the secret

When you were sleeping on the sofa
I put my ear to your ear and listened
to the echo of your dreams.

That is the ocean I want to dive in,
merge with the bright fish,
plankton and pirate ships.

I walk up to people on the street that kind of look like you
and ask them the questions I would ask you.

Can we sit on a rooftop and watch stars dissolve into smoke
rising from a chimney?
Can I swing like Tarzan in the jungle of your breathing?

I don't wish I was in your arms,
I just wish I was pedaling a bicycle
toward your arms.

-- jeffrey mcdaniel

shout out

today is Cristina's birthday !


Cristina shows up on this little blog a lot.


Of course, that's partially because she is my roommate.


Also, we work together.


But of course, I work with a lot of people, and plenty of people have roommates they never hang out with.


Cristina started working at the opera at the beginning of our 2008-2009 season.


A few weeks after that, I wrote in my journal, "I think Cristina and I are going to be fast friends."


Totally, totally right.


Let me tell you about her. She is awesome. She will drive you to the airport at 4 in the morning. She will make the coffee in the morning. She is up for a late night drive to the food carts. She even makes a good hangover buddy.


She's pretty. She lets me borrow her clothes sometimes. She listens to me even when I'm chatty. (Which is all the time).

We are celebrating her birthday in style today. I can't tell you the details because it's (sort of) a surprise.



love you, lady. I'm so glad to know you!

welcome back

hi internet. remember me? that person who's been studiously avoiding the fact that it's 2010 now? and there should be resolutions? and plans? and goals? and maybe a blog post or two?

sorry about that. I put the new year on hold for a week. I had to set my priorities. there was a party.



last night was the company holiday party -- hollywood theme. costumes were, of course, encouraged. after struggling to think of something to do, the lady gaga idea struck me in a flash on monday afternoon. I spent the next three days bent over my desk, folding origami tulips, chaining them together with very thin wire, and then affixing them to my dress. not to mention finding the perfect fishnets, and pinning the dress up to be impossibly, scandalously short. and finding a wig with good bangs.

after tomorrow (another celebration, of a different variety), maybe then it can be 2010. until then, I'm in some sort of complicated limbo. time has ceased to exist so long as the parties last.

2009: what I got

I never explicitly told you this, but my resolution for 2009 was "choose adventure." It was what I told myself when I decided to buy Cookie in December 2008. Choosing adventure as a credo meant that given a choice between action and inaction, the choice was to be action. Adventure was to be taken in ways both big and small. If friends called and said, "Let's go out," then choosing adventure meant saying yes. I wanted a motto rather than a specific goal because I found the idea to be more lifestyle-changing and also more motivating than an individual resolution.

Some adventures I chose (and some that chose me):

bought a horse
went to Disneyland
shot a Winchester rifle
drove through open range BLM roads in Utah
climbed a tiny dead volcano in Hawaii
met Nub
lost Nub
found Nub
walked along the Hollywood Walk of Fame
drove a four-wheeler
swam across the Columbia River
stayed out all night with friends
wrote letters every day for one month
moved in with a roommate
ate cupcakes with my sister in southern California
met Philip Glass
went on a blind date
cut a rug at my cousin's wedding
starred in my own episode of reality TV
soaked naked in a hot tub with friends
worked at the opera, symphony, and baroque orchestra
won ribbons at a horse show
stood on a roof in Manhattan
drank countless martinis
suffered through countless hangovers
got stranded for a night in Honolulu
swam from Sunset Beach to Ocean Isle, NC (and back)
cut my finger open and got baby's first stitches
caught a fast ground ball to second with my knee
went vegetarian for a month
played a role onstage in an opera
participated in a zombie apocalypse
ate a real grasshopper
read a couple books
threw a sweet, sweet holiday party
wrote this blog, sometimes

2009 was an extraordinary year, overflowing with goodness. I cannot tell you how grateful I am for the shape of my life -- the work that I do, the place where I live, all the people near and far whom I have the great privilege to call friends. I hope that 2010 is full of wonder and adventure, peace and affection, satisfaction and contentment, accomplishment and joy. For all of us.

home for the holidays

I'm home in maryland for a few days, enjoying the holidays (and the snow, and the giant hill in the backyard) with my family. merry christmas, everybody.

how far we come

While looking for an unrelated old email in my email archive, I just came upon part of a long dialogue I had several years ago with a friend from high school, one with whom I have been in and out of touch since moving to Portland. (More in than out these days, for which I'm grateful). This email was a response to a very unexpected message I had received from him; in it, he wondered at what point people become who they are, and whether I had been headed down the path I ended up on as early as high school, when we knew each other. His message, at the time, was extraordinary to me, in no small part because I had had a wild crush on him as a teenager. Reading my response, now, is equally incredible; I don't know if I could write something so eloquent and self-assured anymore.

---

What a nice surprise! And on a day where I am feeling under the weather and a little bit blue, with the worst cold in ages, not to mention horseback riding-related bumps and bruises on important body parts (foot, elbow, tailbone) from being thrown off and trod upon. Ouch, oompf, ugh. But other than that list of ailments, I am indeed alive and mostly well -- as are you, apparently, thankfully.

I believe the last time I talked to you was over coffee and a meal at some diner somewhere -- Towson Diner, probably -- with RF and maybe JA, several years ago in a summer during college. I don't remember what we talked about or how we all ended up in that same place together, but I remember it was pleasant, there was some interesting discussion. I remember R didn't feel he had a place in the conversation, and was sullen afterwards. Oh, those days.

...

I remember knowing that you wanted to get into business, and your reasons for it, and I remember it resonating with me then how different we were; I never would have spun my life in that direction. I was in awe of you, though, although I wouldn't have wanted your goals myself -- I rarely ever reached for one singular goal, and I always had a certain envy for those of you who did. It seemed more admirable than my comparative waffling around.

What I know about my seven-years-ago self is that I didn't have the damnedest idea what I wanted out of my future. I wanted to ride horses and read poetry, drink coffee, have stimulating conversation, move to a new city on my own. I wanted pretty hair and a boyfriend, nice clothes, self-possession. If someone had swooped in on me during my senior year and said "AT AGE TWENTY-FIVE YOU WILL BE AN OPERA LIBRARIAN" I probably would have fallen on the floor laughing. But I ended up in the place I set out for too, though my place is broader and vaguer than yours.

Also, (even though I have them) I continue to want all of those things.

What can I say about it? I was always the way I am, I think. For me I think it's a product of how I was raised. I was always bookish and imaginative, immersed totally in the world of the lonely only child, full of made-up people and fantasy. Also there was an intense focus on play within my small family unit: my best memories of childhood involve afternoons of Around the World with my mom, or sledding, or pretending my bike was a horse. I now have the benefit of understanding how this shaped me, in watching my mom with my two young siblings. Last week she encouraged them to ditch school for a day so they could go to Lexington Market and see the circus elephants. (Surprisingly, they are such "good" kids that they didn't bite! They didn't want to miss school. "Who are these alien children?" my mom asked. She went anyway, with another mom).

Also money was a non-issue. I mean, we were never well-off and I was always wanting things I now know we couldn't afford. But money was just not something I understood as a consideration in life. Maybe not entirely to their credit (I made a lot of my own otherwise avoidable financial mistakes), my family shielded me entirely from the concept of having or not having enough. We did things or we didn't do them, and money wasn't ever brought up as a reason. So I never thought of it as key to any sort of success in life, and I couldn't understand why other people seemed so wrapped up in it. Even now I'm not the kind of person who could take a job I hated in order to make tons of money. I guess the way I see it, my happiness has never been for sale.

This is turning into a long-winded autobiography, which is not what I set out to write, nor what you're expecting, I'm sure. I guess it's my best attempt at explaining why I'm where and who I am. I should warn that it also seems to imply some sort of self-possession, and I'm not sure that's accurate. Yesterday I mentioned your message to my best friend, and said to her, "What if he finds out how crazy I actually am...?!" There are a lot of things in question in my little blue life. I can't imagine myself married, for example, even though I have a boyfriend. I'm just not that settled, and it feels impossible that I ever would be. I'm always amazed at those people I know who are, at our age. It seems like you all found something I am still looking for. Or maybe I would just rather have a dog.

ok, I promise I am wrapping this up. I am really flattered that you seem to think I have ended up in an enviable place, and I'm so glad you decided to write -- it's good to hear from you. I appreciate the opportunity to assess my life in a different light. And I'd love to keep up the conversation. What else have you been up to?

Also, if I had it to do all over again, I would go about everything with more kindness and cheerfulness. Who says there isn't time?

sorry to be so incredibly long-winded (blame it on the cold meds?),
jess

what I understood

When I was a child I understood everything
about, for example, futility. Standing for hours
on the hot asphalt outfield, trudging for balls
I'd ask myself, how many times will I have to perform
this pointless task, and all the others? I knew
about snobbery, too, and cruelty-- for children
are snobbish and cruel-- and loneliness: in restaurants
the dignity and shame of solitary diners
disabled me, and when my grandmother
screamed at me, "Someday you'll know what it's like!"
I knew she was right, the way I knew
about the single rooms my teachers went home to,
the pictures on the dresser, the hoard of chocolates,
and that there was no God, and that I would die.
All this I understood, no one needed to tell me.
The only thing I didn't understand
was how in the world whose predominant characteristics
are futility, cruelty, loneliness, disappointment
people are saved every day
by a sparrow, a foghorn, a grassblade, a tablecloth.
This year I'll be
thirty-nine, and I still don't understand it.

-- Katha Politt

the hoof of an unbroken filly

one year ago today, I drove to the barn and dropped off a check for $350, which served as deposit and first payment for my first horse.



I didn't anticipate it, wasn't planning on it, and never expected to buy a horse at my age. I thought of horse ownership as something I would do in my thirties or forties, once I had settled down. It was a faraway goal, one that required a great deal of planning, and money, and time. I was 27; I was working four and sometimes five jobs just to stay afloat. "Buying a horse is literally the stupidest financial move I can think of," I told my mother over and over again.



I have loved a lot of horses in the 13 years I've been riding. Thea, the 3-year-old chestnut Thoroughbred who sailed over jumps and once threw me off four times in a single lesson; Mario, a little gelding who would do anything you asked; PJ, the Appaloosa who was a total jerk but athletic and honest over fences. There was Dalton, a wonderful horse at the dressage barn where I rode in college, and Roxy, the bay mare I once saw throw an 8-year-old and then go tearing around the ring like something had bitten her. Angel and Merlin, Luke and Leia. So many horses but only once -- with Mario -- did the thought even occur to me that they might ever be mine.

Years of lessons on other peoples' horses; a few years of leasing my own:


(along with the bruise he once left on my foot after he pounced on it while spooking at a tarp)

And then Cookie.




When I handed the check to Heather, she gave me a big hug. "Aren't you excited?!" she asked me, grinning. But I shook my head, sheepish. "No," I replied. "I'm terrified!" As I surmised that day, it took me weeks to feel even a glimmer of excitement; I didn't believe I had actually bought a horse. Nothing changed physically: Cookie lived where she'd always lived; there was no trailering or settling in. The transfer of her papers didn't occur until April, after I had paid her last payment. So in those first few weeks it was just an idea. Oh, and also this little blue line:



But now, of course, she is my horse. One year later, she nickers when I walk to her stall, and has developed an endearing habit of nuzzling me when I'm standing on the mounting block. She does occasionally have her bad days, like this past weekend when she was so upset about another horse leaving the arena that she went careening off in a wild bucking spree; it was the closest I've come in a year to being tossed off her back. But in a year we have worked on fundamental steering and collection; we've been on trail rides and to a horse show, and even on TV.

Despite the fact that buying her was a crazy, ill-advised decision, in one year I have never, ever regretted it.

furlough, days 1-3

day one:



sleeping in. cleaning stalls in the rain, raking the poo pile (above), letting the mare cavort around the indoor arena. chai latte at home, cat-shaped lap warmers, balancing the checkbook. TV in bed.

day two:



coffee and oatmeal. working through a hissy fit from my horse; afterwards, watching her float over ground poles at the trot. working on our manners, our ground tying. an involved video game.



a date.

day three:



discovering the cat has figured out how to jump on the kitchen counter. spraying the cat three times in rapid succession after he jumps on the kitchen counter. lining the kitchen counter with double-stick tape. and pots and pans from the cupboard. a solitary mid-morning ride. a bareback walk back to the barn. vacuuming the car. making the grocery list, the christmas list, the to-do list. fishing the cat toys from beneath the furniture. and again. and again.

great vacation so far. I've already forgotten what day of the week it is.

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.