Please save us from directors who are bound and determined to transfer their hatred of opera to audiences....
http://uk.youtube.com/watch?v=LCFNcEFZn38
....and BTW, THESE guys would like to know when they can schedule an audition.....
http://tvmedia.ign.com/tv/image/article/748/748989/saturday-night-live-season-1-20061204000845066.jpg
In the immortal words of one of my patroness saints, Sister Anna Russell..."I'm NOT making this UP, you know!!"
Sheesh.
RM.
Thursday, April 17, 2008
Thursday, March 20, 2008
And did she mention that she hates writing bios?
In my last post, I told you about the bio I sent off for a concert I sang with the Sanford Dole Ensemble mid-February, and how I'd written similar bios for the last several gigs I've done, where the last line-invariably cut by discerning (if humorless) proofreaders-is "....she hates writing bios."
I got my hands on a copy of the program at the concert--and smack my behind and call me your wee bitty bitch, if the mutant bio, in its entirety, hadn't made it in! Turns out the guy in charge of the programs for this particular concert (who was, by the way, also one of the members of the ensemble--good on ya, Jim!) has a sense of humor after all. He even left in the line right before the end where, after listing my dubious accomplishments, I said: "When pressed, however, she prefers walking her dog on the beach to singing." God, I love it when stuff like that happens. Restores my faith in humanity, it does.
I enjoyed the heck out of singing with a small chamber group again, especially after years of doing opera chorus, and in spite of the fact that, in addition to myself, my newly-minted ex* was a part of this hootenanny as well. OK, well, that last part, actually, was excruciating, but it didn't alloy the pleasure of singing with a small, gifted, dedicated group of singers nearly as much as I thought it might.
A couple of weeks ago, on a Tuesday morning, I got a frantic phone call out of the blue from a friend/colleague who's recently taken over as temporary general manager of a well-respected organization (oh, OK, if you must know--American Bach Soloists). Another colleague had taken ill and couldn't do the upcoming series of choral concerts that week--could I step in? Well, sure, I guess, I mean, maybe I could...and the next thing I knew, I was cramming the music for the two-hour 'Vocal Visionaries' concert, which included Strauss' 'Der Abend', Victoria's Requiem mass, and a couple of pieces each by Eric Whitacre and Sven-David Sandsstrom.
I got the music Tuesday afternoon--and the dress rehearsal was Wednesday night. No pressure, though....
...although there WERE more moments than I care to recall where I literally had to get up and walk away from the music so I could bang my head against the nearest wall to stop my eyeballs from vibrating...."too...much...information! Can't-process-ANY-MORE-NOTES!"
(Six straight hours of mostly twentieth-century choral writing will do that for a girl.)
.....and then I'd remember the paycheck, and invariably wander back from whichever wall I was banging my head against, to start in again on the music.
Since I was almost literally hired last-minute, there wasn't time for fun and games with the proofreaders, alas. I DID, however, have a wonderful time, once I felt I had the music (somewhat) under my belt; the group has had many of the same singers working together for several concerts (many of whom I'VE sung with here and there), so there was a sense of their being like a loosely-organized family, and they all welcomed me with such gratitude and warmth, I thought, "My God! I remember this--this singing with people who are there because they WANT to sing, who are uniformly good at what they do, who genuinely enjoy working together, when it's a collaboration and not a crab-bucket--YES! I remember what this feels like!"
A week later, I did one aria at my voice teacher's studio recital. It was all I could do to drag myself to the hall and sing. I love my teacher--but I hated every moment of it.
What the hell?
I've been dealing with ambivalence over singing for years--essentially, ever since I started doing it as a 'career'--mainly, over what I felt I SHOULD be doing, as opposed to what I COULD be doing that would satisfy me and make me happy. What the events of the last few months have helped clarify, though, is that all these years I was fighting my truth. I was fed the line everyone with a voice hears at some time or another; "You have a gift, you have to use it." For years I believed that meant I was obligated to do whatever it took--go through every audition, take every gig offered no matter how poorly-paid or miserable the working conditions--because I had a GIFT, and I was obligated to USE it, by God, because how many people would KILL to have the voice and the opportunities I had, and...um....because there are children starving in China, dammit! Yeah...that's it...
It became harder and harder to put aside everything else in my life to do all that it took to market myself, to work on music, to put myself out there again and again and deal with rejection on a regular basis (as all performers do!)...and I found that, increasingly, I avoided doing it at all. Case in point; apart from the recital and the two concerts, I haven't even LOOKED at a score since the end of the opera season last December. I haven't contacted any companies. Haven't put together the demo I keep threatening to do. The website hasn't happened, either. Haven't sent a single resume or headshot. Haven't sung any arias (although I DID wail on a Nina Simone song last week...).
Instead...during this off-season, among other things;
I've written all or part of six poems. I've done dozens of loads of laundry. I've jotted notes for a libretto I'm thinking about writing. I looked into the possibility of becoming an MFT (oh the irony!). I've been improving my cooking skills and moving my diet in a direction more inclined toward whole foods and away from processed foods (and have lost five pounds in the process!). I've danced like a squirrel in a blender in the middle of my kitchen. I've read four books. I've caught up with most of my friends (some of whom I haven't seen in over a year). I've walked my doggie on the beach. And in the woods. And on the hill. I've gotten much of the work done on getting my back yard turned into a garden (oo! ooo! Organic veggies for meeeeee! Yippee!). I went to L.A. for a few days and surfeited myself on fine art (the Getty, Norton Simon, and LACMA--all in three days!). I've tracked down, tagged, and bagged the rest of the furniture for my bedroom. I've gotten a couple of massages. I picked up a few apples to see if I could still juggle. (Yes.) I even cleaned my house. (Once.)
In other words, I've been having a blast--and I haven't missed singing a bit. Which tells me there is a serious disconnect between what I am doing and what I want to be doing with my life. I don't plan on walking away from music entirely; as the two concerts showed me, there are musical experiences I do enjoy and need to do more of. It's just that...well...it seems that opera chorus isn't the be-all, end-all, Holy Grail joyride I'd thought it was...maybe getting knocked off tenure-track was the best thing that could have happened to me after all--what if I'd come to this conclusion about my life AFTER I'd made tenure? (Yeah, OK, I could still really have used the medical benefits, but....just sayin'.)
SO. The next couple of weeks, until I go back to opera chorus, are going to be about having as much non-operatic fun as I can scare up, and figuring out the answer to my own philosophical kick-in-the-ass question (which I also present to you, as a manifesto):
Your life is your greatest work of art. What do you want it to look like?
RM
*Yep; we broke up at the beginning of February. I won't go into gory details in this post, save to tell you that we were able to work through it all like adults, that I totally understood his reasons for needing to go it alone, and we still love and respect each other enormously (how fucked-up is it that we had such a good thing going that even our BREAK-UP was healthy??), and....well....stay tuned for further developments.
I got my hands on a copy of the program at the concert--and smack my behind and call me your wee bitty bitch, if the mutant bio, in its entirety, hadn't made it in! Turns out the guy in charge of the programs for this particular concert (who was, by the way, also one of the members of the ensemble--good on ya, Jim!) has a sense of humor after all. He even left in the line right before the end where, after listing my dubious accomplishments, I said: "When pressed, however, she prefers walking her dog on the beach to singing." God, I love it when stuff like that happens. Restores my faith in humanity, it does.
I enjoyed the heck out of singing with a small chamber group again, especially after years of doing opera chorus, and in spite of the fact that, in addition to myself, my newly-minted ex* was a part of this hootenanny as well. OK, well, that last part, actually, was excruciating, but it didn't alloy the pleasure of singing with a small, gifted, dedicated group of singers nearly as much as I thought it might.
A couple of weeks ago, on a Tuesday morning, I got a frantic phone call out of the blue from a friend/colleague who's recently taken over as temporary general manager of a well-respected organization (oh, OK, if you must know--American Bach Soloists). Another colleague had taken ill and couldn't do the upcoming series of choral concerts that week--could I step in? Well, sure, I guess, I mean, maybe I could...and the next thing I knew, I was cramming the music for the two-hour 'Vocal Visionaries' concert, which included Strauss' 'Der Abend', Victoria's Requiem mass, and a couple of pieces each by Eric Whitacre and Sven-David Sandsstrom.
I got the music Tuesday afternoon--and the dress rehearsal was Wednesday night. No pressure, though....
...although there WERE more moments than I care to recall where I literally had to get up and walk away from the music so I could bang my head against the nearest wall to stop my eyeballs from vibrating...."too...much...information! Can't-process-ANY-MORE-NOTES!"
(Six straight hours of mostly twentieth-century choral writing will do that for a girl.)
.....and then I'd remember the paycheck, and invariably wander back from whichever wall I was banging my head against, to start in again on the music.
Since I was almost literally hired last-minute, there wasn't time for fun and games with the proofreaders, alas. I DID, however, have a wonderful time, once I felt I had the music (somewhat) under my belt; the group has had many of the same singers working together for several concerts (many of whom I'VE sung with here and there), so there was a sense of their being like a loosely-organized family, and they all welcomed me with such gratitude and warmth, I thought, "My God! I remember this--this singing with people who are there because they WANT to sing, who are uniformly good at what they do, who genuinely enjoy working together, when it's a collaboration and not a crab-bucket--YES! I remember what this feels like!"
A week later, I did one aria at my voice teacher's studio recital. It was all I could do to drag myself to the hall and sing. I love my teacher--but I hated every moment of it.
What the hell?
I've been dealing with ambivalence over singing for years--essentially, ever since I started doing it as a 'career'--mainly, over what I felt I SHOULD be doing, as opposed to what I COULD be doing that would satisfy me and make me happy. What the events of the last few months have helped clarify, though, is that all these years I was fighting my truth. I was fed the line everyone with a voice hears at some time or another; "You have a gift, you have to use it." For years I believed that meant I was obligated to do whatever it took--go through every audition, take every gig offered no matter how poorly-paid or miserable the working conditions--because I had a GIFT, and I was obligated to USE it, by God, because how many people would KILL to have the voice and the opportunities I had, and...um....because there are children starving in China, dammit! Yeah...that's it...
It became harder and harder to put aside everything else in my life to do all that it took to market myself, to work on music, to put myself out there again and again and deal with rejection on a regular basis (as all performers do!)...and I found that, increasingly, I avoided doing it at all. Case in point; apart from the recital and the two concerts, I haven't even LOOKED at a score since the end of the opera season last December. I haven't contacted any companies. Haven't put together the demo I keep threatening to do. The website hasn't happened, either. Haven't sent a single resume or headshot. Haven't sung any arias (although I DID wail on a Nina Simone song last week...).
Instead...during this off-season, among other things;
I've written all or part of six poems. I've done dozens of loads of laundry. I've jotted notes for a libretto I'm thinking about writing. I looked into the possibility of becoming an MFT (oh the irony!). I've been improving my cooking skills and moving my diet in a direction more inclined toward whole foods and away from processed foods (and have lost five pounds in the process!). I've danced like a squirrel in a blender in the middle of my kitchen. I've read four books. I've caught up with most of my friends (some of whom I haven't seen in over a year). I've walked my doggie on the beach. And in the woods. And on the hill. I've gotten much of the work done on getting my back yard turned into a garden (oo! ooo! Organic veggies for meeeeee! Yippee!). I went to L.A. for a few days and surfeited myself on fine art (the Getty, Norton Simon, and LACMA--all in three days!). I've tracked down, tagged, and bagged the rest of the furniture for my bedroom. I've gotten a couple of massages. I picked up a few apples to see if I could still juggle. (Yes.) I even cleaned my house. (Once.)
In other words, I've been having a blast--and I haven't missed singing a bit. Which tells me there is a serious disconnect between what I am doing and what I want to be doing with my life. I don't plan on walking away from music entirely; as the two concerts showed me, there are musical experiences I do enjoy and need to do more of. It's just that...well...it seems that opera chorus isn't the be-all, end-all, Holy Grail joyride I'd thought it was...maybe getting knocked off tenure-track was the best thing that could have happened to me after all--what if I'd come to this conclusion about my life AFTER I'd made tenure? (Yeah, OK, I could still really have used the medical benefits, but....just sayin'.)
SO. The next couple of weeks, until I go back to opera chorus, are going to be about having as much non-operatic fun as I can scare up, and figuring out the answer to my own philosophical kick-in-the-ass question (which I also present to you, as a manifesto):
Your life is your greatest work of art. What do you want it to look like?
RM
*Yep; we broke up at the beginning of February. I won't go into gory details in this post, save to tell you that we were able to work through it all like adults, that I totally understood his reasons for needing to go it alone, and we still love and respect each other enormously (how fucked-up is it that we had such a good thing going that even our BREAK-UP was healthy??), and....well....stay tuned for further developments.
Monday, January 28, 2008
Bio? I don't need no stinkin' bio!
I just got asked to send ANOTHER bio off for an upcoming gig, for their program. I hate writing bios. I wasn't in the mood to do it. But, I did it anyway, and here's how it turned out;
XXXXXXXX, mezzo-soprano, managed to escape her hardscrabble hometown of XXXXXXXX in plenty of time (fifteen years early, as a matter of fact) to make her mainstage debut in the miniscule but important role (at least, that's what they told HER) of "Third Orphan" in San Francisco Opera's most recent production of "Der Rosenkavalier". She has also performed as a soloist many times with the San Francisco Symphony Chorus, Cantabile, City Concert Opera Orchestra, Redwood Symphony, and Peninsula Cantare. Among her operatic roles are Augusta Tabor (Ballad of Baby Doe), Disinganno (Il Trionfo Del Tempo E Del Disinganno), Bradamante (Alcina), Fricka and Flosshilde (Rheingold), and Larina and Filipyevna (Eugene Onegin). When pressed, however, she really would prefer walking her dog on the beach to singing. She hates writing bios.
*****
Do you think maybe it's time I went into accounting??
RM
XXXXXXXX, mezzo-soprano, managed to escape her hardscrabble hometown of XXXXXXXX in plenty of time (fifteen years early, as a matter of fact) to make her mainstage debut in the miniscule but important role (at least, that's what they told HER) of "Third Orphan" in San Francisco Opera's most recent production of "Der Rosenkavalier". She has also performed as a soloist many times with the San Francisco Symphony Chorus, Cantabile, City Concert Opera Orchestra, Redwood Symphony, and Peninsula Cantare. Among her operatic roles are Augusta Tabor (Ballad of Baby Doe), Disinganno (Il Trionfo Del Tempo E Del Disinganno), Bradamante (Alcina), Fricka and Flosshilde (Rheingold), and Larina and Filipyevna (Eugene Onegin). When pressed, however, she really would prefer walking her dog on the beach to singing. She hates writing bios.
*****
Do you think maybe it's time I went into accounting??
RM
Wednesday, January 23, 2008
Calgon...etc. etc.
So, to fill you in on the events of the past week....
The emails and phone calls began to fly late Saturday, like they do every year about this time, like popcorn--one or two, then a flurry; the extra choristers checking in with each other as the offer letters land in peoples' mailboxes. What did you get? I got two. Kathy, Mark, Michael, and Nicole got three. Paul, Keith, and Delia got two each--yeah, the same ones: Boccanegra and Boris (Gudonov). Corey and Tiffany got no-thank-you letters--can you believe it? I Know--and such good voices, too! You'd think... Did Eileen and Chris get hired back? Yup--and Kevin, too. --But I thought he wasn't auditioning! Yeah, me too, but I guess he did. Did Rachelle finally decide whether to come back or not? Yup--she needs the medical benefits, since her husband doesn't have insurance. Who got Boheme? I dunno--they only ever hire one extra from each section for that anyway--so who got it?--and so on.
I'd already found out--the day before, the chorus administrator had sent me an advance email (it's a courtesy to the regulars on tenure-track or who are about to be hired tenure-track), telling me what my status was.
The GOOD news is, I'm hired back full-time.
The BAD news is, I'm 'leave replacement' only.
What this means is, I'm no longer on track for tenure, with all the medical benefits, etc., that ascribe therefrom--I'm merely filling in for a tenured colleague, with no guarantee of full-time work, or ANY work, for that matter, next year. It's not all bad--there's every chance I could get hired back on tenure-track next year, and at least he hired me full-time; it's not unheard-of for someone to be knocked back to extra chorus (only one or two shows) after being tenure-track. At least I'll have the income, if not the bennies.
I must admit, though, it knocked me back a bit, undermining my confidence as a singer--what? You mean I'm no longer THE ONE?--but once I sat in the corner and sucked my thumb a bit, so to speak, I realized it didn't have a whole lot to do with my talent overall (or the lack thereof!) and everything to do with the fact that I sang while sick--and was arrogant enough to think that that would be enough to maintain my position over those who were perfectly well. Silly me. So, let this be a lesson to you whippersnappers who will go through an audition because you think you HAVE to, no matter your condition--take it from Auntie RM; if you're not feeling well, DON'T SING. It doesn't matter what your history is with a company or a conductor--all they seem to care about is how you sound THAT DAY. It's the only way to ensure a level playing field, I guess--but it IS frustrating that a conductor who's known me, my voice, and my work ethic, for ten years now wouldn't take any of it into consideration when hiring long-term. 'sigh'... Oh well....
And yes, the very next day, my sweetie and I called a time-out in our relationship, so we could both get our poop in a group, so to speak. I don't believe that this is the end; both of us have stated that we want to have the other in our lives, and I believe that we fit too well together for it to end so precipitously (what? Denial? Why, of COURSE I know what that is--it's a river in Egypt, right, mister Twain?). We're supposed to check back in with each other in a couple of weeks; I'll keep you posted.
Surprisingly, I'm not destroyed by the events of the past few days (cue: Elton John, "I'm Still Standing"--no, on second thought, don't. That song annoys the piss out of me.)--I must be the cosmic Weeble--I wobble but don't fall down (ah, those toys from my childhood--who knew they'd have such a strong psychological impact?).
So, kids, keep your chin up. If I can do it, anybody can (OK, OK, with a good therapist and great friends in my corner--but STILL).....
xo
RM
The emails and phone calls began to fly late Saturday, like they do every year about this time, like popcorn--one or two, then a flurry; the extra choristers checking in with each other as the offer letters land in peoples' mailboxes. What did you get? I got two. Kathy, Mark, Michael, and Nicole got three. Paul, Keith, and Delia got two each--yeah, the same ones: Boccanegra and Boris (Gudonov). Corey and Tiffany got no-thank-you letters--can you believe it? I Know--and such good voices, too! You'd think... Did Eileen and Chris get hired back? Yup--and Kevin, too. --But I thought he wasn't auditioning! Yeah, me too, but I guess he did. Did Rachelle finally decide whether to come back or not? Yup--she needs the medical benefits, since her husband doesn't have insurance. Who got Boheme? I dunno--they only ever hire one extra from each section for that anyway--so who got it?--and so on.
I'd already found out--the day before, the chorus administrator had sent me an advance email (it's a courtesy to the regulars on tenure-track or who are about to be hired tenure-track), telling me what my status was.
The GOOD news is, I'm hired back full-time.
The BAD news is, I'm 'leave replacement' only.
What this means is, I'm no longer on track for tenure, with all the medical benefits, etc., that ascribe therefrom--I'm merely filling in for a tenured colleague, with no guarantee of full-time work, or ANY work, for that matter, next year. It's not all bad--there's every chance I could get hired back on tenure-track next year, and at least he hired me full-time; it's not unheard-of for someone to be knocked back to extra chorus (only one or two shows) after being tenure-track. At least I'll have the income, if not the bennies.
I must admit, though, it knocked me back a bit, undermining my confidence as a singer--what? You mean I'm no longer THE ONE?--but once I sat in the corner and sucked my thumb a bit, so to speak, I realized it didn't have a whole lot to do with my talent overall (or the lack thereof!) and everything to do with the fact that I sang while sick--and was arrogant enough to think that that would be enough to maintain my position over those who were perfectly well. Silly me. So, let this be a lesson to you whippersnappers who will go through an audition because you think you HAVE to, no matter your condition--take it from Auntie RM; if you're not feeling well, DON'T SING. It doesn't matter what your history is with a company or a conductor--all they seem to care about is how you sound THAT DAY. It's the only way to ensure a level playing field, I guess--but it IS frustrating that a conductor who's known me, my voice, and my work ethic, for ten years now wouldn't take any of it into consideration when hiring long-term. 'sigh'... Oh well....
And yes, the very next day, my sweetie and I called a time-out in our relationship, so we could both get our poop in a group, so to speak. I don't believe that this is the end; both of us have stated that we want to have the other in our lives, and I believe that we fit too well together for it to end so precipitously (what? Denial? Why, of COURSE I know what that is--it's a river in Egypt, right, mister Twain?). We're supposed to check back in with each other in a couple of weeks; I'll keep you posted.
Surprisingly, I'm not destroyed by the events of the past few days (cue: Elton John, "I'm Still Standing"--no, on second thought, don't. That song annoys the piss out of me.)--I must be the cosmic Weeble--I wobble but don't fall down (ah, those toys from my childhood--who knew they'd have such a strong psychological impact?).
So, kids, keep your chin up. If I can do it, anybody can (OK, OK, with a good therapist and great friends in my corner--but STILL).....
xo
RM
Wednesday, January 16, 2008
Thank you, Ethan Ponedel...
I don't mind telling you that I'm in a grunk* tonight. I'm at a bit of a crossroads, personally and professionally...my nascent relationship is foundering on that perverse little fulcrum known as bad timing (i.e., I'm ready to move forward, he isn't), and I'm on tenterhooks waiting to hear whether I'm hired back full-time (with all its attendant benefits) or will be bumped back to Extra chorus. Right now, it feels like everything is in limbo; will we work out our issues? Will I have a job? Is it time for me to move on, pursue the solo career more aggressively, go back to school, move to NYC, throw caution to the wind and go live the Boho life in Europe and make ceramic neti pots (OK, maybe not that last one)?
It's funny how odd memories can pop up when least expected. I was reminded of something that happened when I was in college. I had an obnoxious skater-punk type named Ethan Ponedel (funny how I can remember his name so clearly when half the time I forget my OWN name, eh?) in my poetry class. At the end of the semester, we each had to turn in a booklet containing all the poems we'd written for class, and in addition to the grade we received from the teacher, we were critiqued by, and got to critique in return, all our classmates. I remember none of my other classmates, none of their critiques (all of which, I'm sure, were very kind, very well-intentioned, and absolutely useless to me as a writer or as a person), except for his, because, at the time, it puzzled and annoyed me: instead of a written critique, he'd drawn a crude pastel of a swimmer in choppy waters with a red arrow pointing to it and a single sentence written below, without even the benefit of punctuation--
You can't go fast if you're afraid to wobble
--I dismissed it (and him) in disgust at the time: What a pretentious little jerk! I thought. Couldn't even be bothered to read my poetry, to give me an actual criticism I can USE? What! An! ASSHOLE!!!
But now I see that he HAD read my work, had gotten it--and me--in a way nobody else did, and had had the courage to tell me the truth, in a way I only now, twenty years later, can really appreciate...
You can't go fast if you're afraid to wobble
It's taken me all these years of living with the brakes on to see just how true his words are...so no matter what happens I'll just have to keep swimming, won't I....
RM
*Grunk=grumpy funk, i.e. cranky AND depressed
It's funny how odd memories can pop up when least expected. I was reminded of something that happened when I was in college. I had an obnoxious skater-punk type named Ethan Ponedel (funny how I can remember his name so clearly when half the time I forget my OWN name, eh?) in my poetry class. At the end of the semester, we each had to turn in a booklet containing all the poems we'd written for class, and in addition to the grade we received from the teacher, we were critiqued by, and got to critique in return, all our classmates. I remember none of my other classmates, none of their critiques (all of which, I'm sure, were very kind, very well-intentioned, and absolutely useless to me as a writer or as a person), except for his, because, at the time, it puzzled and annoyed me: instead of a written critique, he'd drawn a crude pastel of a swimmer in choppy waters with a red arrow pointing to it and a single sentence written below, without even the benefit of punctuation--
You can't go fast if you're afraid to wobble
--I dismissed it (and him) in disgust at the time: What a pretentious little jerk! I thought. Couldn't even be bothered to read my poetry, to give me an actual criticism I can USE? What! An! ASSHOLE!!!
But now I see that he HAD read my work, had gotten it--and me--in a way nobody else did, and had had the courage to tell me the truth, in a way I only now, twenty years later, can really appreciate...
You can't go fast if you're afraid to wobble
It's taken me all these years of living with the brakes on to see just how true his words are...so no matter what happens I'll just have to keep swimming, won't I....
RM
*Grunk=grumpy funk, i.e. cranky AND depressed
Thursday, December 27, 2007
Somebody say Amen.
This actually happened July 29--but in the spirit of catching up, as well as puking on your shoes with a heck of a good story, here 'tis, straight from the pages of my journal;
*****
I went back to sing at the church where I was the alto section leader for the first time since I left at Easter. I must say that I enjoyed my return to church--once i actually GOT there (more in a moment): I sat and soaked up the sense of peace and spirit that permeated the place like a warm bath, felt refreshed and fulfilled after.
I was feeling a bit worn out--it had been a rough night, with a pair of brutal Macbeth rehearsals and coming home to find my poor dog had been sick all over the dining room floor, so I gave myself the gift of a lie-in and a bit of extra driving time which, I figured, would put me at church about fifteen minutes early.
Boy, was I wrong. As I crested the hill of Divisadero at 14th, traffic suddenly stopped dead. Figuring there had been an accident, I turned around and went up Duboce, thinking I'd drop down Masonic--but found a roadblock manned by a policeman. He informed me that I had managed to arrive at the exact wrong time--the San Francisco Marathon was coming through, and the ONLY way to get to the north end of the city was at Divisadero (unless I wished to somehow make my way all the way up to 19th Avenue, which would have taken half an hour or more). So, I crept back to the line of cars on Divisadero and waited. And waited. And waited. It took me (I'm NOT exaggerating) FORTY-FIVE MINUTES to go the block-and-a-half it took to get across Haight street.
And then, things went from 'severely fucked up' to 'downright surreal'.
I'd gotten to the point where I was about to have a meltdown--how could they block off the ENTIRE FUCKING CITY for a godddamn race?? A LEISURE ACTIVITY??!?!!? I was going to be LATE for WORK so a bunch of pretentious yuppie adrenaline junkies could show off their legs???? This was unbelievable!!! OUTRAGEOUS! WHO do I complain to about this???--when I crept abreast of two DPT officers, posted to keep people from driving where they shouldn't (as if any of us could move?). I rolled down the window and spoke to the nearest, an African-American woman with short blond hair, asking her how long it might take to cross Haight. She replied that it all depended: the police officers were only letting cars through in increments, in gaps in the runners--in other words, it could be two minutes or ten hours.....
Near to tears, I pleaded with her; "But I'm late for work! I have to get to church!"
She suddenly lit up, all smiles, and beamed at me sympathetically:
"Oh, THAT's Okay, honey! GOD knows where you are!"
(-!?-)
She leaned in and said, "Come on, we can just praise Jesus right here in your car!"
"I don't think you understand--"
"What's your favorite hymn, honey? We can sing it together! Come on now!" --and right there in the street, with the other officer singing harmony, they broke into a song of praise, while I (and, I'm sure, many others) looked on in open-mouthed disbelief. Oh evil meter maid (I'm sure they were thinking), are you MOCKING us????
The kicker was, they were GOOD. Really. Effing. GOOD. They sang on pitch, in perfect harmony and rhythm. Part of me wanted to scream at them,
"Don't you two have anything better to do--like go eat some of your YOUNG, maybe?"
--and part of me wanted to send them on ahead, in the little go-carts, to church--they'd surely make it before I did...
Eventually, the line moved, and I waved goodbye to the San Francisco Marathon Tabernacle Youth-Eating Choir, and the race, and zipped up Divisadero to where the Swedenborgians waited for me--only half an hour late. Fortunately, I survived the lack of rehearsal just fine, and had a great story to tell the other section leaders to boot.
See? It all worked out.
RM
*****
I went back to sing at the church where I was the alto section leader for the first time since I left at Easter. I must say that I enjoyed my return to church--once i actually GOT there (more in a moment): I sat and soaked up the sense of peace and spirit that permeated the place like a warm bath, felt refreshed and fulfilled after.
I was feeling a bit worn out--it had been a rough night, with a pair of brutal Macbeth rehearsals and coming home to find my poor dog had been sick all over the dining room floor, so I gave myself the gift of a lie-in and a bit of extra driving time which, I figured, would put me at church about fifteen minutes early.
Boy, was I wrong. As I crested the hill of Divisadero at 14th, traffic suddenly stopped dead. Figuring there had been an accident, I turned around and went up Duboce, thinking I'd drop down Masonic--but found a roadblock manned by a policeman. He informed me that I had managed to arrive at the exact wrong time--the San Francisco Marathon was coming through, and the ONLY way to get to the north end of the city was at Divisadero (unless I wished to somehow make my way all the way up to 19th Avenue, which would have taken half an hour or more). So, I crept back to the line of cars on Divisadero and waited. And waited. And waited. It took me (I'm NOT exaggerating) FORTY-FIVE MINUTES to go the block-and-a-half it took to get across Haight street.
And then, things went from 'severely fucked up' to 'downright surreal'.
I'd gotten to the point where I was about to have a meltdown--how could they block off the ENTIRE FUCKING CITY for a godddamn race?? A LEISURE ACTIVITY??!?!!? I was going to be LATE for WORK so a bunch of pretentious yuppie adrenaline junkies could show off their legs???? This was unbelievable!!! OUTRAGEOUS! WHO do I complain to about this???--when I crept abreast of two DPT officers, posted to keep people from driving where they shouldn't (as if any of us could move?). I rolled down the window and spoke to the nearest, an African-American woman with short blond hair, asking her how long it might take to cross Haight. She replied that it all depended: the police officers were only letting cars through in increments, in gaps in the runners--in other words, it could be two minutes or ten hours.....
Near to tears, I pleaded with her; "But I'm late for work! I have to get to church!"
She suddenly lit up, all smiles, and beamed at me sympathetically:
"Oh, THAT's Okay, honey! GOD knows where you are!"
(-!?-)
She leaned in and said, "Come on, we can just praise Jesus right here in your car!"
"I don't think you understand--"
"What's your favorite hymn, honey? We can sing it together! Come on now!" --and right there in the street, with the other officer singing harmony, they broke into a song of praise, while I (and, I'm sure, many others) looked on in open-mouthed disbelief. Oh evil meter maid (I'm sure they were thinking), are you MOCKING us????
The kicker was, they were GOOD. Really. Effing. GOOD. They sang on pitch, in perfect harmony and rhythm. Part of me wanted to scream at them,
"Don't you two have anything better to do--like go eat some of your YOUNG, maybe?"
--and part of me wanted to send them on ahead, in the little go-carts, to church--they'd surely make it before I did...
Eventually, the line moved, and I waved goodbye to the San Francisco Marathon Tabernacle Youth-Eating Choir, and the race, and zipped up Divisadero to where the Swedenborgians waited for me--only half an hour late. Fortunately, I survived the lack of rehearsal just fine, and had a great story to tell the other section leaders to boot.
See? It all worked out.
RM
Another Tidbit--Magic Flappomattox Hell
In Appomattox, I told you a story about how I had to wear a pregnancy pad, with a full skirt, on a set that the crew affectionately called 'Deathtrap'--metal platforms laid across each other, with holes in between that opened straight down to the concrete one floor below (and the stage managers had the nerve to chirpily tell us "watch your step!")
Well, the pregnancy pad wasn't so bad, but the bra they gave me was filled with BIRDSEED to emulate the look of a pregnant woman ('cause, you know, I am not neccessarily gifted enough with the breasticles to pass on my own), and, ladies and gentlemen, that sucker was HEAVY. My poor boobs felt like they'd been squished flat by the end of each performance (and trust me when I say that I am old enough to not need any help with sagging and flattening, thankyouverymuch). Between that, nearly falling to my doom on-stage, and being dripped on by blood-soaked horse carcasses hanging from the ceiling ('cause, you know, that IS what the Civil War was all about....right?), among too many other REAL annoyances and indignities to list during staging (did you know Philip Glass actually was adding music up until the week of opening?? And that he actually changed some of the music AFTER opening night?!? Did you know that the director was added after the first one precipitously quit? With six months' time to learn the entire show--that hadn't even been composed in entirety yet? AND THAT HE'D NEVER WORKED IN OPERA, MUCH LESS WITH MORE THAN SIX OR EIGHT PEOPLE ONSTAGE, BEFORE???--OK, OK, I'll stop), I can tell you that NONE of us were sorry to see it go.
We had enough in the chorus to say Grace over, as my friend Kathy puts it, what with Magic Flute, Tannhauser, Madama Butterfly, Macbeth, La Rondine, Magic Flute for Families (think 'Magic Flute Lite'--in English. Go ahead, learn the same opera in two different languages simultaneously and NOT go insane. I dare you.), and Rake's Progress, all either up and running or about to open, at the same time. So, what with frayed nerves and tattered nubs of sanity, it was only natural that we would come up with things to amuse each other and make the time pass--sort of like soldiers do in the trenches, I'm thinking.....
My brother, after listening to my ranting about Crappomattox (Problemattox? SlapAMuskOx? CrappyButtox? AppleMaalox?), gave me an utterly brilliant idea for the final performance. I only wish I'd had the stones to pull it off, but alas, I am not tenured, and even if I was, this would still be the kind of stunt that would have security escorting me out of the house after collecting my I.D....which is why I share it with you, so that it may live on in cyberspace if not in infamy....
He said, "You should get the biggest frozen turkey you can find, and shove it up under your dress. Then, in the final scene, you oughta straddle one of the traps, make a few moaning and screaming noises, and let'er rip!"
I could just see it...
MIZ SCARLETT, MIZ SCARLETT, I DUNNO NUFFIN 'BOUT BIRTHIN' NO BABIES!!!!
BLAMMO!
And, as it hit the concrete, it would have been interesting to know what the exact sound between 'shatter' and 'splat' sounded like....
At the final performance, we DID have 'un peu' bit o'fun at the opera's expense...in the 'flight from Richmond' scene, I have to push a rickety baby carriage onstage. I got in line to pick up the carriage...to find one of the props guys had stuck a disembodied hand into it, fingers pointing straight up, looking like something out of 'Rosemary's Baby' or the final scene in 'Carrie'.
Of course, I went on with it.
We had a pickup football game in the dressing room with the pregnancy pad.
And, although no turkeys were harmed in the making of this opera, I DID have a sin, a la Tannhauser, in honor of the composer, scrawled across my chest in red;
MINIMALISM.
And many many cocktails were consumed after the final show.
Hallelujah, Amen.
Well, the pregnancy pad wasn't so bad, but the bra they gave me was filled with BIRDSEED to emulate the look of a pregnant woman ('cause, you know, I am not neccessarily gifted enough with the breasticles to pass on my own), and, ladies and gentlemen, that sucker was HEAVY. My poor boobs felt like they'd been squished flat by the end of each performance (and trust me when I say that I am old enough to not need any help with sagging and flattening, thankyouverymuch). Between that, nearly falling to my doom on-stage, and being dripped on by blood-soaked horse carcasses hanging from the ceiling ('cause, you know, that IS what the Civil War was all about....right?), among too many other REAL annoyances and indignities to list during staging (did you know Philip Glass actually was adding music up until the week of opening?? And that he actually changed some of the music AFTER opening night?!? Did you know that the director was added after the first one precipitously quit? With six months' time to learn the entire show--that hadn't even been composed in entirety yet? AND THAT HE'D NEVER WORKED IN OPERA, MUCH LESS WITH MORE THAN SIX OR EIGHT PEOPLE ONSTAGE, BEFORE???--OK, OK, I'll stop), I can tell you that NONE of us were sorry to see it go.
We had enough in the chorus to say Grace over, as my friend Kathy puts it, what with Magic Flute, Tannhauser, Madama Butterfly, Macbeth, La Rondine, Magic Flute for Families (think 'Magic Flute Lite'--in English. Go ahead, learn the same opera in two different languages simultaneously and NOT go insane. I dare you.), and Rake's Progress, all either up and running or about to open, at the same time. So, what with frayed nerves and tattered nubs of sanity, it was only natural that we would come up with things to amuse each other and make the time pass--sort of like soldiers do in the trenches, I'm thinking.....
My brother, after listening to my ranting about Crappomattox (Problemattox? SlapAMuskOx? CrappyButtox? AppleMaalox?), gave me an utterly brilliant idea for the final performance. I only wish I'd had the stones to pull it off, but alas, I am not tenured, and even if I was, this would still be the kind of stunt that would have security escorting me out of the house after collecting my I.D....which is why I share it with you, so that it may live on in cyberspace if not in infamy....
He said, "You should get the biggest frozen turkey you can find, and shove it up under your dress. Then, in the final scene, you oughta straddle one of the traps, make a few moaning and screaming noises, and let'er rip!"
I could just see it...
MIZ SCARLETT, MIZ SCARLETT, I DUNNO NUFFIN 'BOUT BIRTHIN' NO BABIES!!!!
BLAMMO!
And, as it hit the concrete, it would have been interesting to know what the exact sound between 'shatter' and 'splat' sounded like....
At the final performance, we DID have 'un peu' bit o'fun at the opera's expense...in the 'flight from Richmond' scene, I have to push a rickety baby carriage onstage. I got in line to pick up the carriage...to find one of the props guys had stuck a disembodied hand into it, fingers pointing straight up, looking like something out of 'Rosemary's Baby' or the final scene in 'Carrie'.
Of course, I went on with it.
We had a pickup football game in the dressing room with the pregnancy pad.
And, although no turkeys were harmed in the making of this opera, I DID have a sin, a la Tannhauser, in honor of the composer, scrawled across my chest in red;
MINIMALISM.
And many many cocktails were consumed after the final show.
Hallelujah, Amen.
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