tos.
What—? I thought. Black? Gray? How boring. How depressing.
The real wake-up call (and the event that triggered my conversation with Paul) came a week ago: I was in the grocery store in my neighborhood picking up a bottle of wine for a TV night in with a friend. After much deliberation, I’d put on an outfit I’d worn many times before: a light cotton shift in olive green, brown leggings, brown boots, tan cashmere cardigan, and a rust/olive/brown/wine-colored scarf. I’d never felt uncomfortable in this outfit before. But last Saturday, it felt excruciatingly WRONG. Part of it, I now know, had to do with my feelings of not belonging in SF any longer, the pull to find ‘home’, wherever that may be; but, as I wandered the aisles of the Good Life, among all the young, toned, shorts-and-jeans-clad hipsters, I felt like a Yeti.
(I will readily concede that it probably didn’t help that I hadn’t shaved in a week.)
I might as well have been wearing a Lord of the Rings costume, I felt so out of place.
I looked at my closet the next day and realized—none of it FIT anymore. Literally and figuratively. Thanks to perimenopause (and, probably, hypothyroid), ten extra pounds have crept on in the past year, resisting all efforts of extirpation. My clothing, while technically still able to be donned, doesn’t look or feel the same on me as it used to. How much of that is physical, how much psychological? I couldn’t tell you. I think it's very interesting to ask these questions, though, and to keep asking them as our lives shift and change.
Still, my weight shouldn’t have an effect on the choice of color or style. Right?
In our conversation, though, once we connected the dots of my current life, it all made sense.
My shift toward more comfortable, loose, less dramatic clothing started when I made a conscious decision to quit singing full time (a very dramatic, outwardly-oriented career) and become a writer (a solitary, inward-focusing career). As my friend put it, it became less about “Look at ME!” as I became much more home-oriented, and more a reflection of my true—read: introverted—personality. My clothing choices became simpler, more streamlined, and, yes, less costume-y, as my life did.
Too, all the clothing I’m reaching for are clothes that pack well—a sign of my subconscious need to travel light, anticipating my trips to Ojai, New York, and (later this year) Europe, as well as my dream of eventually relocating to Europe permanently.
And, instead of schlubby, I am told, my current look is not boring or depressing, but “elegantly simple”.*
That’s my (current) sartorial story….and I’m sticking with it.
….for now, at least.
RM
*OK, so it was my therapist who told me that, and yes, I PAY her to say nice things to me, so I will take it with a grain of salt.
Thursday, August 14, 2014
A Few More Thoughts
....mainly, the ones that didn't fit in yesterday's edition of "Random S*** I Thought Of That Might Actually Make Sense With More Caffeine (read: Editing)".
Yesterday, among my other ramblings, I mentioned that we are our thoughts. I genuinely believe that. When we are in fear, our thoughts tend, naturally, toward self-protection, but in a very old, reptilian-brain kind of way. In that state, we are reactive--shooting first, and then asking the questions.
It has been scientifically proven* that in such a fearful state, our capacity for clear, critical thinking is compromised--we are much more malleable and open to being controlled by others. We also are more quick to judge, to think of people who are "Not-Us", especially those outside our immediate circle, as The Other--as separate from us--and, therefore, a potential threat, a dehumanizing move that makes it easier to justify everything from cutting someone off in traffic to genocide. It is exactly that fear-based thinking--especially when reinforced by outside sources such as our families, our religious communities, our government, or the media--that creates racism, religious fanaticism, and is at the root of the justification for just about every war.
I have come to believe that we live in a culture that profits from our fear--from keeping us in a persistent state of low anxiety. We can never have enough, do enough, BE enough, unless we buy this product, have this surgical procedure, believe in this god, have this job or this partner or this much money (and all we need do is look at the example of Robin Williams--or any other celebrity suicide--to see how very little "having it all" means). We are trained from a very early age to believe that contentment is based on external--usually material--factors. So much of what we see in the media reinforces this negative narrative of our world until we internalize it, and it becomes part of our personal narrative. The fear of "Not-Enough" has created a society full of needy, fearful, lonely people who have been convinced that we are somehow lacking--is it any wonder so many people are depressed? In isolating ourselves we have also created a culture where we have been told that the individual is the highest unit of the social order--that self-sufficiency is a virtue, and that lack of empathy is a desirable trait, necessary for material success (i.e., in the workforce). Admitting our need for support from others is not praised, but derided. Empathy is dismissed as a weakness.
The truth is, empathy is an evolutionary necessity if we are to survive as a species. In times when food and other resources were scarce, we survived because we helped each other; because we created units--families, cities, states, communities--to support each other. Alone, we are vulnerable.
In a society where keeping us malleable by keeping us fearful and depressed is the status quo, choosing to be happy, to use our critical thinking capabilities instead of merely reacting, is a revolutionary act. Mental health is a political issue. We must choose to work toward knowing ourselves so that we can be better to ourselves and each other, so that we all can grow as a species.
Yes, we are fanged, shit-flinging apes: but we are also hard-wired to move beyond that, to evolve, to grow. Empathy is a muscle--one that grows with use. Strength doesn't come from hardening against the world, but in softening to it; not fighting, but accepting, what is, from seeing--and acting--clearly, without fear. From remembering that we are all in this together--as our own founding fathers said, "United We Stand; Divided We Fall."
Let's be kinder to each other. Because our survival depends on it.
RM
*=again, I am happy to provide sources upon request.
Yesterday, among my other ramblings, I mentioned that we are our thoughts. I genuinely believe that. When we are in fear, our thoughts tend, naturally, toward self-protection, but in a very old, reptilian-brain kind of way. In that state, we are reactive--shooting first, and then asking the questions.
It has been scientifically proven* that in such a fearful state, our capacity for clear, critical thinking is compromised--we are much more malleable and open to being controlled by others. We also are more quick to judge, to think of people who are "Not-Us", especially those outside our immediate circle, as The Other--as separate from us--and, therefore, a potential threat, a dehumanizing move that makes it easier to justify everything from cutting someone off in traffic to genocide. It is exactly that fear-based thinking--especially when reinforced by outside sources such as our families, our religious communities, our government, or the media--that creates racism, religious fanaticism, and is at the root of the justification for just about every war.
I have come to believe that we live in a culture that profits from our fear--from keeping us in a persistent state of low anxiety. We can never have enough, do enough, BE enough, unless we buy this product, have this surgical procedure, believe in this god, have this job or this partner or this much money (and all we need do is look at the example of Robin Williams--or any other celebrity suicide--to see how very little "having it all" means). We are trained from a very early age to believe that contentment is based on external--usually material--factors. So much of what we see in the media reinforces this negative narrative of our world until we internalize it, and it becomes part of our personal narrative. The fear of "Not-Enough" has created a society full of needy, fearful, lonely people who have been convinced that we are somehow lacking--is it any wonder so many people are depressed? In isolating ourselves we have also created a culture where we have been told that the individual is the highest unit of the social order--that self-sufficiency is a virtue, and that lack of empathy is a desirable trait, necessary for material success (i.e., in the workforce). Admitting our need for support from others is not praised, but derided. Empathy is dismissed as a weakness.
The truth is, empathy is an evolutionary necessity if we are to survive as a species. In times when food and other resources were scarce, we survived because we helped each other; because we created units--families, cities, states, communities--to support each other. Alone, we are vulnerable.
In a society where keeping us malleable by keeping us fearful and depressed is the status quo, choosing to be happy, to use our critical thinking capabilities instead of merely reacting, is a revolutionary act. Mental health is a political issue. We must choose to work toward knowing ourselves so that we can be better to ourselves and each other, so that we all can grow as a species.
Yes, we are fanged, shit-flinging apes: but we are also hard-wired to move beyond that, to evolve, to grow. Empathy is a muscle--one that grows with use. Strength doesn't come from hardening against the world, but in softening to it; not fighting, but accepting, what is, from seeing--and acting--clearly, without fear. From remembering that we are all in this together--as our own founding fathers said, "United We Stand; Divided We Fall."
Let's be kinder to each other. Because our survival depends on it.
RM
*=again, I am happy to provide sources upon request.
Wednesday, August 13, 2014
A Few Thoughts About Depression
I feel compelled to put down a few thoughts on a subject about which I like to think I know a bit, having lived with depression much of my adult life. I don't pretend to be an expert, or even particularly knowledgeable beyond my own experience and observations, so please take my ramblings in the loving spirit in which they are offered, and as a jumping-off point for your own explorations.
We lost a great artist, Robin Williams, two days ago. It hit my community particularly hard because we considered him one of ours--a local, a performer, a mensch; my Facebook feed is thick with personal stories from friends and colleagues whose lives he touched with a short conversation, a wave, a kindness. By all reports, he was a truly huge-hearted, generous soul, and the world is a bit less sparkly, a bit less funny and whimsical and wonderful, for his absence.
The reason I'm getting off my lazy butt to post in here is that, in addition to the heartening outpouring of love and support for him and for his family, his death has brought out some of the worst in humanity: I just read about how some trolls have sent his daughter awful pictures and comments on her Twitter page, forcing her to leave the site for good. (One friend made the disgusted comment that "We are a species of fanged, shit-flinging apes." It's hard to dispute his contention in the face of such horrific indifference to someone's suffering, such deliberate cruelty to a total stranger.)
Many people have trotted out the old "How could he be so SELFISH to do this to his family/friends/us?" horse shit, including supposed journalists who ought to know better (Fox, I'm looking at you: for shame. And, Rush Limbaugh, for your colossally assholier-than-thou statements that it must have something to do with his politics; if I didn't already want to cock-punch you in your tiny, wizened little winkie before, I definitely do now.
...repeatedly.
...with a ball-peen hammer).
Along similar, but more well-meaning lines, several people have also said "Why couldn't he have reached out to those who loved him?"
OK. Here's the deal.
As has been said many times before (and by much better people than I):
DEPRESSION LIES.
Depression is a devious little fucker. It creates a self-narrative based on fear and self-loathing that is so pervasive, such a repetitive tape loop inside your head (I believe Anne Lamott calls it "Radio K-FKD"), it becomes difficult to hear anything else about yourself--especially anything positive. If you're depressed, compliments are suspect; criticisms are automatically assumed to be truthful, and take on overwhelming power. One of the worst things about depression and the narrative that goes along with it, is that it serves to isolate you emotionally: you feel completely alone. It's just you against that narrative, and it's relentless and knows all your weak points. It knows exactly how, and when, to kneecap you, and will take every opportunity to do just that.
Robin Williams was very likely aware just how much he was loved, and it just as likely wouldn't have made a bit of difference.
David Foster Wallace, another brilliant artist we lost to depression, put it beautifully:
“The so-called ‘psychotically depressed’ person who tries to kill herself doesn’t do so out of quote ‘hopelessness’ or any abstract conviction that life’s assets and debits do not square. And surely not because death seems suddenly appealing. The person in whom Its invisible agony reaches a certain unendurable level will kill herself the same way a trapped person will eventually jump from the window of a burning high-rise. Make no mistake about people who leap from burning windows. Their terror of falling from a great height is still just as great as it would be for you or me standing speculatively at the same window just checking out the view; i.e. the fear of falling remains a constant. The variable here is the other terror, the fire’s flames: when the flames get close enough, falling to death becomes the slightly less terrible of two terrors. It’s not desiring the fall; it’s terror of the flames. And yet nobody down on the sidewalk, looking up and yelling ‘Don’t!’ and ‘Hang on!’, can understand the jump. Not really. You’d have to have personally been trapped and felt flames to really understand a terror way beyond falling.”
Those flames are your self-narrative, licking at your feet, telling you you're weak and worthless, you're never good enough or thin enough or tall enough or smart enough or (insert yours here) enough. You could be a sixteen-year-old pimply-faced teenager, flipping burgers in your first job at Burger King, or Robin Williams. The narrative is the same. And when it's a more viable choice to jump out that window than to tolerate the flames one more day, it becomes deadly. I'm betting that every single person reading this who has depression is nodding their head right now in recognition, because they've felt the heat from those flames on their back. I know I have.
If I may make a couple of points about depression, based on both personal experience and extensive reading on the subject*:
1. We are our thoughts. We create ourselves by what we think about ourselves. Every self-thought is part of a neural patterning process that gets reinforced with each subsequent thought until we have created a narrative about ourselves.
In fact, there is a whole subset of psychology--cognitive therapy--that deals exclusively with identifying and changing those self-narratives.
2. Depression is a chemical imbalance, a neurological dis-ease. It creates a different narrative for us, one based in fear and anxiety. Fear is the grindstone that wears down our sense of worth and purpose until we continually doubt ourselves..."What's the use? Why bother?" Those negative thoughts become self-reinforcing, part of our automatic response system. And when we've ground that neural groove, we call it depression.
3. We don't actually know a whole heck of a lot about how our brain works. We're doing the best we can but psychology is only getting up to speed in terms of medical science; a lot of ideas that are accepted as reality now were taken about as seriously by the mainstream medical community as astrology and phrenology only forty to fifty years ago. And if the research is playing catch-up, cultural assumptions about mental health are even further behind. Look how many people still hold the perception that depression is merely mind over matter, instead of an actual physical disease. Would you say "Just get over it!" to a cancer sufferer? Of course not. (Not if you have a shred of humanity left, you fanged, shit-flinging ape, you.) So why is it more acceptable to say it to a depression sufferer? Simple. It's our cultural assumptions about what depression is and how it works.
4. I know I'm tap-dancing on a mine field with this one, but I'd like to address the "Why didn't he reach out to his family/friends?" question. It bugs me that there is an assumption that if we lean on our friends and family, that will be enough. I hasten to add that I didn't say we SHOULDN'T reach out to them, or that Williams' tribe haven't been supportive and helpful--but, please remember, not everyone has supportive, loving, aware friends and family: many of us have gotten more harm than help from people closest to us. Also, no matter how well-meaning, most peoples' friends and family aren't trained in dealing with mental health issues. Long-term guidance really does make a difference, and getting that guidance from someone with professional training (MFTs, clergy, psychotherapists, etc.) is much more efficacious than simply talking it out once, over cocktails, with your bestie--although there ain't nothing wrong with cocktails with your bestie as therapy. (In fact, I feel a prescription from one's doctor for regular cocktails with one's bestie is a GREAT idea.)
I have so much more to say on this subject, but I'm going to stop here for now.
Please, if you are feeling depressed, reach out. There are so many people ready to help.
More soon.
RM
*=and yes, I'd be happy to provide a reading list if you'd like.
We lost a great artist, Robin Williams, two days ago. It hit my community particularly hard because we considered him one of ours--a local, a performer, a mensch; my Facebook feed is thick with personal stories from friends and colleagues whose lives he touched with a short conversation, a wave, a kindness. By all reports, he was a truly huge-hearted, generous soul, and the world is a bit less sparkly, a bit less funny and whimsical and wonderful, for his absence.
The reason I'm getting off my lazy butt to post in here is that, in addition to the heartening outpouring of love and support for him and for his family, his death has brought out some of the worst in humanity: I just read about how some trolls have sent his daughter awful pictures and comments on her Twitter page, forcing her to leave the site for good. (One friend made the disgusted comment that "We are a species of fanged, shit-flinging apes." It's hard to dispute his contention in the face of such horrific indifference to someone's suffering, such deliberate cruelty to a total stranger.)
Many people have trotted out the old "How could he be so SELFISH to do this to his family/friends/us?" horse shit, including supposed journalists who ought to know better (Fox, I'm looking at you: for shame. And, Rush Limbaugh, for your colossally assholier-than-thou statements that it must have something to do with his politics; if I didn't already want to cock-punch you in your tiny, wizened little winkie before, I definitely do now.
...repeatedly.
...with a ball-peen hammer).
Along similar, but more well-meaning lines, several people have also said "Why couldn't he have reached out to those who loved him?"
OK. Here's the deal.
As has been said many times before (and by much better people than I):
DEPRESSION LIES.
Depression is a devious little fucker. It creates a self-narrative based on fear and self-loathing that is so pervasive, such a repetitive tape loop inside your head (I believe Anne Lamott calls it "Radio K-FKD"), it becomes difficult to hear anything else about yourself--especially anything positive. If you're depressed, compliments are suspect; criticisms are automatically assumed to be truthful, and take on overwhelming power. One of the worst things about depression and the narrative that goes along with it, is that it serves to isolate you emotionally: you feel completely alone. It's just you against that narrative, and it's relentless and knows all your weak points. It knows exactly how, and when, to kneecap you, and will take every opportunity to do just that.
Robin Williams was very likely aware just how much he was loved, and it just as likely wouldn't have made a bit of difference.
David Foster Wallace, another brilliant artist we lost to depression, put it beautifully:
“The so-called ‘psychotically depressed’ person who tries to kill herself doesn’t do so out of quote ‘hopelessness’ or any abstract conviction that life’s assets and debits do not square. And surely not because death seems suddenly appealing. The person in whom Its invisible agony reaches a certain unendurable level will kill herself the same way a trapped person will eventually jump from the window of a burning high-rise. Make no mistake about people who leap from burning windows. Their terror of falling from a great height is still just as great as it would be for you or me standing speculatively at the same window just checking out the view; i.e. the fear of falling remains a constant. The variable here is the other terror, the fire’s flames: when the flames get close enough, falling to death becomes the slightly less terrible of two terrors. It’s not desiring the fall; it’s terror of the flames. And yet nobody down on the sidewalk, looking up and yelling ‘Don’t!’ and ‘Hang on!’, can understand the jump. Not really. You’d have to have personally been trapped and felt flames to really understand a terror way beyond falling.”
Those flames are your self-narrative, licking at your feet, telling you you're weak and worthless, you're never good enough or thin enough or tall enough or smart enough or (insert yours here) enough. You could be a sixteen-year-old pimply-faced teenager, flipping burgers in your first job at Burger King, or Robin Williams. The narrative is the same. And when it's a more viable choice to jump out that window than to tolerate the flames one more day, it becomes deadly. I'm betting that every single person reading this who has depression is nodding their head right now in recognition, because they've felt the heat from those flames on their back. I know I have.
If I may make a couple of points about depression, based on both personal experience and extensive reading on the subject*:
1. We are our thoughts. We create ourselves by what we think about ourselves. Every self-thought is part of a neural patterning process that gets reinforced with each subsequent thought until we have created a narrative about ourselves.
In fact, there is a whole subset of psychology--cognitive therapy--that deals exclusively with identifying and changing those self-narratives.
2. Depression is a chemical imbalance, a neurological dis-ease. It creates a different narrative for us, one based in fear and anxiety. Fear is the grindstone that wears down our sense of worth and purpose until we continually doubt ourselves..."What's the use? Why bother?" Those negative thoughts become self-reinforcing, part of our automatic response system. And when we've ground that neural groove, we call it depression.
3. We don't actually know a whole heck of a lot about how our brain works. We're doing the best we can but psychology is only getting up to speed in terms of medical science; a lot of ideas that are accepted as reality now were taken about as seriously by the mainstream medical community as astrology and phrenology only forty to fifty years ago. And if the research is playing catch-up, cultural assumptions about mental health are even further behind. Look how many people still hold the perception that depression is merely mind over matter, instead of an actual physical disease. Would you say "Just get over it!" to a cancer sufferer? Of course not. (Not if you have a shred of humanity left, you fanged, shit-flinging ape, you.) So why is it more acceptable to say it to a depression sufferer? Simple. It's our cultural assumptions about what depression is and how it works.
4. I know I'm tap-dancing on a mine field with this one, but I'd like to address the "Why didn't he reach out to his family/friends?" question. It bugs me that there is an assumption that if we lean on our friends and family, that will be enough. I hasten to add that I didn't say we SHOULDN'T reach out to them, or that Williams' tribe haven't been supportive and helpful--but, please remember, not everyone has supportive, loving, aware friends and family: many of us have gotten more harm than help from people closest to us. Also, no matter how well-meaning, most peoples' friends and family aren't trained in dealing with mental health issues. Long-term guidance really does make a difference, and getting that guidance from someone with professional training (MFTs, clergy, psychotherapists, etc.) is much more efficacious than simply talking it out once, over cocktails, with your bestie--although there ain't nothing wrong with cocktails with your bestie as therapy. (In fact, I feel a prescription from one's doctor for regular cocktails with one's bestie is a GREAT idea.)
I have so much more to say on this subject, but I'm going to stop here for now.
Please, if you are feeling depressed, reach out. There are so many people ready to help.
More soon.
RM
*=and yes, I'd be happy to provide a reading list if you'd like.
Wednesday, April 23, 2014
Honey and Vinegar
I am currently in rehearsals, along with the rest of the Philharmonia Baroque Orchestra and Chorale, for "Acis and Galatea"--Mozart's orchestration of the Handel opera.
I find it insufferably twee and a bit of a snooze, but as that is how I feel about much of Handel's repertoire, I shall refrain from extemporizing further about the piece itself. The rehearsals, on the other hand, are somewhat interesting, if as more of an observational exercise than as music-making. The observation, in this case, refers to the personality of a famous choreographer whose dance company is involved in this production as well.
We in the chorus have managed, so far, to avoid major mishaps because we had been warned by those who have worked with this man before: Don't get in his way, don't make unnecessary noise, and, for GOD's sake, don't EVER let your cell phone go off during reherasal, lest you release the screaming banshee upon us all (for, apparently, he does not discriminate when he releases his fury dogs). Even though we were not its target, we got to see quite a bit of rage-barking in action last night--to his dancers and the principals, he was alternately rude, condescending, snarky, and derisive, to the point of being abusive (for the first time, perhaps, in my life, I was grateful for my limited exposure to abusive conductors!). He could also be constructive in his criticism--often in equal measure--but one would have to have a very thick skin to tolerate a steady diet of that withering tone and blistering sarcasm.
(An example: one of his more interesting bon mots was while giving notes after the first half of the evening's rehearsal, when he had been particularly difficult--"Those of you onstage who are sulking, please find someone to make you sulk less. If that means a hand job, then so be it." Another one, from a few years ago, to the dancers portraying the witches in "Dido and Aeneas": "Could you be more cunt-y?" And these were two of the nicer comments.)
Yet, if I were to talk to his dancers, I would bet, dollars to doughnuts, I'd hear "Well, he's demanding, yes, but he's brilliant." Oh, so it's OK to be an asshole if it gets results? If we slap the "demanding" label on someone, we can justify the abuse?
I suppose 'twas ever thus--genius is allowed to get away with the most horrific behavior. The usual subjects can be trotted out here--Wagner was an anti-Semite, Picasso slept with anything that moved (while refusing to divorce his wife as he felt she didn't deserve half his wealth), Gesualdo deserves a category all to himself as the High Prince of Bat-Shit Cray-Cray In Music. The problem for us, however, is laziness--falling into the old trope of assuming that ARTIST automatically equals CRAZY, and that they are allowed to step outside of the expectations of decent behavior because they have already chosen to exist outside of polite society.
I can't help but be reminded, though, of my experience working with Stephen Sondheim back in 2001, when the San Francisco Symphony did a semi-staged performance of his "Sweeney Todd". Now, if there is anyone alive who has earned the title of "genius" and has earned the right to be a tyrant, you would think it would be Sondheim. But in my experience with him, exactly the opposite was true--he was soft-spoken, supportive, and truly respectful, even to the lowliest nameless chorister (me). I never once heard him say, either to one of us or to the stars of the show, "You did that wrong!"--instead, he would phrase it as, "I'd like to hear it THIS way." As a result, we all bent over backwards to give him whatever he wanted, and the production not only came together in less than three weeks, start to finish, but it was a fantastic success.
Why don't more composers, choreographers, conductors, and other artistic leaders of all stripes, get this? Must we emulate the business model of the hardnosed heartless CEO--or the artistic model of the bat-shit crazy asshole genius--to make good art? Whatever happened to "You catch more flies with honey than vinegar"?
Let's stop lying to ourselves. Artists are, essentially, children at heart--we NEED that openness, that vulnerability and willingness to see the world with a child's wondering eye, to make art. And we tell our children to watch what they say to each other, that words hurt. We would never tell a six-year-old in ballet class, "Could you be more cunt-y?" (And if you DO say that to six-year-olds in your ballet class, then you have more serious mental problems than a talking-to is going to fix.) We want to support our childrens' creative impulses, and we punish the older children who are mean and bullying to our children. Now, I'm not suggesting we mollycoddle ourselves--or our children--it's a hard world sometimes, and we all have our share of awful stuff to deal with. And there are times when the person in charge loses their patience when the chorus, or the dancers, or the players, JUST AREN'T GETTING IT. But is it necessary to be abusive to get people to do what you want? Sondheim didn't think so. Instead of making the people who worked for him feel less-than, he used positive instead of negative critiques, every time. And it worked.
It's not just Mr. Sondheim, either--all of my best, most fulfilling artistic experiences have come from work environments that were supportive and collegial, where those in charge used respect, not fear, as the goad to create art.
Why aren't we standing up to the bullies in our art?
RM
April 23, 2014
Thursday, September 19, 2013
*WARNING* There is NO music in this post whatsoever. This is not a funny post. It is not a snarky post. In fact, it is somewhat warm and fuzzy and navel-gazy and bittersweet, so if you're not in the mood, I will understand if you were to skip right over this posting. Thank you for understanding.
----------------------------------------------------------------------
My ex-husband called this afternoon to check in with me about some plans we had made to get together this weekend. We had some sad business to attend to: the three of us--Ken, his wife Jennifer, and I--plan to drive out to Fort Funston to scatter the ashes of our beloved dog, who died Christmas morning of last year. Her death had devastated us all, and we weren't in any hurry to let go of this last real piece of her physical being, which is why we had waited. In fact, we've got an understanding; if any of us, at any time, suddenly feels they can't go through with it, then we stop and do it when we're all ready. After all, this isn't like flushing a goldfish down the toilet: we had gotten this dog as a puppy and had shared her, as our fur child, for nearly fifteen years. (Anyone who has ever loved a pet knows.)
When we separated ten years ago, knowing him and his history as well as I did, I figured that, once the dog was gone, he'd disappear from my life, and that would be that: two people who had once loved and pledged ourselves to each other, breaking the tie and walking away in different directions forever. He was not the type to maintain ties with people who were not in his direct line of vision: almost none of his old college friends or band mates were contacted more than once or twice a year, Christmas and birthdays, and none of his exes. When he closed a chapter of his life, there was a very clear line of demarcation; nothing, or very little, spilled over into the next chapters.
So, when he said, as we hugged goodbye after walking out of the vet's office, "I want to keep in touch--I don't want this to be the end," I was encouraged. He'd never said anything like this before, in my recollection. And, even better, he was as good as his word, popping in every now and again with a text, an email, a cell phone call. We had gotten together for dinner two or three times for dinner this year already--this Saturday would be number four.
We chatted for a good forty-five minutes about this and that, catching up on each others' lives, as we hadn't spoken since before the summer. It was easy, comfortable, two friends catching up, no awkwardness or bad energy between us. Suddenly, about ten minutes before the end of the call, I suddenly thought:
"Oh my gosh, I really love this guy."
Not in any romantic way--don't get me wrong; I don't want him back as a partner, I adore his new wife, and I especially love how happy and absolutely right they are together--but realizing, for the first time, that we had come full circle as friends...that this was someone I truly cared about, enjoyed talking to, and that I was happy to have he and Jennifer in my life.
I am feeling incredibly humble. And grateful.
That's all.
RM
Sunday, August 18, 2013
Schadenfreude: it's what's for dinner
Fabulous dress: $13 at a thrift store. Fabulous shoes: $120. Ho-yo-to-ho va-va-va-voom bra and undies: $45. Nylons: $4. Finding out you look, dress, AND dance better than the ex-boyfriend's new girlfriend at a wedding reception: priceless.
Friday, August 16, 2013
Prayer Of A Woman About To Go To A Wedding Also Attended By Her Ex-Boyfriend (And His New Girlfriend)
While I am not one given to prayer (what with not being religious and all), I think that, in extreme situations, a little help never hurts. Considering I work in a Catholic church and have been awfully nice and respectful during services for lo, these many years, I think I've earned one free chance at Divine Intervention.
And so, here goes nothing *kneels, clasps hands in prayer*....
Dear Lord....
1. Let me look absolutely fabulous; nay, not a frizz in the hair, not a clump in the mascara, not a hint of lipstick in the creases around the mouth, neither a suspicious stain or nary a wrinkle in the dress, let mar my perfect appearance.
(Also, may the girlfriend have spinach in her teeth. All night.)
2. Let not my usual friendly relationship with alcohol (AKA "truth serum") escalate into an unholy alliance that unleashes the lethal power of my venomous tongue, to share with all and sundry all the gory details of our disastrous relationship. Let not the truth serum cause me to show the full range of my immaturity and do things I may regret later, like dance like a squirrel in a blender (especially during a slow dance. ESPECIALLY during the first dance.)
3. Let not the Law of Murphy dictate that I should be seated at the same table as they, nor put in me any closer proximity than, say, two continents and a long bus ride, for the duration of the wedding and reception.
4. Let me not screw myself up; let not circumstances rattle my composure; let me not make any mistakes singing the hymns, trip over my shoes, or make any embarrassing noises during the ceremony or reception, so that my confidence should be shattered, and I should not end up in a quivering sobbing heap on one of the bridesmaids' shoulders.
5. Let me remember at all times that I am attractive, intelligent, sexy, capable, and above all, worthy of love, despite the evidence to the contrary all around me. If nothing else, let the immortal words of William Shakespeare be my mantra: "I WILL SURVIVE."
6. Let not my usual sunny disposition shew any crack in its veneer; nay, let no misery, pain, or rage show during this happy occasion, at least until I am safely home in bed with a box of chocolates, a bottle of wine, a shitload of xanax in me--and my therapist on speed dial.
I beseech Thee to aid me in my distress, and I promise that I shall return the favor to Thee, shouldst Thou ever end up at a wedding with your ex-girlfriend and HER new boyfriend.
Amen.
RM
And so, here goes nothing *kneels, clasps hands in prayer*....
Dear Lord....
1. Let me look absolutely fabulous; nay, not a frizz in the hair, not a clump in the mascara, not a hint of lipstick in the creases around the mouth, neither a suspicious stain or nary a wrinkle in the dress, let mar my perfect appearance.
(Also, may the girlfriend have spinach in her teeth. All night.)
2. Let not my usual friendly relationship with alcohol (AKA "truth serum") escalate into an unholy alliance that unleashes the lethal power of my venomous tongue, to share with all and sundry all the gory details of our disastrous relationship. Let not the truth serum cause me to show the full range of my immaturity and do things I may regret later, like dance like a squirrel in a blender (especially during a slow dance. ESPECIALLY during the first dance.)
3. Let not the Law of Murphy dictate that I should be seated at the same table as they, nor put in me any closer proximity than, say, two continents and a long bus ride, for the duration of the wedding and reception.
4. Let me not screw myself up; let not circumstances rattle my composure; let me not make any mistakes singing the hymns, trip over my shoes, or make any embarrassing noises during the ceremony or reception, so that my confidence should be shattered, and I should not end up in a quivering sobbing heap on one of the bridesmaids' shoulders.
5. Let me remember at all times that I am attractive, intelligent, sexy, capable, and above all, worthy of love, despite the evidence to the contrary all around me. If nothing else, let the immortal words of William Shakespeare be my mantra: "I WILL SURVIVE."
6. Let not my usual sunny disposition shew any crack in its veneer; nay, let no misery, pain, or rage show during this happy occasion, at least until I am safely home in bed with a box of chocolates, a bottle of wine, a shitload of xanax in me--and my therapist on speed dial.
I beseech Thee to aid me in my distress, and I promise that I shall return the favor to Thee, shouldst Thou ever end up at a wedding with your ex-girlfriend and HER new boyfriend.
Amen.
RM
Wednesday, August 14, 2013
Had my first lesson in nine weeks yesterday. It was rather odd. I had better breath control than before (which surprised the hell out of me--I hadn't expected that!) but my voice seemed reedy, thick, inflexible. It was interesting, from a purely scientific position, to observe how nine weeks had affected me. I was able to remember quite a bit but it will be a while before my voice is where it was before the break. Still, I was relieved that I remembered as much as I did. (I swear, I figured I'd have to reinvent the wheel. That can happen if one gets off track vocally.)
I should qualify--it has nothing to do with my teacher: I've been quite lazy; I've only sung at church, so haven't stretched my cords out the whole time. Still, it was gratifying to know the technique my teacher had given me held up through the lean time.
It was odd because my teacher had had a health scare during the break and so we were both kind of feeling our way tentatively through the lesson. Still, mainly thanks to him, it went well, I think.
It will be interesting to see what happens the next couple of months--stay tuned...
Drogging
I can't believe nobody has come up with the term "Drogging" before (OK, forgive the naivete...haven't actually checked, cos, hi, I'm DROGGING, dammit!).
Drogging=drunk blogging.
You'd think this would be all over the internet considering 85-90% of blogs likely are drogged....just sayin'...or is it just me? Gawd knows most posts read like...OK, I'll shut up now...
RM
Drogging=drunk blogging.
You'd think this would be all over the internet considering 85-90% of blogs likely are drogged....just sayin'...or is it just me? Gawd knows most posts read like...OK, I'll shut up now...
RM
Thursday, April 11, 2013
If you want to make an apple pie from scratch....
....you must first invent the universe.
--Dr. Carl Sagan
Hoo, doggies, am I ever finding that to be true this week.
I'm writing...but in the process, I'm also having to re-teach myself all the skills I thought I had learned in school, but, it turns out, I somehow managed to either forget--or forgot that I never really learned, and simply skated by with as little actual work as possible...which pretty much describes my college years perfectly ("Oh, that I had applied myself to homework for my other classes with the zeal I spent on my musical training!" she wailed, hand dramatically draped across forehead). So, in addition to writing, I'm learning how to do research online, format my writing so that an editor won't snicker at me (OK, not as much), syntax, rhythm, grammar--all of it. The Elements of Style and The Chicago Manual of Style, my computer, and Wikipedia are constant companions.
Considering how good I was at weaseling OUT of homework all my educational life, I suspect my teachers are laughing their collective arses off somewhere at my toil, sweat, and confusion.
(Kids, here's my unsolicited advice for the week, re: grammar, syntax, sentence structure, etc.: DO THE WORK NOW, while you're still young and in school--it's a hell of a lot harder to make this information stick when one is over forty and having to come up to speed from long-time inertia. Trust me on this.)
So, in short: in order to be able to take myself seriously as a writer, I'm having to invent the universe before I can bake my apple pie.
Oddly, I am OK with this.
RM
--Dr. Carl Sagan
Hoo, doggies, am I ever finding that to be true this week.
I'm writing...but in the process, I'm also having to re-teach myself all the skills I thought I had learned in school, but, it turns out, I somehow managed to either forget--or forgot that I never really learned, and simply skated by with as little actual work as possible...which pretty much describes my college years perfectly ("Oh, that I had applied myself to homework for my other classes with the zeal I spent on my musical training!" she wailed, hand dramatically draped across forehead). So, in addition to writing, I'm learning how to do research online, format my writing so that an editor won't snicker at me (OK, not as much), syntax, rhythm, grammar--all of it. The Elements of Style and The Chicago Manual of Style, my computer, and Wikipedia are constant companions.
Considering how good I was at weaseling OUT of homework all my educational life, I suspect my teachers are laughing their collective arses off somewhere at my toil, sweat, and confusion.
(Kids, here's my unsolicited advice for the week, re: grammar, syntax, sentence structure, etc.: DO THE WORK NOW, while you're still young and in school--it's a hell of a lot harder to make this information stick when one is over forty and having to come up to speed from long-time inertia. Trust me on this.)
So, in short: in order to be able to take myself seriously as a writer, I'm having to invent the universe before I can bake my apple pie.
Oddly, I am OK with this.
RM
Friday, April 5, 2013
Ch-Ch-Ch-Ch-Changes
Hello, all.
As usual, it's been an aeon or two since last I posted. My personal journal and the little tidbits of wit that get shat upon my Facebook page (AKA the ADD child's Happy Place) have gotten the majority of my writing time for much of the past few years.
But.
Things, O my Droogies, have changed a bit 'round here, and I figured I'd best fill you in.
I'll try and sum up the last two years in as much of a Readers' Digest way as I can. I haven't given you NEARLY as much information as I could have ('cause, hey, it's personal, OK?), so it may take a bit. Here goes:
Mid--2011: Lost one of the dogs. In the same week, wound up getting BACK together with ex-bf from previous posts, that I was still in love with. Would like to say something about lightning striking twice, but it pretty much went exactly the way our first go-around did. Zap-fizzle. 'Nuff said about THAT.
January 2012: Was not offered a full-time slot at the opera. Decided I'd had enough of being jerked around and, for the first time ever, turned down the extra chorus offer. Went through major depressive episode at the thought of not having enough gainful employment to survive. Pulled self up by bootstraps emotionally and began to tentatively explore possibility of finally putting my money (or the lack thereof) where my mouth was, moving away from singing as a career, and doing something else with my life.
March 2012: Proving yet again that "If you want to make God laugh, tell him your plans," a full-time contract (filling in for a colleague who had to take a last-minute leave to care for an ailing relative) got dropped into my lap....TWO WEEKS before start of rehearsals. I had to drop all my nascent plans and completely rearrange my life to accommodate this change, but it was worth it for one reason: I got to sock away money like a crack-addicted squirrel in anticipation of the next jerking-around that surely was headed my way. (I'd lived on poverty rations for so many years that having a regular paycheck, and saving a chunk of it each week, was painless.)
May 2012: Had a reckoning with the ex-bf, who had been lingering in my life despite my repeated attempts to move on, where we finally made peace with each other. In what has to be one of the biggest ironic moments in recorded history, at the end of a gut-wrenching five-hour no-holds-barred bare-knuckles soul-baring, he told me, for the first time,
"I love you."
Eight months after he'd dumped me.
(???)
He then said, "I'll always have your back."
After which he promptly disappeared from my life again. In the past six months, we've seen each other....once.
C'est la vie, c'est la guerre....
December 2012: Lost the other dog--the one my ex-husband and I had gotten as a puppy and had had for fourteen years, a once-in-a-lifetime dog whose loss will forever leave a hole in my heart.
Oh, did I mention that this happened on Christmas morning?
January 2013: Sure enough, got jerked around yet again, and was not offered a full-time job. Initial offer: one concert. Not even an opera...a concert. From a sixty thousand dollar contract last year to a six-HUNDRED-dollar offer this year. (I should like to point out here that there has been no appreciable change in my vocal production in this time.) Needless to say, in the most professional way I was capable of, I told them to go pound sand.
February 2013: They came back with another offer...the concert...plus ONE opera. (Apparently someone else had turned down the initial offer--I was not the only one sending out sand-pounding orders.) Yet again, I reminded them where a good quantity of sand could be found, and what they could do with same, forthwith.
I hadn't been holding my breath for the same situation as last year--the chances of another mezzo colleague's needing to take a last-minute leave, and THEN of that contract being offered to me, were laughable to nonexistent.
So.
Lost my partner.
Lost my dog.
Lost my job.
Now what?
Here's where it gets interesting. (Well, OK, at least to me.)
Back in January 2012, when I'd first refused my offer at the opera, I began to kick around the idea of writing again. I've mentioned in the past that one of my dreams was to be a writer, but I'd taken a 25-year detour in pursuing a music career instead. Well, OK, I had the time....and didn't want to sing anymore...and I had a couple of ideas to play with...so I did. I figured, "Well, if I'm gonna be broke, I might as well be broke and happy....right?" *shrugs*
One of the ideas started mutating (really, there's no other way to describe it) into something interesting, so I just kept jotting related ideas down until one day (about a week before the full-time offer, mais oui) I realized that I might...just might...have enough for a full-length book. A real book. Maybe even more than one book. I had a storyline--a very rough one, but still a storyline--I liked. I had smaller ideas, little bits of dialogue or set design or exposition or character development, attaching themselves to my storyline like fleas on a barnyard cat--they were hopping around so fast I almost couldn't keep track of them all. Even better, the little bits all fit together neatly and plausibly. I started feeling like Gene Wilder in 'Young Frankenstein'--wild-eyed, screaming "IT....COULD....WORK!!!!"
And then, the offer came in, and I had to put all that aside.
So. In January 2013....when my life went into free-fall....things were, on the surface, worse than they had been the year before. But, oddly, I felt free. There was nothing, no one, holding me back anymore...I could go anywhere, do anything, I wanted. I had my little savings socked away to keep me from panicking about money--it wasn't a huge amount, but enough to last me a few months while I sat with the question of what I wanted to do with my one wild and precious life. And, again and again, when I did sit with that question, the answer came back that, at least in the short term, I wanted to write.
And so I am.
I don't know if this is what I will end up doing with my life.
I don't know whether my writing is any good.
I don't know whether I'll ever get published.
I don't know if I'll ever make a dime from it.
It.
Doesn't.
Matter.
I'm free.
RM
As usual, it's been an aeon or two since last I posted. My personal journal and the little tidbits of wit that get shat upon my Facebook page (AKA the ADD child's Happy Place) have gotten the majority of my writing time for much of the past few years.
But.
Things, O my Droogies, have changed a bit 'round here, and I figured I'd best fill you in.
I'll try and sum up the last two years in as much of a Readers' Digest way as I can. I haven't given you NEARLY as much information as I could have ('cause, hey, it's personal, OK?), so it may take a bit. Here goes:
Mid--2011: Lost one of the dogs. In the same week, wound up getting BACK together with ex-bf from previous posts, that I was still in love with. Would like to say something about lightning striking twice, but it pretty much went exactly the way our first go-around did. Zap-fizzle. 'Nuff said about THAT.
January 2012: Was not offered a full-time slot at the opera. Decided I'd had enough of being jerked around and, for the first time ever, turned down the extra chorus offer. Went through major depressive episode at the thought of not having enough gainful employment to survive. Pulled self up by bootstraps emotionally and began to tentatively explore possibility of finally putting my money (or the lack thereof) where my mouth was, moving away from singing as a career, and doing something else with my life.
March 2012: Proving yet again that "If you want to make God laugh, tell him your plans," a full-time contract (filling in for a colleague who had to take a last-minute leave to care for an ailing relative) got dropped into my lap....TWO WEEKS before start of rehearsals. I had to drop all my nascent plans and completely rearrange my life to accommodate this change, but it was worth it for one reason: I got to sock away money like a crack-addicted squirrel in anticipation of the next jerking-around that surely was headed my way. (I'd lived on poverty rations for so many years that having a regular paycheck, and saving a chunk of it each week, was painless.)
May 2012: Had a reckoning with the ex-bf, who had been lingering in my life despite my repeated attempts to move on, where we finally made peace with each other. In what has to be one of the biggest ironic moments in recorded history, at the end of a gut-wrenching five-hour no-holds-barred bare-knuckles soul-baring, he told me, for the first time,
"I love you."
Eight months after he'd dumped me.
(???)
He then said, "I'll always have your back."
After which he promptly disappeared from my life again. In the past six months, we've seen each other....once.
C'est la vie, c'est la guerre....
December 2012: Lost the other dog--the one my ex-husband and I had gotten as a puppy and had had for fourteen years, a once-in-a-lifetime dog whose loss will forever leave a hole in my heart.
Oh, did I mention that this happened on Christmas morning?
January 2013: Sure enough, got jerked around yet again, and was not offered a full-time job. Initial offer: one concert. Not even an opera...a concert. From a sixty thousand dollar contract last year to a six-HUNDRED-dollar offer this year. (I should like to point out here that there has been no appreciable change in my vocal production in this time.) Needless to say, in the most professional way I was capable of, I told them to go pound sand.
February 2013: They came back with another offer...the concert...plus ONE opera. (Apparently someone else had turned down the initial offer--I was not the only one sending out sand-pounding orders.) Yet again, I reminded them where a good quantity of sand could be found, and what they could do with same, forthwith.
I hadn't been holding my breath for the same situation as last year--the chances of another mezzo colleague's needing to take a last-minute leave, and THEN of that contract being offered to me, were laughable to nonexistent.
So.
Lost my partner.
Lost my dog.
Lost my job.
Now what?
Here's where it gets interesting. (Well, OK, at least to me.)
Back in January 2012, when I'd first refused my offer at the opera, I began to kick around the idea of writing again. I've mentioned in the past that one of my dreams was to be a writer, but I'd taken a 25-year detour in pursuing a music career instead. Well, OK, I had the time....and didn't want to sing anymore...and I had a couple of ideas to play with...so I did. I figured, "Well, if I'm gonna be broke, I might as well be broke and happy....right?" *shrugs*
One of the ideas started mutating (really, there's no other way to describe it) into something interesting, so I just kept jotting related ideas down until one day (about a week before the full-time offer, mais oui) I realized that I might...just might...have enough for a full-length book. A real book. Maybe even more than one book. I had a storyline--a very rough one, but still a storyline--I liked. I had smaller ideas, little bits of dialogue or set design or exposition or character development, attaching themselves to my storyline like fleas on a barnyard cat--they were hopping around so fast I almost couldn't keep track of them all. Even better, the little bits all fit together neatly and plausibly. I started feeling like Gene Wilder in 'Young Frankenstein'--wild-eyed, screaming "IT....COULD....WORK!!!!"
And then, the offer came in, and I had to put all that aside.
So. In January 2013....when my life went into free-fall....things were, on the surface, worse than they had been the year before. But, oddly, I felt free. There was nothing, no one, holding me back anymore...I could go anywhere, do anything, I wanted. I had my little savings socked away to keep me from panicking about money--it wasn't a huge amount, but enough to last me a few months while I sat with the question of what I wanted to do with my one wild and precious life. And, again and again, when I did sit with that question, the answer came back that, at least in the short term, I wanted to write.
And so I am.
I don't know if this is what I will end up doing with my life.
I don't know whether my writing is any good.
I don't know whether I'll ever get published.
I don't know if I'll ever make a dime from it.
It.
Doesn't.
Matter.
I'm free.
RM
Saturday, September 1, 2012
I recently visited a friend in the hospital after a major surgery (she's doing fine, thanks for asking), and while there, I noticed that Stanford hospital has an extensive art collection in nearly every medium one could imagine fitting on a wall--oils, tapestries, lithographs, photographs, pen and ink, and woodblock prints, to name a few.
(It's really lovely. If you ever have some time, go peruse at your leisure. Just be aware that, although the hospital itself has no charge, it's not entirely free--you may have to pay for parking.)
As I was leaving the third floor elevator, I noticed, hanging on the wall directly opposite, a woodblock print called "Sky in Cora's Marsh" by Neil Welliver. I was very taken by it--I'm a sucker for landscape prints, especially woodblock (my art jones is genetic, I swear)--and so, when I got home last night, I looked Welliver up on the internet. Fortunately, there's quite a bit of information on him available, as well as many images to give one an idea of his style and oeuvre.
Early in his career (between about 1960 and 1970-71) he did quite a bit of figurative painting, mainly female nudes set in nature, usually in a pond or river. In the paintings I looked at online, one was lying on her belly in the water, looking up languidly at the viewer, one was sitting on the banks of a creek, another standing in a river up to her thighs, unconcernedly taking a shirt off over her head. All of them seemed youngish, but not so young that they looked like children--I would have guessed them to be in their 20s or early 30s.
As I said before, I'm a landscape whore, but I found myself captivated mainly by Welliver's nudes, and for the longest time, I couldn't figure out why....I wasn't attracted to them nor did I get an erotic charge from them: the figures didn't appear in suggestive poses, but were very tranquil and calm-looking. There was nothing particularly out of the ordinary about them. They weren't what would be physically considered 'beautiful' by modern standards: they were fleshy. They had bellies and thick thighs. They had large rear ends. Instead of a daintily trimmed or waxed pubic area, they all displayed a thick dark patch between their thighs. Their breasts weren't large, or perfectly formed, or perky--they were small, or large, or pointed, or one went one way and one the other. They weren't idealized in any way that I could obviously make out.
So why was I so engrossed by these paintings? Why did I study them so intently?
Finally, I got it:
....they looked like me.
They looked like real women, not the twisted images put forward by the media as the only acceptable standard of beauty. Here was a respected artist--a man--saying, this is beauty. You are beautiful.
None of these women looked in any way uncomfortable with their bodies. What the hell has happened in the last forty years to make us believe otherwise?
I know this is not a new revelation--many many far more well-informed and intelligent people than I have been kicking and screaming about exactly this objectification of women's bodies in the media. But the "OH!!" moment came when I went beyond the intellectual to the personal.
I had never quite believed J (or any of my lovers) when he told me he thought I was beautiful. I never trusted it. I had suspected that, when he started dating someone else, it was obviously because he wanted to be with someone skinnier, and therefore automatically more attractive, than I was. I had deeply internalized that I was somehow less-than beautiful because of my body. It was as if I had compartmentalized myself into two discrete and totally separate pieces: my head, which encompassed my face, my hair, my skin, my brain, my intellect and wit--in short, anything I could see as being in any way acceptable and attractive; and my body, this awkward, lumpy, stretch-marked, scarred, hairy, FAT piece of flesh that was only there as a vehicle for my head. I'd never really seen how clearly that demarcation between the two parts of myself had been.
But.
What if--?
What if, when those men looked at me naked, they saw what I had seen when I looked at the women in Neil Welliver's paintings? --And, more to the point, really DID think I was beautiful?
To look through a man's eyes--and to be seen as attractive--opened MY eyes. How very deeply I had internalized my sense of UNattractiveness based solely on body image...of course, I had gotten all this on an intellectual level--the head had gotten the message--but it had never really filtered down to the part that needed to hear it most.
I hold no illusions that this is going to completely set me free from my negative self-image....but to be able to see my body type through a man's eyes--and in seeing, be told that what I am physically is attractive, is sexy, is beautiful--is huge.
Thank you, Neil Welliver, wherever you are.
RM
For reference, here's a link to a picture of "Sky in Cora's Marsh": http://www.neilwelliver.com/ex2000/prints/sky.htm
And here's a link to an extensive gallery of Welliver's work spanning most of his career, including several of his nudes:
http://alexandregallery.com/artists/worksAvailable/Neil-Welliver
(It's really lovely. If you ever have some time, go peruse at your leisure. Just be aware that, although the hospital itself has no charge, it's not entirely free--you may have to pay for parking.)
As I was leaving the third floor elevator, I noticed, hanging on the wall directly opposite, a woodblock print called "Sky in Cora's Marsh" by Neil Welliver. I was very taken by it--I'm a sucker for landscape prints, especially woodblock (my art jones is genetic, I swear)--and so, when I got home last night, I looked Welliver up on the internet. Fortunately, there's quite a bit of information on him available, as well as many images to give one an idea of his style and oeuvre.
Early in his career (between about 1960 and 1970-71) he did quite a bit of figurative painting, mainly female nudes set in nature, usually in a pond or river. In the paintings I looked at online, one was lying on her belly in the water, looking up languidly at the viewer, one was sitting on the banks of a creek, another standing in a river up to her thighs, unconcernedly taking a shirt off over her head. All of them seemed youngish, but not so young that they looked like children--I would have guessed them to be in their 20s or early 30s.
As I said before, I'm a landscape whore, but I found myself captivated mainly by Welliver's nudes, and for the longest time, I couldn't figure out why....I wasn't attracted to them nor did I get an erotic charge from them: the figures didn't appear in suggestive poses, but were very tranquil and calm-looking. There was nothing particularly out of the ordinary about them. They weren't what would be physically considered 'beautiful' by modern standards: they were fleshy. They had bellies and thick thighs. They had large rear ends. Instead of a daintily trimmed or waxed pubic area, they all displayed a thick dark patch between their thighs. Their breasts weren't large, or perfectly formed, or perky--they were small, or large, or pointed, or one went one way and one the other. They weren't idealized in any way that I could obviously make out.
So why was I so engrossed by these paintings? Why did I study them so intently?
Finally, I got it:
....they looked like me.
They looked like real women, not the twisted images put forward by the media as the only acceptable standard of beauty. Here was a respected artist--a man--saying, this is beauty. You are beautiful.
None of these women looked in any way uncomfortable with their bodies. What the hell has happened in the last forty years to make us believe otherwise?
I know this is not a new revelation--many many far more well-informed and intelligent people than I have been kicking and screaming about exactly this objectification of women's bodies in the media. But the "OH!!" moment came when I went beyond the intellectual to the personal.
I had never quite believed J (or any of my lovers) when he told me he thought I was beautiful. I never trusted it. I had suspected that, when he started dating someone else, it was obviously because he wanted to be with someone skinnier, and therefore automatically more attractive, than I was. I had deeply internalized that I was somehow less-than beautiful because of my body. It was as if I had compartmentalized myself into two discrete and totally separate pieces: my head, which encompassed my face, my hair, my skin, my brain, my intellect and wit--in short, anything I could see as being in any way acceptable and attractive; and my body, this awkward, lumpy, stretch-marked, scarred, hairy, FAT piece of flesh that was only there as a vehicle for my head. I'd never really seen how clearly that demarcation between the two parts of myself had been.
But.
What if--?
What if, when those men looked at me naked, they saw what I had seen when I looked at the women in Neil Welliver's paintings? --And, more to the point, really DID think I was beautiful?
To look through a man's eyes--and to be seen as attractive--opened MY eyes. How very deeply I had internalized my sense of UNattractiveness based solely on body image...of course, I had gotten all this on an intellectual level--the head had gotten the message--but it had never really filtered down to the part that needed to hear it most.
I hold no illusions that this is going to completely set me free from my negative self-image....but to be able to see my body type through a man's eyes--and in seeing, be told that what I am physically is attractive, is sexy, is beautiful--is huge.
Thank you, Neil Welliver, wherever you are.
RM
For reference, here's a link to a picture of "Sky in Cora's Marsh": http://www.neilwelliver.com/ex2000/prints/sky.htm
And here's a link to an extensive gallery of Welliver's work spanning most of his career, including several of his nudes:
http://alexandregallery.com/artists/worksAvailable/Neil-Welliver
Monday, January 23, 2012
The Forest For the Trees
I had the experience of giving my first recital this past week (I know, I know....it only took HOW long?). It was an education in many ways: I learned the hard way how much WORK it takes to put on a concert (I've produced a concert before but always as a collaborator, not as a principal) and how much energy and stamina it takes to sing an hours' worth of music.
By all accounts it was a smashing success, save one: my own.
I've never had such an experience where my perception of what had occurred was SO different, so diametrically opposed to what others related to me, even as a performer; I could always say "well, THAT piece didn't go so well, but THAT one was all right, yeah?" This time, however, I felt relentlessly negative about my efforts--I remember thinking that my throat was dry despite all the liquids I'd been drinking; I was nervous, which meant my breath support went out the window, requiring me to breathe in places I'd never meant to; my voice felt thick, wooden, not at all flexible or reliable (oh yeah, did I mention that because of the stress of doing a solo recital, I'd managed to get sick the week before and was singing on a cold?), and so I felt I oversang to compensate. You name it, I thought it--and the Inner Critic was relentless and vicious, critiquing the thinness of tone, the poor phrasing, the word flubs, the pitch issues in the Poulenc piece and the fact that I'd let the accompanists' tempo change from rehearsal to recital throw me off in it....all through the concert. By the end, all I wanted was to crawl under a rock (preferably with a cocktail or two) and never call myself a 'professional' again.
My friends and colleagues, on the other hand, were generous and unanimous in their praise. And I couldn't believe a word of it.
I spent a lot of time the next day thinking about that. How could my experience differ so profoundly from what the audience had experienced? I didn't want to think my friends were merely blowing smoke up my posterior when they praised me. Why couldn't I believe them? What was wrong with ME that I couldn't accept or trust the praise, and that I was so damn hard on myself that I couldn't find a single thing to praise for myself? Had all the internal work I'd done on my self-esteem gone for naught, blown out the window by a few flubbed words and missed entrances? Where did that self-loathing come from?
It took a conversation with a friend a few days later to help me realize what I had missed. I confessed to her my feelings about the concert and my bewilderment at my reaction compared to others'. She said to me,
"It's because you were in hyper-critical musician mode--you were looking at it from the standpoint of 'I'm not operating at 100% vocally, and can't sing as well as I know I could, so it's not gonna be any good!'
"--but what you didn't hear was that, whatever you felt you my have lacked vocally, you more than made up for in terms of connecting with the spirituality of the poetry and communicating that beauty to your audience."
I was taken aback. I hadn't considered this at all, having been so intensely focused on the technical aspects of the performance. But she was right--and that was the missing piece of the puzzle, the reason my audience had responded so enthusiastically and generously....it wasn't about technical perfection, and never had been. I think that for a lot of us singers, we do focus so intensely on the technical that we forget to connect with the emotional depths of what we're singing about. We're taught to get the rhythms and the pitches, but not about HOW to get the rhythms and the pitches so that our audience understands them too. We forget that it's as much about the words as the music, and that it's more important to connect than to impress.
The whole reason we sing is not to show off our proficiency, but to communicate--to share uniquely human, and universal, emotions in a way no other art form can quite match.
I am so grateful for my friends....for their support but also for their insight and help in allowing me the grace to see and accept what really happened last Wednesday night, and that I always have more to learn about what it means to be a singer.
I was so busy rearranging twigs on the forest floor that I forgot to look up and see the light coming through the branches.
RM
Tuesday, December 27, 2011
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
Tuesday, November 22, 2011
'Tis the season....
....when the To-Do list grows longer as the Ta-Da! list grows shorter....
*sigh*
RM
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)