learning the text

I am running the supertext for Orphee, since our normal operator -- our principal accompanist -- is down in the pit playing three keyboards. (Not simultaneously.) I always have a small hand in them: I track down perusal scripts, rent them, format them for our projector, and operate them during tech rehearsals (when our accompanist acts as the substitute orchestra). But it's only once a season or so that I get to run them for performance.

I love running supertext. I jokingly call the booth "my safe place," since I'm so far from the stage and action. If the orchestra has a problem, oh well! I'm up in my safe place. Titles are especially fun when I really like a show, since I'm forced to follow the score and I'm at liberty to bop around and mouth along. I could sing along too but I'd probably drive my stagehand crazy. The downside to running shows I love is that I never get to watch them in the theater, since I have my head buried in the score most of the time. [Running titles during shows I don't like is awful. You're stuck listening even if you'd rather be backstage eating cookies.]

Running the titles is a funny job. Unlike many companies, our supertitles are run by one person, not two. (Typically there is a supertitle operator, and a separate person to cue the operator). So I'm the person who's reading the score as well as the person who's pushing the button. (This is what I call the job. "Pushing the button.") In order to time a title just right, you have to take a certain leap of faith: You have to believe that the singer who's about to sing the line you're about to run is actually going to sing that line. At the right time. Because you have to press the button just before the entrance in order to hit it and not be late.

The other danger is trigger finger. It's so easy to push that button the minute somebody moves to the next phrase, even if the title isn't supposed to change! There's no going back once you've advanced the slide, so then you just have to sit there and squirm until the timing lines up again. The squirming sucks. There's often cursing involved.

I've loved running titles for Orphee. It's given me an opportunity to learn the libretto in a way I wouldn't have if I'd only sat and watched every night. I've gotten to mouth along with French for 7 full runs of the opera so far; nine in total, and that's if you don't include the orchestra readings. Running titles means I'm participating in real-time with the show, something I never do as librarian. It's particularly gratifying when you reach a funny title; I always have a moment when I think, "They're going to laugh!" and then they do.

I've had a particular feeling of investment for every show I've called, and in turn, those are the shows that I'm most fond of in retrospect: The Rape of Lucretia, Magic Flute, Albert Herring, Turn of the Screw. These, not by coincidence, are also the shows I'm likeliest to listen to recreationally. (The only exception to the rule is Nixon in China, which is my #1 opera for around the house).

I've managed to be moved by Orphee every night, despite my great distance from the stage and my inability to watch more than a snippet at a time. There's still so much to say on the subject. Every night, beginning with last Wednesday's final dress, I've found myself thinking how little I want the show to close, and how much I'll miss it when it's over.

un poete est plus qu'un homme

hi, blog. I haven't been around here much because we are hard at work on our production of Philip Glass's Orphee, an opera based on the 1949 Cocteau film of the same name. Our company has never done a Glass opera before, and this is only the fourth time the work has been staged since it was published in 1991, so it's an especially big deal.

I'm not sure what I want to tell you about this whole process. Orphee is pretty much the only thing I've thought of for three or four weeks. I'm fascinated. I came into it without much knowledge about Philip Glass, save what I learned in Music History IV. I hadn't liked a single thing I heard. But I was desperate to change my own mind, because Philip Glass is here in Portland. I wanted to get the most from the experience, which I couldn't do if I couldn't find something to connect with in the opera.

So I started listening to the music as I worked on my score. There is no commercial recording, so all I had was an old archive CD from a performance done several years ago. I listened and listened and listened. I pulled up the glass engine and began listening to other works. I pored over things written about him online. Bob came and taught a class about him to our young artists, and I tagged along.

Listen, I'm going to admit something to you. I'm a terrible audience for classical music. With rare exception, I like only what I'm familiar with, which mostly limits me to what I myself have played. I hate having music on as background sound -- primarily because I listen too hard and can't disengage from it -- so I have no way of becoming familiar with new music. I will be the first to admit that it's a ludicrous problem for someone who's a musician of sorts for a living. Hilariously, I'm particularly bad about opera. I have no previous experience with opera outside my time as librarian here, so my knowledge of opera extends only as far as the works we've done. I don't like listening to opera if I have never seen it visually, because it makes me feel ungrounded. (I like to console myself with the idea that Wagner felt the two should not be separated).

But let me deviate from this for a second to tell you two stories: one about oatmeal, and one about scotch. (Bear with me.) I never ate oatmeal as a kid. My mom doesn't like it, so we never had it in the house. In college I got this idea that people generally like oatmeal, so I tried to eat it, but I couldn't stand it. I'd try it, and dislike it, and give up for six months before trying again. I have no idea why I was so determined to like it, except that it's good for you and everybody likes it, and I couldn't think of a reason why I shouldn't as well. So I started eating it anyway, even though I didn't like it. I don't know how long that went on, but at some point, I realized I liked it. Now I eat it all the time.

In graduate school, I got into a conversation with a good friend about the kind of person I was. "You're the kind of girl who needs a pocket knife," he diagnosed. "I feel like the kind of girl who can throw back a glass of whiskey," I replied. "Except I don't like whiskey."
"We can change that," he said. After all, it's just an acquired taste. So whenever we went out (which was a lot: it was grad school, after all), he made me drink a "brown drink." And sure enough, in just a couple of weeks I was converted.

I say all of this to demonstrate how it was, then, that I taught myself to like Orphee. I didn't like it and didn't like it and didn't like it, and then, PRESTO. I liked it. The conversion happened sometime during the orchestra readings. It helped that our assistant conductor and I amused ourselves by singing along (very quietly). And it helps that it's in French, my [rusty] second language. Now I've come full circle: I love it. It's jazzy and fun, unusual, lovely.

Today the composer arrived. He came to the office to work in our rehearsal space for a few hours. By a stroke of luck I had just walked in when my boss went down to meet him, and when she saw how excited I was (I was wiggling) she invited me along. We shook hands. He remarked on the poster for our show, which he liked. In the music studio he was grateful for the space, and when my boss apologized that the piano had not been tuned (it was to be tuned later in the afternoon), he replied, "All I ask for is 1 through 88."

Tonight he'll attend rehearsal -- although it was mounted in Glimmerglass in 2007, he's never seen this production. I'm going to figure out how to ask him if we can high five.

what I have been doing instead of blogging

• reading pulitzer prize winning novels
  
• eating my roommate's homemade soup
  
• rubbing liniment on my horse's legs after she was in a car/trailer accident (everyone's fine)
  
• rearranging the living room
  
• re-rearranging the living room, and then squinting, and then moving the rug four inches, and then squinting some more
  
• declaring the living room rearrangement a success
  
• eat.sweat.blogging
  
• wearing galoshes, for lo, the rains are upon us
  
• preparing for nanowrimo, a process which so far has just amounted to thinking, "I should prepare for nanowrimo"
  
• walking quietly under the red lanterns at the art museum, alone, on a cool rainy evening
  
• knitting a hat for my halloween costume
  
• listening to and thinking obsessively about Philip Glass music
  

four years

may god bless my people: my uncle, my aunt, my mother, my good father. oh, remember them kindly in their time of trouble, and in the hour of their taking away.
-- james agee



four years ago today my stepdad, steve, died of glioblastoma multiforme, the most aggressive form of brain cancer. he was 40 years old. there's a lot I could tell you about the 9 months between diagnosis and death, but what I want you to know is this: he taught me how to catch a pop fly, how to parallel park, how to drive a stick shift. he bought me my first ten-speed, my first TV, my first car. he came to a zillion track meets and cross-country races. he taught me how to pitch. he sized up my boyfriends. he made me milkshakes in the summertime, and steak subs, and hot dogs. he let me win arm wrestling contests and tickled me till my stomach ached from laughing.

I was his stepdaughter, not his daughter, but he was always, always there for me. he attended every single recital I gave in college. my last graduate recital was scheduled at the end of february; he had emergency surgery february 15. from his hospital bed, he promised me he'd be there. "it's not important," I said, and it wasn't. but he shook his head emphatically. two weeks later, walking with a cane, he was there.

I am so thankful for every moment that I knew him, and I miss him.

milestones

on this day four years ago I left Spokane, my hair a wild, unbrushed wreck, wearing an old pair of grey shorts and a zip-up cardigan I like to call my "house coat." everything I owned was in my car, including my pet rabbit. I had been on the road for three days already, traveling through 11 states on my way to this one.

that road trip -- along with what brought me to it, where I came from, and where I ended up going -- continues to be one of the defining stories of my life. for years and years I had fantasized about one day packing it all up, everything I owned, and moving it all to someplace where nobody knew me and I could build a new life. I applied for my job at the opera almost on a whim, on a day when, killing time while listening to the end of "wait, wait, don't tell me!", I perused the music librarians' association website and discovered the listing. a guy I had been seeing (though not quite dating) was moving to portland as well and I had been discreetly searching for a reason to come along. I had been to the town once, my freshman year of college, and had sincerely loved it. and I wanted to get out of syracuse before the snows began.

the day I left -- september 27 -- I woke at dawn and was, for the first time in the 11 days since I had been awarded the job, terrified. I had packed up everything that would fit into my little coupe and sold the rest. all that remained in my tiny studio apartment was a couch and a couple of plants. I even gave my two fish, spongebob and patrick, to my neighbors. when I drove out of town I sobbed and sobbed, watching things pass the window for the final time. no more library within walking distance; no more tree-lined street in the upstate suburb; no more toxic lake, no more tiny sweet apartment, no more familiarity or people to keep me safe.

but the road! I love to drive. I had just under 3000 miles to go. on the first day I drove out of new york, through a slice of pennsylvania, across ohio and indiana and into illinois, where a high school friend, living in chicago, was putting me up for the night. the first day was mostly spent shaking off the weight of emotion for what I was leaving behind, and in embracing the sudden freedom of the open road. that night I slept on a couch in an apartment that overlooked navy pier.

the next morning I left early to drive through the sixty billion tolls on I-90 just outside chicago, and into wisconsin -- america's dairyland! -- and then into minnesota. I loved minnesota. I stopped at the mississippi river and stepped into the cold, drizzly day to read historical placards about lewis and clark. across the wisconsin/minnesota border, there were giant grey stormclouds on the horizon; red barns and silos dotted the landscape. it was the beginning of wind turbines. I stopped and visited the SPAM MUSEUM. the spam museum!

day two was south dakota. my mother was afraid I might never leave the state. I took my picture with a jackelope statue on the side of the road. I stopped at wall drug and bought myself cowboy boots. I burst into tears upon first seeing mt. rushmore. the sky was bigger than I had ever seen it.

I had a very zen attitude about the road. I didn't really care what I looked like or even if I was dressed very well for the weather. I ate when I passed something I had never heard of, stopped if something seemed interesting, and never had any idea where I'd sleep on any given night. my bike was strapped to the back of my car; everything I owned was inside. it was the freest I've ever felt in my life.

on day three I drove through montana. have you ever been to eastern montana? that place looks just like mars. the soil is red and there is literally nothing in sight. when I entered montana I had half a tank of gas. there reached a point, somewhere in eastern montana, when I felt certain that I would never find a gas station; my tank would dry up, I would have no cell reception, and I would be forced to bike down I-90. every exit had a sign that said simply "no services." I still have no idea where those people get gas. that night, because of a harrowing few hours spent in an auto shop after my alternator blew in missoula, I took a 90 minute nap in my car at a truck stop in the rockies, and then drove the mountain passes in pounding rain, drinking red bulls to stay awake. I didn't want to stop until I reached spokane, a 6-hour drive from portland. I reached it at 2 AM. when I got there I was so wired from the energy drinks I stayed up for hours watching SNL and staring at the ceiling, unable to sleep.

on the final day I drove down through chilly eastern washington, into pendleton. when I first reached oregon I was confused -- where were the pine trees? why was nothing green? I had no idea how different the two sides of the state were. I felt a little nervous; maybe I had misremembered it? then I hit the gorge, and spent the last hours of my drive with my mouth agape, breathless.

when I reached portland, I had $75 to my name.

I did not write at all during my trip, a truth which, for me, borders on tragedy. I did, however, keep a daily audio blog on livejournal, and I love to revisit those one-way conversations. they're a great window into my mental state in that cramped driver's seat.

9/27/05, midday
9/28 -- musings on minnesota
9/29 -- i love south dakota
9/30, montana before the crisis

every year when fall hits I stumble back into the feelings I had when I first arrived. I remember driving down sandy boulevard, lost, half-panicked, wondering what the hell I was doing in this place. over and over I talked myself away from the ledge, telling myself that I had done this all before, had leapt into the scary abyss and had come out OK in the end. in truth, though, I was happy almost from the beginning. even when I was living in the basement of total strangers, all my things still boxed, there was a certain coziness: in the evenings I would stop somewhere for dinner and then bring it to my little basement cave, where I would snuggle into bed and listen to an audiobook and fall asleep. there was a great deal of freedom -- albeit terrifying freedom -- in knowing no one and having no history. it was life as a completely clean slate. I have never once regretted it.

a happy ending.

This is Noah. Noah works at Departure, where seven and a half weeks ago, I left Nub.

Late last week, on realizing that my hedgehog still had not been returned, my friend Jennifer (our production stage manager at the opera) sent a disgruntled email to the management company who oversees The Nines Hotel, where Departure is located. She got a blanket reply, and then a second reply saying "someone will be responding to you within five days." Today she received an email from one of the managers at the hotel, saying that he had inquired into the matter with the restaurant's manager and with, it turns out, Noah.

I received the copy of your comments to Starwood, and can personally help and follow up on the situation.  I would like to apologize for the poor communication and follow through of our associates. 

Upon receiving your letter today, I discussed the matter with Ron Acierto, our Departure manager, as well as Noah  - the associate who you spoke with.

According to Noah, he personally took the stuffed animal – a small monkey?- to the post office, and sent it via regular mail in a small box.

Noah did not send it express mail, or certified, and does not have a tracking number for this shipment.  He believes that he may still have a copy of the receipt from the payment at the USPS office, but will be out of town for the remainder of the week and will attempt to locate it upon his return.

I will let you know what we discover later this week.  If you would like to discuss the situation further, I can be reached at the number listed in my email signature.

Regards,
David Marsh
Director of Operations - Food and Beverage

When I got this email, I realized that maybe instead of being lost somewhere in Departure, Nub was in fact lost in the mail. What if, I thought, the address on the box was wrong and there was no return address? I called the post office and created a report with the Lost Mail division, who took all the relevant addresses and agreed to call me in two business days with their findings.

I got home tonight and was busy cooking dinner when I poked into my bedroom for something, only to hear my phone buzzing. I answered, thinking it would be the post office. Instead, it was Noah.
"I'm standing at Portland Opera and I have Nub," he said. "But the office is closed and I can't get in to deliver him."

It turned out Nub had, in fact, been sitting at the post office for five weeks, having been improperly labeled and lacking a return address. Noah hadn't thought anything more about him since dropping him off five weeks ago. No one at Departure had followed up with him so he had no way of knowing that Nub had never arrived. Today his manager called him; he was spending a day at the coast. He DROVE BACK to take care of the situation: called up the post office, swung by the branch where Nub had been dropped off, and brought him to the correct address.

"I don't want to leave here without dropping this box off," he said. I told him that there was no one to open the door: the folks in Patron Services don't really know me, and probably wouldn't let him in anyway. Cristina was in yoga until six inside the building, but there was no way of reaching her for another half hour. I offered to meet him at the office. "I'm only two miles away," I said.
"How about I drop him at your house?" he offered. "Unless you think that's weird."

So that's what he did. I gave him my address and then sat out on the stoop to wait. I warned my neighbor, Andrew, that I might shed a tear when Nub was delivered. Less than ten minutes later, Noah was smiling and walking up the sidewalk with a parcel wrapped in paper and string, and an envelope. "It's a little outdated now," he said, "but that's OK."

The envelope and letter were both typed up on a typewriter. The envelope is addressed with my name, "AKA: Nub's Mumsy."

The contents of the letter:
Dear Miss Jessica,

I have most certainly missed you. It's been torture these weeks apart and I can't say I've ever been more bored. This lovely gentleman who was kind enough to rescue me from that awful safe in the basement of that glitzy hotel may be sweet and all but he certainly doesn't travel NEARLY enough for my tastes.
He made sure to pack me carefully into this cozy little box for the journey home and he wanted me to convey a little message for you:
'I can assure you that Nub has been exceedingly well-behaved and quite entertaining in the week he spent with me. And he was remarkably gracious what with having been locked up in the basement up until I was able to procure him from security. I certainly hope he hasn't left too gaping a hole in your I'm positive quite lovely family and home. All my best, Noah.'
I must reiterate, Noah was the soul of provision and care during my brief stay in his home. I'm sure he'd love a picture or post cad from us on one of our future adventures. I'll be sure to get his home address prior to my departure. I look forward to seeing you again upon your opening this parcel. Just be careful, I may be sleeping and you know how grumpy I can be.

Love, Nub

this week I've taken to running first thing in the morning, before I can talk myself out of it. in the mornings it's usually overcast even if the sky clears later in the day. my route takes me up the hill of our road, past houses in various states of upkeep or dilapidation. the neighborhood passes fleetingly from character to character; on the other side of 39th, there's a pocket where I think I could spend the rest of my life: quiet, tree-lined, the occasional basketball hoop set up on the side of the road, the houses all different from one another but lovingly tended. the kind of place you imagine you would have fond memories of if you'd grown up there as a child.

there's something delicious about exploring your neighborhood on foot, something I think we as a culture have largely lost. I have such fond childhood memories of walking hand in hand with my mother to church on sunday mornings. the sidewalks were pitted and cracked and as a young girl they presented such a fun game of hopping and tiptoeing and avoiding. trees' roots thrust through the concrete. dandelions grew in the cracks. I made a deal with myself when we moved to this place that I would take more walks, and commute more by foot. it's a hard habit to form: it's so much more time-consuming than driving, and time is the thing I am most often lacking. running helps.

this morning there were so many things to see: a woman walking in a red coat; an orange cat sitting on the railing of a porch; a blue door; several red doors; a man in black track pants walking his dog; a group of young children playing on the playground during some sort of morning recess; a hummingbird in search of food; an empty swingset.

for a moment which was fleeting, long since passed

Words, Wide Night: Carol Ann Duffy

Somewhere on the other side of this wide night
and the distance between us. I am thinking of you.
The room is turning slowly away from the moon.

This is pleasurable. Or shall I cross that out and say
it is sad? In one of the tenses I singing
an impossible song of desire that you cannot hear.

La lala la. See? I close my eyes and imagine
the dark hills I would have to cross
to reach you. For I am in love with you and this

is what it is like or what it is like in words.

miscellany

Things The Conductor Has Said About The Death Of Mimi In La Boheme During Orchestra Rehearsal
"Keep on with diminuendo, she's going to die in four bars."
"Coraggio, violins, she's not dead yet."

A Kodak Moment
A few weeks ago we passed a church whose sign read "Come meet Jesus here this Sunday."

A Normal Day in Nutrition, Lately
2 calcium chews
toast with jam
coffee
candy
cake
crackers
more coffee, now cold
half an avocado

Things I Have Thought Of In The Middle Of The Night Which Subsequently Have Kept Me Awake
I am probably never going to get Nub back.

to piggyback on my last, here is one of the most amazing displays of bareback riding ever. Stacy Westfall makes this entire run look remarkably easy -- but it is SO SO hard. getting your horse to perform these maneuvers in full tack is hard enough, and riding them is hard; doing them without saddle or bridle is basically a work of art.

musing on horseback

this weekend I taught myself to swing onto Cookie's bare back without help of a step. the maneuver is harder than I ever thought, a lesson I learned several months ago after declaring with bravado that it can't be that hard and then leaping pathetically three or four times, making a herculean but futile effort at swinging my lower half onto (somebody else's) horse. the problem is, horses are slippery, tall, and alive. the trick requires that you have enough spring to propel most of your body to horse-back height, and then enough arm strength to get yourself on the rest of the way. more importantly it requires either that someone hold your horse, or, in my case, that your horse is good-natured enough to stand still while you heave yourself on.

we've been riding bareback a lot more this past week or two. it's good practice for a secure seat -- and it's remarkably difficult, even for someone who's been riding for 12 or 13 years. kids are good at riding bareback. do you know that it's our higher consciousness that keeps us from naturally being able to swim? that's why babies can do it. our thinking gets in our way. it's the same with bareback riding, I think. kids are good at it. they take to the constant balance shift naturally, and they aren't afraid of falling off. they aren't constantly obsessing about where their legs are supposed to go. on the other hand, I can never decide if I'm in the right spot on Cookie's back, or if my legs should dangle, or should they grip? I feel bad that my seatbones are digging into her back. I overthink.

when I prod her to trot and I'm riding bareback, she resists. yesterday I kicked and kicked and she did nothing more than raise her head. I think she was telling me, "listen, I know you want me to go, but girl, you are not balanced enough right now and I don't want to pitch you off." I tried to calmly explain that if I slipped off I wouldn't blame her. stubborn mare! she didn't listen; she just kept walking. eventually she did trot, but despite feeling relatively secure I could not convince her to keep up the pace for more than half a lap around the arena. I conceded.

tuesday I'm headed out with a friend on a trail ride. it'll be only our second trail ride together, Cookie and I, and I'm choosing to ride in my english saddle rather than opting for the more secure, but also more alien, western saddle. last time we went out on the trail, I rode western at the barn owner's suggestion, because the saddle is larger and harder to be bucked out of. but I don't ride western and so it felt very uncomfortable. now Cookie and I have been riding together for a year, and I hope I know her well enough to be able to ride through whatever she throws at me. we will see.

in related news, I've found myself at least five times this week caked in dirt and horse hair and having to run an errand. the other night I was at the mall, buying a gift for my mother's birthday. I was wearing a tank top and black shorts. I had been bathing Cookie, and had ridden her bareback. I was COVERED in mud and hair. I threw on the 4-H sweatshirt the barn gave me last year, which was in my back seat. I thought, surely it's better than the soaked, filthy tank top! I gave myself a once-over in the parking lot and thought, not so bad. then I stepped into the fluorescent light of Barnes and Noble and, well, oops. there was no hiding it. it didn't help that the sweatshirt I was using as a mask had itself been used for a ride two days before.