Thursday I made the plunge.
I packed up the car and my daughter and we have moved to New Orleans.
All the details just fell into place. Fated. Destiny. The Hand of God.
Don't ask me all those questions you rule-lovers have dancing on your tongue like pop rocks.
Don't ask for any explanation. My reasons are my own, my reality is not yours, although you are welcome to join me!
The ones that know me best, and love me most truly understand, and feel the rightness of this in their bones.
Too long have I incubated
Too long have I nested and preened
Too long have I waited
Time to fly
Showing posts with label dreams. Show all posts
Showing posts with label dreams. Show all posts
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
Wednesday, March 19, 2008
What do I want?
I am faced with that dreaded of all days, that annual unholy-of-unholies that has me feeling trapped, sick, scared, and depressed, and forces me to contemplate the true meaning of life and sacrifice:
Yes, my birthday is nigh.
I will be twentysmufflmfnmph. A goodly number, close enough to thirty to be taken seriously, far enough from it to be taken at all. Not that I view thirty in and of itself as an ancient age, I just have to think of everything in terms of my marketability. And an aging thirty-something singer/actress/go-go dancer is far less sellable than a fresh twenty-something, unfortunately. If I already had anything of note to my credits, age would be far less important. But alas, alack, anon, I have none.
Thus, the annual celebration of the unlikely completion of yet another year in my crazy life has me, as usual, contemplating the past, analyzing the present, and agonizing about the future. Have I done everything I SHOULD have? Am I doing every thing I CAN? Will I get to everything I WANT to do?
And then, that pesky question that haunts us all pops up to display its ugly head like a plastic gopher at Chuckee Cheese's, mocking me with my inability to bonk it soundly with my padded club: What DO I want?
The truth is, I don't want what I seem to be offered in terms of musical opportunities: church gigs and chorister opportunities abound. Too bad I abhor choral music in all its secular and sacred forms. The occasional small/medium jazz gig is making an ever more regular appearance in my booking schedule, and I enjoy those shows, especially the paycheck that accompanies them, which is typically higher than the average Church gig compensation.
So I'll tell you what I want, what I really really want...
Whoops. Didn't mean to slip into an ode to the Spice Hos...
I miss rehearsal. I miss 4 grueling hours in character shoes getting blisters and bashing the director in the wings. I miss the vulnerable feeling of stepping onto an empty stage, gazing into the dark theater, unable to see the eyes that are loving you, hating you, judging you, cheering you on. I miss that floating surreal feeling after the curtain has fallen and you are amazed that you are already on the other side of opening night. I miss the moments that have directors pulling their hair out. I miss being dead tired after a long rehearsal and still finding the mental energy to hear and integrate production notes the night before a show goes up. I miss the theater and all its ugly beautiful glory.
Yes, my birthday is nigh.
I will be twentysmufflmfnmph. A goodly number, close enough to thirty to be taken seriously, far enough from it to be taken at all. Not that I view thirty in and of itself as an ancient age, I just have to think of everything in terms of my marketability. And an aging thirty-something singer/actress/go-go dancer is far less sellable than a fresh twenty-something, unfortunately. If I already had anything of note to my credits, age would be far less important. But alas, alack, anon, I have none.
Thus, the annual celebration of the unlikely completion of yet another year in my crazy life has me, as usual, contemplating the past, analyzing the present, and agonizing about the future. Have I done everything I SHOULD have? Am I doing every thing I CAN? Will I get to everything I WANT to do?
And then, that pesky question that haunts us all pops up to display its ugly head like a plastic gopher at Chuckee Cheese's, mocking me with my inability to bonk it soundly with my padded club: What DO I want?
The truth is, I don't want what I seem to be offered in terms of musical opportunities: church gigs and chorister opportunities abound. Too bad I abhor choral music in all its secular and sacred forms. The occasional small/medium jazz gig is making an ever more regular appearance in my booking schedule, and I enjoy those shows, especially the paycheck that accompanies them, which is typically higher than the average Church gig compensation.
So I'll tell you what I want, what I really really want...
Whoops. Didn't mean to slip into an ode to the Spice Hos...
I miss rehearsal. I miss 4 grueling hours in character shoes getting blisters and bashing the director in the wings. I miss the vulnerable feeling of stepping onto an empty stage, gazing into the dark theater, unable to see the eyes that are loving you, hating you, judging you, cheering you on. I miss that floating surreal feeling after the curtain has fallen and you are amazed that you are already on the other side of opening night. I miss the moments that have directors pulling their hair out. I miss being dead tired after a long rehearsal and still finding the mental energy to hear and integrate production notes the night before a show goes up. I miss the theater and all its ugly beautiful glory.
Thursday, February 21, 2008
the Glory of Orff
Just a quick note about the surrealistic evening I had last night:
After the Mermaid Gig, I had rehearsal at Jones Hall with the Houston Symphony Chorus under Maestro Claus Peter Flor.
We rehearsed Carmina Burana by Carl Orff.
Granted I was VERY tired and more than a little over medicated, but the sheer magnitude of sound, the incredible musicianship of the orchestra, the angelic sound of the Houston Children's Chorus, the contagious excitement of the Maestro, and the magnificent voices of the two soloists, Ilana Davidson, soprano and Hugh Russell, baritone, were enough to bring me to tears. I am at peace in the concert hall. I am home on that stage. I had the private honor of being early enough to rehearsal that I sat alone on stage and merely basked in the quiet magnitude of the hall. I then had the pleasure of witnessing the maestro prepare his score for rehearsal, again, just the two of us were in the room (there may have been an ambitious clarinettist or two but it FELT like we were alone!) I was breathless, speechless, and transported to my happy place; a European stage, a small regional opera company, my daughter in the wings, reading her textbooks while I rehearse this weekend's production. It makes me sad to think that this is a dream I will likely never realize. Che sera...
Tonight, we rehearse Chichester Psalms, by Bernstein. Tomorrow, I reveal to the world (or at least my 20-odd readers) the poor behavior of the snotty symphony artists. UGH!
Tickets for this extraordinary concert here.
After the Mermaid Gig, I had rehearsal at Jones Hall with the Houston Symphony Chorus under Maestro Claus Peter Flor.
We rehearsed Carmina Burana by Carl Orff.
Granted I was VERY tired and more than a little over medicated, but the sheer magnitude of sound, the incredible musicianship of the orchestra, the angelic sound of the Houston Children's Chorus, the contagious excitement of the Maestro, and the magnificent voices of the two soloists, Ilana Davidson, soprano and Hugh Russell, baritone, were enough to bring me to tears. I am at peace in the concert hall. I am home on that stage. I had the private honor of being early enough to rehearsal that I sat alone on stage and merely basked in the quiet magnitude of the hall. I then had the pleasure of witnessing the maestro prepare his score for rehearsal, again, just the two of us were in the room (there may have been an ambitious clarinettist or two but it FELT like we were alone!) I was breathless, speechless, and transported to my happy place; a European stage, a small regional opera company, my daughter in the wings, reading her textbooks while I rehearse this weekend's production. It makes me sad to think that this is a dream I will likely never realize. Che sera...
Tonight, we rehearse Chichester Psalms, by Bernstein. Tomorrow, I reveal to the world (or at least my 20-odd readers) the poor behavior of the snotty symphony artists. UGH!
Tickets for this extraordinary concert here.
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