more miscellany

things you don't often hear fron conductors
"I don't know what that instrument is, but could you play it louder?"

what all that kale looked like

(click through for notes)

for reference, those are full-size bell peppers; I had to stand on a chair to get the full shot.

more things the cats have destroyed
makeup brushes, which were somehow extracted from my zipped makeup bag and thereupon drooled all over
about 30 q-tips, pulled from a not-quite-closed bathroom drawer, drooled upon, and scattered throughout the bathroom and hallway
cotton balls, likewise
bathroom rug, repeatedly
bathroom towels, not destroyed but climbed upon and coated in cat hair
my sanity, increasingly

what I'm yearning for lately
another thanksgiving furlough

how I only partially missed halloween


I didn't dress up this year -- until the last minute, I thought I'd be working all three nights of halloween weekend -- but a certain someone and I did at least pick and carve pumpkins. I think I like his better. it's sly. plus, the face of mine (on the left) is very obviously rotting at the bottom. we can't all be beautiful all the time, I suppose.

rehearsal notes, etc.

serious issues discussed in the production meeting for hansel & gretel
the relative size and color of cuckoo feathers versus partridge feathers
bubbling sinks
the logistics of getting crew members to physically hold up a set wall mid-show

things I've discovered my cats eating, chewing, or otherwise destroying in the past week
newspapers
my bike tires
my bike pedals
thumbtacks off the wall
the carpet
the fuzzy throw on my futon

ways I was a big girl on my 30-mile bike ride yesterday, because sometimes you have to celebrate small milestones
I rode on the street
WITH CARS
I remembered how to ride no-hands
I crossed several major streets without falling off my bike or getting run over
I rode on a really big street. with cars!
I lost my way 3 times, biked off onto 3 small adventures, and then resumed my journey

oh by the way
I forgot to tell you I bought a bike back in September.



Portland is simultaneously the nicest place to bike -- because it's so bike-friendly -- and the scariest, because everybody and their grandma is a cyclist and I haven't been on a bike in 5 years. Of course there's that stupid tired old cliche about how you never forget, and while that's true in the vague sense, you sure do forget how to turn properly, steer, or angle your pelvis so your butt doesn't turn to hamburger. Fortunately I remembered how to do these things now, mostly.

excerpts from the rehearsal notes from hansel & gretel
"could the jello be taller?"

"thanks for the beads today -- they saved rehearsal. thankfully, no one tried to eat them."

"Super Maggie is the cake car driver."

"The cake car makes horrible squealing sounds when rolling around."

"Could we try 2 nasal aspirators full of glitter?"

"Please ADD a child's head in a plastic bag for the Act 3 refrigerator dressing."

"One of the kids is dropped to the ground by the Witch. This explains some of the previously existing dents."

"Please give the lard some weight."

"The hand with the removable finger has broken."

maybe the best rehearsal note ever, from our 2005 Tosca:
"The main curtain was blowing upstage, hitting the writing desk at the end of act II, the desk in act III, and causing the dead Cavaradossi to come alive to pull his arm upstage before the final curtain hit."

what stress can do for you
last Thursday (day 29) I ran a 6:46 mile. (no. 16). I wasn't even trying.

bread crumbs

I walked in to this late last week.



they're the gingerbread children for hansel & gretel, which began rehearsals today. that's right -- gingerbread children. not how you used to bake them, are they? I like to just call them "the children." I love how perfectly horrifying they are.



it's been a tough time for me in opera land. the parts for the opera are in our library, but although I knew they were heavily marked and quite old, I had no idea the extent of the damage they have taken over the years. we have not done this opera since 1992, but it looks as though the parts have been rented out since then and were last used in some sort of excerpt concert.



each part had about 25 cuts marked, all of them in heavy pencil.



some of them in red pencil, which we only use when we don't want something to be easily eraseable. the edges of many parts were yellowed with age. the piccolo part had sustained water damage.

even in its original state, the music must have left much to be desired. the oboe part was clearly photocopied from an original master by the publisher:



and contrary to the norm, the parts that were in the worst shape were the wind parts. usually it's the strings you have to contend with; they are constantly marked and erased as bowings are added or modified, and so the paper takes a beating, and sometimes the ink does too. however, for no obvious reason, our wind parts were just awful. they were marked to the hilt, and in many cases -- piccolo, horn iv, trombones, timpani, & harp were the worst -- the ink job had faded to an unacceptable degree. like, the staff lines were missing.



there's no glare on that photo. the staff lines in the harp part were virtually non-existent. I could have ordered new versions of these parts (and in fact in two cases I will) but because I have no intention of keeping the set, there's no use in buying a smattering of wind parts. what do you do instead? you take a ruler and a pen -- ballpoint in this case, because all your nicer ink runs on this paper -- and you re-ink.



doesn't that look like fun.

the parts were just set out this morning, a week beyond when I normally set them out. the orchestra, accustomed to having their music three weeks before their first rehearsal, began frothing at the mouth sometime around tuesday afternoon and badgered me so persistently that I refused to answer my phone on wednesday, knowing that if I answered every call that came in I very sincerely would probably spend at least an hour on the phone. a precious hour of marking bowings and re-inking music. needless to say, they're happy to be picking their parts up today, and I am happy to have them out, although I still have 6 parts to mark: I ran out of time and opted to give two of the string sections practice parts until I could finish their "real" ones.

did you know that a very real hazard of doing nothing but pencilling and erasing parts for 2-3 weeks is that you vaguely lose feeling in your fingertips from holding the pencil for so long? I am not kidding.

turn, turn, turn

tuesday night, we had our first studio artist recital of the season, for our mezzo, who is in her second year of the program. as usual, rob, our associate music director/pianist/resident fabulous person, asked me to turn pages for him. and by "asked" I mean he knows exactly how to use flattery to his advantage. I've been doing this task for him for several years now, so it's a given that I will, but nevertheless he really heaps on the praise. "I mean, who else could I possibly get?" he will say. "there is no one better."

insert eye roll.

page turning is a funny business. in one special way, it's just like being a music librarian: if you're very good at it, no one will notice you at all. it's also incredibly terrifying. I've met very few people who've ever turned pages who aren't petrified at the task, and I've only met one person who likes doing it. why is it so awful? observe:

1. you're likely sight-reading
1a. you're likely sight-reading very difficult music, and/or music whose vocal line is in another language
1b. on rare unlucky occasions these two things collide to produce something like mussorgsky. it's next to impossible to follow the piano part at sight and when you take a panicked look at the voice line you realize it's in cyrillic. then you speak in page-turner code: you look directly down at the piano player with a veiled but stricken look on your face. this look says "IF YOU DON'T NOD VIGOROUSLY AT THE PAGE TURN WE ARE BOTH GONERS."

2. you have to constantly get up and down and you hope that nobody notices you.
2b. you have to do this without touching the piano or getting in the way of the pianist.
2c. you have to time your getting-up so that you're not poised over the music for an excruciating length of time, hovering over the pianist for the next five minutes.

3. you have to turn the pages.
3a. just one page at a time (most of the time).
3b. at the right time.
3c. quietly.
3d. without the music then folding back to the previous page.

anatomy of a page turn
you glance at the tempo marking. hopefully it's in a language you read. and by that I mean hopefully it just says "allegro non troppo" or "lentement" and not something ridiculously long-winded and absurdly poetic. the french are terrible about this. the tempo marking is a sentence. by the time I've read the whole thing, I've probably missed the turn. and I speak french.

the pianist begins playing, and you corroborate what you thought the tempo would be with what it actually is. hopefully you have some semblance of an idea where the beat is. you don't always know. otherwise you wait for the singer, hope s/he comes in at the appropriate time, and figure it out from there. if that fails (or there's no voice on the first page) you stand up and prepare your turn and then just hope for a clear head nod.

important: you look to see if the music goes past one page. sometimes you don't even need to turn! those pages are great. but few and far between.

the moment arrives. if you're me, unless the music is very slow, you stand up a staff above the last staff of the page, so that you can make sure you get the music in your hand and have time to turn. this also reassures the pianist that you're ready, you know where you are in the music, and you are GONNA turn that page, damnit.

you turn the page. but wait! I have a little secret. rob taught it to me years ago, as the differentiating factor between passable page turners and truly great page turners. at the beginning of the last staff, you carefully fold over the top corner of the page you're about to turn, so that the pianist can peek ahead and remind himself what's there. I try to do this without casting a shadow on the music, which is hard.

now you turn the page. just one page. you sit down, hopefully with a modicum of grace. then you sit very, very still. you clasp your hands in your lap, both to keep yourself from fidgeting and also because you're terribly nervous and they're probably shaking. you continue to follow the music, and as you do you begin to wonder, is my head cocked at a funny angle? you're no longer convinced you understand the mechanisms of your body. do I usually sit like this? is my neck jutting out? is everyone looking at me and saying, why is her face turned unnaturally to the right like that? you have absolutely no idea what's right anymore.

you get up and turn another page. maybe this time you turn a little earlier than you think you should have and then once you've sat down, you quietly berate yourself for not getting it exactly right, although you're not actually sure it was too early, and after all rob probably has it all memorized anyway, even if he thinks he doesn't. and you have a terrible itch on your nose but you can't touch it until the end of the piece, or at least until the next turn.

god help you if you have to sneeze.

A surprising thing: the return of evening rehearsals has given me, unexpectedly, the time I was hoping to have all summer. In the mornings I often putter around the kitchen, making food for the week and listening to the radio. I can opt to work a long day -- a normal 9-5 plus rehearsal, and then have a second whole day to myself (in addition to the one day I get off a week during production times). I can go for a run and then drive out to the garden, to sigh sadly over my eternally green tomatoes. I had been in many ways dreading the return of opera season; summer felt too short and too cold, and I already didn't have enough time for everything, without the inclusion of rehearsals. It turns out I've gotten so used to this schedule that I've grown to prefer it.

This time of year -- you know, it pains me to say it, but I love it. Memory plays a large part: I moved here at the beginning of October, five years ago. Every year these last few weeks of September and first few of October enchant me. It's cooler, and raining, but the world hasn't quite shaken off the last fine filaments of summer. The air smells like leaves. Mid-morning runs through the woods are damp and earthy, and afterwards there's mud up and down your legs.

Pagliacci/Carmina Burana opens on Friday. Contrary to tradition, I have not yet bought myself a new opening night dress. (I buy one new one at the start of every opera season). Partially this is because I have at least 15 suitable dresses in my closet; but mostly it's because I'd like to save my prettiest dress-wearing moments for when a certain someone comes back from the other side of the planet, which he'll do in two weeks exactly. Not that I'm counting.

"Song," Frank O'Hara

Did you see me walking by the Buick Repairs?
I was thinking of you
having a Coke in the heat it was your face
I saw on the movie magazine, no it was Fabian's
I was thinking of you
and down at the railroad tracks where the station
has mysteriously disappeared
I was thinking of you
as the bus pulled away in twilight
I was thinking of you
and right now

#19

the vaux's swifts at chapman elementary school, number #19. they are a little bit impossible to capture, being so tiny, flying at dusk.







they gather in number for awhile, swooping in great arcs and spirals before descending in a whirl down into the chimney. occasionally a bird of prey waits in hopes of dinner.

pretty night for it, huh?


(what happens if I complete my list with half a year to spare? I worry about these things.)

#15

almost forgot: we conquered #15 while we were at the coast a couple of weeks ago. now if only I could have remembered to stop at the natural spring (#4) on my way home.

july 29

By Small and Small: Midnight to Four A.M.

For eleven years I have regretted it,
regretted that I did not do what
I wanted to do as I sat there those
four hours watching her die. I wanted
to crawl in among the machinery
and hold her in my arms, knowing
the elementary, leftover bit of her
mind would dimly recognize it was me
carrying her to where she was going.

-- Jack Gilbert

today, my stepfather would have been 45. though we have learned how to get on without him, we miss him in ways large or small every day, each of us in our own separate fashion. me? I think of him every time I play softball, and feel especially proud when I win the weekly game ball (our MVP prize) -- which I did last week. I don't really believe in heaven, but on days when I have a good game, I hope that he can see me somehow, and know that I am thinking of all the summer afternoons spent playing catch in the front yard.

happy birthday, steve. we miss you.

evidence

hay-related bruise, day 5. it still hurts to walk.

current state of the apartment (as of last night):


(bedroom)


(hallway)


(kitchen)


(living room, from kitchen)


(living room)

now do you see why I feel like a raving lunatic?

impaled

current number of large bruises on my body (unofficial tally): 11

on thursday, while doing my routine feeding, I had to retrieve a bale of alfalfa hay from the top of our haystack, six bales high. this happens sometimes. the way you do it is you find something tall to stand on, you grab the hay hooks, and you tip the stack over (sideways, NOT TOWARD YOU). all six bales fall to the ground. I've never found a better way. those bales weigh nearly a hundred pounds each; you can't just lift them and bring them down.

I have mentioned here before how dangerous hay can be. what happened on thursday: I went through the above manuever, choosing for my 'tall thing to stand on' the rear bed of the bobcat we use to haul hay, because it's significantly more sturdy than a ladder, and less likely to topple. I backed the bobcat just in front of the hay column and then braced myself to yank the bales down. after that, maybe because I was trying to slow their fall (and therefore not break the wood pallet on the ground below), my hand got stuck in the hay hook I was using, and the column of hay pulled me helplessly down with it, impaling me by the breastbone on the back corner of the bobcat's tailgate. I would have gone headfirst into the ground had the tailgate not caught on my shirt and bra, leaving me literally hanging upside down by my clothes two feet from the ground, my arm still attached to the hay.

I sat up in a daze, in that aftershock haze where you are just barely keeping yourself from screaming out loud or sobbing. I sat on my knees in the bed of the bobcat, my breath coming in shaky heaves, and took a tally of what hurt. I looked down at my shirt: no spewing blood. no obvious broken ribs. then I looked inside at what was burning: an 18-inch long gash running, like a seatbelt, from the top of my right boob to the middle of my abdomen. it was bleeding lightly into my sports bra and was already bruised in one place. my leg was also in a lot of pain, and had already lumped up, though I was not, at least, bleeding through my breeches.

I must have sat in the back of the bobcat for five minutes, just trying to pull myself together. I hurt like hell. my hands were visibly shaking. it was an accident I don't know that I could have prevented, because I never saw it coming. I suppose that's how accidents go.

I hadn't actually fed yet, so I had to go and throw hay into stalls, hoping not to plaster too much of it onto my open and vaguely bleeding chest wound. I took off my sports bra in the bathroom (OUCH) and then realized how much it hurt just to have my shirt touch my chest. putting my seat belt on was excruciating.

on friday I had to work from home because it was painful to wear anything but the baggiest shirt; there was no way on earth I could put on a bra. (I still haven't). today, the bruise on my thigh is larger than a grapefruit, still swollen, and a range of colors from yellow to nearly black. I actually haven't the faintest idea what I did to my leg -- I guess I hit the bobcat first with my thigh before impaling myself on the tailgate? the leg bruise is in many ways worse than the chest wound; it's much deeper and still painful to walk on. the chest wound has scabbed up and is, at least, less raw than it was on friday. the trade-off is that it's turned into the most unbelievable bruise, yellowish-green, covering half of my right boob. I wish I could show it off but for obvious reasons, I can't.

if I showed up to the beach in a bikini now, it'd look like I'd been mauled by a small bear.

moral of the story: you can never be too careful with hay bales. take my word for it, kids.