In the warm unfurling of the morning, after the first alarm has sounded to begin the day, we have nine minutes to traverse the road back from Morpheus’ realm to this world. We are two spoons lying lazily in a web of comfort, teasing each other with giddy giggles. I am always quick to start my busy day, but he reaches his arm around me and stops me from going anywhere. He is helping me, he says. Helping me go back to sleep, I think.
This is the warm comfort of our everydayness that brings me home each night. The magnetic happiness that pulls my heart to his.
The second alarm sounds. His day and mine begin when our feet hit the floor; clinging desperately to our nine-minute curling-upness, we play horizontal footsie to prevent each other from getting too close to the edge of the bed. More smiles. Kisses. We know we must get up, but we still do all we can to stop the clock from advancing.
We do not know if today’s daywork will be drudgerous or adventureful, nor do we care; all we know is that we have safe haven in our nine-minute infinity.
You close your eyes and the first word that pops into your head that describes your last lover is:______. What emotion does that invoke in you? Write about the word and the emotion.
My last lover was my husband (and still is). I have many words that pop into my head when I think of him, so I decided to just riff on a feeling that I get when I’m around him. I hope I was able to get the idea across.
My challenge will be answered by Melissa before the end of the week.
As I alluded to in my last post, my fellowDivas and I have been making good on our promise to do more for our careers. And part of that process this month was a dinner meeting followed by a seminar by Dallas Travers, an award-winning author and actors’ advocate who is incredibly passionate about helping actors help themselves. She provides methods and strategies for actors to get ahead in the business; it’s essentially Marketing 101, only with a left-brained slant that makes the whole thing understandable for those of us who have been told that artists have no heads for business.
I won’t go into the details of Dallas’s seminar here; I think she deserves all the credit, and I’m more than happy to pimp her to my friends (just as Amy pimped her to me). However, I do think that this blog is a good forum to run through a few points that I took away both from my “Diva in the Details” meeting and the seminar itself.
Get out of your own way. This is my biggest problem. Most of the time I don’t think I’m worth the success, so I don’t follow through on leads or auditions. I see it as a sort of subconscious sabotage. I’m hoping the Divas will help me by keeping me accountable for the things I said I was going to do. Even now, as I’m typing this, I realize that I have been meaning to call a certain conductor for about a week now. I’ll call him as soon as I’m done writing this. Really, I will.
Trust in the power of pursuit. I don’t think it really occurred to me that the “power of seven” marketing strategy could be applied to me before I heard Dallas talk about it. But it makes sense. All I have to do is be consistent and targeted in my outreach to industry professionals.
Make a plan. This is my next step. I don’t really know WHO to be contacting within the industry. Dallas mentioned a bunch of acting websites that are good resources to find agents, but I’m not looking for an acting agent. I am looking for a singing agent, and, frankly, I have no idea where to begin. But I need to start somewhere, so maybe I should get off the computer and go make that phone call to that conductor I’ve been putting off. Odds are he knows at least who I should start with.
I do have the audio of our Diva in the Details meeting and will (hopefully) be able to edit it and turn it into a proper podcast. You know, in all my free time. But we talked about those three topics quite a bit throughout our dinner, and I think we managed to have a few really good anecdotes as well. More on that later.
As for me, I didn’t make it through to the Oratorio Society of New York finals. I’m sad, but I am not going to let one setback stop me.
In fact, as I was moping about my failure tonight, I paused and looked around me, with the realization that I was sitting on the Avery Fisher Hall stage with the NY Philharmonic. Not only that, but I was successfully performing some incredibly difficult music that only a handful of people would dare tackle. So I’m not chopped liver.
I have a list of a bunch more competitions that I would like to enter, and there’s no reason I shouldn’t get right back in the game.
Everyone loves the underdog. From David and Goliath to Rocky, there’s something eminently satisfying about seeing the little guy win.
Are we all underdogs? Most of the time, I certainly put myself in that position. I have terrible self-esteem (like most artists), so I automatically assume everyone I compete against is better than me. I struggle with my perfectionism constantly, and even when I know that I have achieved quite a bit, I still see myself at the bottom rung of the ladder.
But I always thought this mindset was a strength. I was raised to be modest, to never get a “swelled head,” as my dad put it. And I think that modesty has gotten me far, because it has made me work hard to get ahead, never stopping to rest on my laurels.
This week, I attended a seminar by Dallas Travers with my fellowDivas. Although Dallas works primarily with stage and film actors, much of her message carries over to the singing world as well, and I found myself taking furious notes (that’ll be another post entirely). One thing she said resonated with me more than anything else that night: “Your odds are entirely determined by your expectations.”
Your odds are entirely determined by your expectations.
Underdog, long shot, sleeper: what pessimistic synonyms to describe the person who is least likely to win! No wonder I always feel like I’m on the bottom rung if I have placed myself in this role. There I am, being the submissive dog, rolling onto my back as the winner dominates me. The target is placed so far away I can barely see it, much less pull my arm back on the bow to let the arrow fly. Am I asleep, that the contest is almost passing me by before I awake?
My odds
are entirely
determined
by my expectations.
This Saturday, I am singing in the semifinals for the Oratorio Society of New York’s solo competition. If I make it through to the next round, I will sing in the finals at Carnegie Hall* on April 2. Instead of looking at my competition and thinking of them as so much better than me, I don’t want to think of them at all. This competition is not about them; it’s about me, and how I expect myself to perform.
So, how should I picture myself now? Am I still the little guy? The dark horse? No, I think I’m the littlest bird who sings the prettiest songs. I’m the artist I have always striven to become, and it only gets better from here. I love singing, and I love bringing music to people. I love my voice, and I think you will too.
But I still won’t mind if you all cross your fingers for me at 1:50 pm on Saturday, March 26.
Write anything – any genre, fiction or non, any length – around my favourite metaphor: The littlest bird sings the prettiest songs.
You can read Wendryn’s response to my challenge here.
P.S. – In case you’re curious, this is what I sound like: [audio: http://www.supermaren.com/Music/Theodora_Wings.mp3]
Today is my wedding anniversary. I’ve been married for four years, and it seems like only yesterday we were in Hawaii exchanging vows in front of our friends and family (and the curious peacock who decided to wander in during the ceremony).
My husband gave me some fun and silly gifts (like brains in a jar and TARDIS soap to name just a couple items), because we don’t really think the whole “traditional” Linen Anniversary is our cup of tea.
Of course I didn’t get anything for him, which I suppose makes me a very bad wife. I played with the idea of writing a poem for him, but A) I’m not a very good poet, and B) I have a feeling he wouldn’t like it too much if I got all mushy about him online. I did write him into this week’s Indie Ink Writing Challenge, and he knows that as long as we’re together, we could be saving the world or even ruling it (he’s working on that one).
So suffice to say I’m very happy to be married to you, my dear, and I think I’ll stick around for more.
(Today is also the 9th wedding anniversary of my best friend, Terry, who graciously allowed me to share her special day.)
Society is crumbling, and the people have taken to the streets. That is except for you, who have been watching the action on your roof, sitting in a lawn chair and drinking a beer.
Almost immediately, an idea came to me. So, thanks, Cope, for giving me an opportunity to write a little post-apocalyptic fiction.
Nobody knows exactly when the outbreak started. Some people think that Glenn Beck was Patient Zero, but that is only because he was the first documented human to enter Stage IV of ZVS (Zombie-Virus Syndrome) when he ate his cameraman’s brain during a live taping of his show. Now that they know more about the disease, scientists agree that he must have been in Stage III for quite some time, even as far back as 2008, when he joined Fox News.
Others believe that the virus was unleashed with the drilling of oil in deeper and deeper water. There are those that say the workers on Deepwater Horizon had already exhibited signs of Stage I and Stage II ZVS, and their lack of attention and drooling had led to the tragedy we know as the 2010 Gulf Spill.
However and whenever it began, the virus is here to stay, and scientists around the world have been working tirelessly to learn more about the virus. They discovered that many people are immune to the disease; only about 30% of all humans are susceptible to infection. Members of this susceptible population happen to also be those who have a tendency towards fanatic thinking, be it political or religious.
It was no surprise when reports came in of massive infections during Tea Party protests. Many fundamentalist churches proclaimed this the end of days, and deliberately infected their parishioners so that they could become the dead come to life as prophesied.
What did come as a surprise, however, was the fact that humans at all stages of ZVS exhibited acute fear of homosexuals. When presented with a heterosexual individual as bait, a ZVS patient would invariably attempt to gnaw on flesh or eat brains; however, that same patient would run, cower, or begin gnawing on his own flesh when presented with a homosexual individual as bait (I’ve heard it hypothesized that the recent anti-gay rhetoric was a symptom of the ZVS, but I don’t think one can blame one’s pre-infection thoughts and actions on a virus).
And so, the people who have stepped up in the fight to save the world have been the queers, the gamers, and the geeks. Just because we can’t catch the virus doesn’t mean we can’t become a meal, so we have been on the front lines every day, creating and distributing survival kits, strategizing, and generally scaring the bejeezus out of the zombies when we run out of ammo.
My husband and I are in charge of Sector G49 East in our city. For years before the outbreak, he had been preparing for this eventuality, and I thank my lucky stars I didn’t try to stop his efforts. The apartment building we own has turned into a fortress, thanks to his hard work, and the secret tunnels below have provided useful escape routes for our army. We haven’t yet had to use it (knock on wood), but from what I understand, there is a cruise ship waiting for us five miles off the coast in case we can no longer hold this position. Good thing we bought that helicopter.
It is beginning to get dark, and as I exit the stairwell onto the roof of the building, I can hear the moans of the undead drift up from the street. Gunshots ring out at fairly regular intervals, but I know my boys are being judicious with their ammo.
I wander around the rooftop garden, checking for pests, making sure everything is watered. This is our food source, the reason why we have lasted this long against the zombies. Once I’m satisfied that the plants are safe and healthy, I head over to my favorite spot at the edge of the roof. A bucket of ice sits between two lawn chairs, with two bottles resting in the ice.
I sit down in my lawn chair and open my bottle. My husband, who had been futzing with the solar panels on the other side of the roof, arrives and sits down. I hand him his beer, and we begin our nightly ritual.
We look out at the city.
The screams and moans from the streets below become louder, as they do every night around this time.
The sun’s brilliant rays cast an orange glow on everything. Even from the roof, I can clearly see an older man try to approach a Stage III, only to have his arm ripped off. His screams echo on the walls of the building.
My husband reaches out his hand. I take it.
We don’t need to speak. We just gaze at each other. And drink our beer.
It’s Indie Ink Writing Challenge time! As you can probably tell, I’m having a great time with this writing challenge, and I’ve even come on board with Indie Ink as an Assistant Editor, and I’m meeting all sorts of wonderful people.
This week, I was challenged by my friend, M. Hunter (the guy who turned me on to this group of amazing writers!), and his prompt is a doozy. It’s just one word:
Emerald.
And I have to confess, I’ve been tearing my hair out all week trying to come up with a decent story based on this prompt. If I was writing this on a typewriter, I would have a wastebasket full of crumpled up pieces of paper and half-baked ideas. But after much wailing and gnashing of teeth, I finally came up with this. I hope I did you proud, Hunter.
When Esmeralda first laid her eyes on the cottage in the middle of the woods that was to be her new home, she began to believe in fairies. She and her mother had just pulled up into the driveway, but their progress to the house was halted by a seemingly impenetrable barrier of blackberry vines, as if transplanted straight from Sleeping Beauty’s castle.
Esmeralda’s mother sat in the car, staring at the obstruction numbly. They had just driven for days to get to this house, fleeing the city and the predatory advances of Esmeralda’s stepfather, and her mother was emotionally and spiritually drained from the ordeal. It was beginning to get dark, however, and they needed to get inside, so Esmeralda climbed out of the car to see if she could find some way through the impediment to the house.
As she walked down the edge of the road, she noticed something sparkling in the briars. The late afternoon sun had almost disappeared behind the tall trees, but this object sparkled as if illuminated from within. Esmeralda got on her hands and knees to investigate, and saw something metallic partly buried in the weeds, just barely within her reach. Black thorns scratched at her skin, drawing blood, but she managed to grab a hold of a metal chain. As she drew the object towards her, the vines seemed to grab at her sleeve to hold her back. Even more determined, she pulled harder and landed on her backside in the dirt road, clutching her prize.
She thought she heard someone whispering behind her. She turned around quickly to see who it was, but there was no one there.
Esmeralda had been jumpy ever since her stepfather had put his hands on her. He had never been inappropriate with her before, but something must have changed in him that day. She was eleven years old and starting to grow womanly parts, but she hadn’t quite figured out how to deal with her new body; maybe it had been her fault. She had been reading a book when he approached her from behind and started to massage her shoulders. She had stopped reading when his hands wandered down over her chest and towards her waist. Her whole body had tensed up when she realized what was going on. “Shhh…” he had whispered.
Shhhhhhhh. The wind picked up and rustled through the brambles. Esmeralda shivered. Her body had locked up again.
She looked down at her hands and gazed at the object she had retrieved. It was a large emerald pendant on a gold chain. Even though the light was fading fast, she could see the gem clearly. The surface of the stone had small fissures, and as she ran her fingers over them, she heard faint music coming from within the darkness of the briars. The pendant was warm.
Esmeralda stood up, brushed herself off, and gazed at the car. Her mother hadn’t moved. She didn’t expect her to; they had both been quiet throughout the entire trip, ever since Esmeralda had told her what had happened.
Esmeralda had locked herself in the bathroom after the incident until her stepfather had left the house. Upon hearing what had happened, Esmeralda’s mother had packed a bag and spirited them both away to this remote cottage in another state, her only inheritance from Grandmother. But Esmeralda knew that her mother had loved him, and the fact that he had touched her only daughter had taken her to the edge of madness. The only thing keeping her from taking that leap was Esmeralda herself.
She re-examined the brambles. There was definitely some sort of noise coming from within the overgrown yard: someone was humming. Was it coming from the house?
The pendant within her hands started humming in response. She heard more whispering and the sound of running feet. Something zoomed by her, at the very edge of her vision. Her heart started pounding.
Put it on. She wasn’t sure if she thought it or if someone actually said it out loud, but as soon as those words appeared in her consciousness, the emerald began glowing. She looked around one more time, swallowed the lump of fear in her throat, and slipped the chain over her head.
The pendant was heavy on her chest, but it had a comforting weight. It was glowing brightly now, illuminating the blackberry bushes in front of her.
The vines shifted again, only this time there was no wind. They were moving on their own, parting in front of Esmeralda to reveal a mossy path. She hesitantly stepped forward, and the vines cleared themselves away even more. With every step she took, the vines became less formidable, and the humming grew stronger, until she made her way to the front door of the cottage and the humming was almost unbearably loud.
She put her hand on the doorknob, and the humming ceased. She heard more footsteps and whispered laughter from inside the house. Summoning all the courage she could find, she opened the door quickly, yelling, “Aha!”
Even though this house had been abandoned for years, the front room was clean and furnished. A wood stove stood in the middle of the room, dividing the kitchen from the living area, and a fire was merrily burning in its belly. She felt a sense of peace here that she had never felt before, and for the first time in many days, Esmeralda began to cry.
Don’t cry. You’re safe. We’ll protect you. We promise. Different voices spoke from around the room, although Esmeralda still couldn’t tell if she had imagined the voices or heard them out loud. Wiping the tears from her eyes, she gazed around the room and addressed her hosts. “My mother. She’s…I can’t…I need my mom here.”
More whispering. Turn around.
The sun had set, the moon was now rising, and the path she had walked was now more visible. “Esmeralda?” Her mother was standing at the beginning of the path, peering into the darkness. Esmeralda’s feet had left bioluminescent marks in the moss, and her mother began following the prints cautiously.
“Mom!” Esmeralda’s voice cracked as she called out. “I’m over here! It’s so beautiful.” She ran down the path to meet her mother, the pendant bouncing heavily on her chest.
“What…?” Her mother’s question trailed off as she gazed at the house, warm and inviting. Esmeralda took her mother’s hand. Their pulses beat in time with the glow of the emerald.
As she led her mother to the front door, Esmeralda heard a rustling behind her, and she glanced one more time behind her. The brambles were closing back over the path, covering any evidence of their presence at the cottage. She nodded to the vines and looked up at her mother. “We’re safe,” she whispered.
And for the first time in many days, her mother smiled.
Photo of emerald by Andrew Bossi, modified by Maren Montalbano
And now for the grand finale of Venetian Vixen. Because this entire “novel” has been written backstage during the run of Opera Company of Philadelphia’s 2010 production of Otello, and because this was written during the final performance, I realized I would never get around to finishing the story of Benedetta and Guillermo. So I have skipped to the end. Our two lovers, after having escaped — not without much tribulation, vexation, and misunderstanding on both their parts — the mortally dangerous political intrigue of post-Otello Cypress, have finally married and moved back to Venice. This scene takes place six months after the dénouement of the “plot” (of course, I use that word loosely when referring to this storyline).
Also, as I said before, don’t read this post in your cubicle or while operating heavy machinery. And under no circumstances should you read this aloud to small children or individuals with heart problems.
Benedetta sighed and gazed lovingly at her husband, his naked body covered with a thin sheen of sweat from their exertions on the bed. The full moon bathed their room with a peaceful light, and the soft croon of a gondolier wafted its way to their ears from the canal below.
“We won’t be able to stay like this for too long,” responded Guillermo, “for my son will soon want to join us in the world.” He slid his hand over the bulge in her belly. The baby within her kicked as if in agreement.
She looked at him with one eyebrow raised.”How do you know the babe is not a girl?”
“Because of the way he kicks, amor,” he moved closer and nuzzled her neck.
She allowed him to distract her for a few moments with his attentions, but then, struck with a sudden hunger, arose from the bed and made her way to the fruit-laden bowl on the table in the middle of the room.
He lounged in the bed as he observed her perfectly rounded figure crossing the room. Popping a grape in her mouth, she turned to face him. “So if this child is a boy, what will be his name?”
“Bassanio. I have always wanted to have a child named Bassanio,” he said with authority.
She cocked her head to the side as she considered the name.”Bassanio,” she said slowly. “I always preferred the name Nerissa, myself, for a girl.”
“Well, it will not be a girl,” he insisted again as he rose from the bed to join her at the table.
He picked at the grapes while she chose a more exotic fruit, a banana newly delivered all the way from the New World. She peeled and ate it slowly, gazing at him with heat in her eyes.
“When this babe is born,” vowed Guillermo as he pulled her close, “we shall have to move into some larger apartments. Perhaps the purchase of a palazzo is in order.”
“Have you finally made amends with my family, then, that you will be able to afford a palazzo?” she asked archly.
“Perhaps,” he murmured as he bestowed gentle kisses upon her face. “Or perhaps I have found a new investment partner.”
“Oh?” she asked breathlessly. She was barely paying attention to his words.
“Indeed.” His kisses made their way down her neck to her breasts and even lower as he knelt down before her. “I’ve met a most promising young moneylender named Shylock.”
They conversed no more, as his mouth was otherwise occupied, and her mind was transported to a place beyond words.
And now for the continuation of Venetian Vixen. As I said before, don’t read this post in your cubicle or while operating heavy machinery. And under no circumstances should you read this aloud to small children or individuals with heart problems.
If you haven’t already read the beginning of the story, start here: Chapters 1 & 2
CHAPTER 3
Benedetta awoke the next morning with a start. Dawn’s rosy fingers had not yet crept through the crack between her bedroom drapes, but she could hear a lone cock crowing in the courtyard.
She was not the only one awake so early; agitated murmurs and quiet weeping drifted to her ears from the hallway, but she could only make out the words “Moor,” “strangled,” and “jealousy.”
Curious to know more, Benedetta got out of bed and hurried to the door to put her ear up against it. She could make out the light tones of her chambermaid, but a deeper voice joined the conversation soon after she began to listen.
“…Iago had said Cassio was the object of her affections,” said the chambermaid.
“That deceitful snake?” scoffed the male voice. “I went to university with him. He is never to be trusted. If only I had arrived a few days earlier! I could have warned Otello of his nature.”
“They say that Iago has not yet been found. The soldiers are searching the town, and…” the maid’s voice got louder as she got closer to the door. Benedetta backed away, but not quickly enough, for the door opened to reveal her standing in the middle of the room, wearing nothing but her gauzy summer chemise and a slightly shocked expression.
The occupants of the hallway were likewise surprised, standing frozen for several seconds. The chambermaid reacted first, exclaiming, “Oh, your ladyship! I did not think you would be awake,” and hastening into the room.
The man standing in the hallway, however, just stood there, staring unabashedly at her with a grin on his face. Benedetta realized that he was the mysterious man from the day before. “I didn’t realize people could blush there,” she heard the man chuckle as her maid closed the door.
******
CHAPTER 4
The door slammed shut in Guilliermo’s face. Still grinning, he turned and walked down the hall toward his own chambers.
He had spent half the night trying to discover the identity of the woman who had so bewitched him. After bribing almost all the footmen in the palace, he was informed that the lady in question was staying not 20 yards from his own apartments. His intent had certainly not been to spy upon her maidenly charms…but now that he had spied them, he could not get the alluring vision out of his head.
That long, flowing hair, those taut rosebuds peeking from behind the veil of that incandescent gauze! The mere memory was enough to make his nethers begin to stir. He shifted uncomfortably, nodded to the guard standing in the hall, and entered his chamber.
His manservant, Ferrando, had been nodding off, waiting for Guillermo’s return. Upon hearing the door open, he leapt to his feet and knocked over the platter of meats that he had carefully laid out for his master some six hours prior.
Guillermo looked at Ferrando with one eyebrow raised.
“Any news, signor?” Ferrando squeaked as he hastily picked up the mess from the floor.
“As a matter of fact, yes,” Guillermo crowed, and he recounted his encounter with Benedetta in the hallway. Ferrando, having put the platter to rights, proceeded to fill Guillermo’s bathtub with warm water, making noises of consternation or appreciation at the appropriate time during his recitation.
“I also discovered,” Guillermo added as he picked up a sausage from the platter and slid it into his mouth, “that she is a Medici.”
Ferrando nearly dropped the bucket he was holding. “A Medici? Signor, are you sure you want to dabble in the affairs of that family?”
Guillermo grinned again as he remembered Benedetta’s gauze-clad figure. He removed his trousers and stepped into the tub, his appreciation for Benedetta fully evident on his own naked form. “Oh yes, I am certain I want to dabble in her affairs.”
What with these Indie Ink writing challenges and all, I feel like people are actually reading my blog, so I figure I should provide some more content. Below is a backstage romance “novel” that I wrote on Facebook last fall while I was in production for Otello at the Opera Company of Philadelphia. A friend of mine was taking photos backstage, and one of her pictures looked so much like a smutty romance novel cover that I couldn’t resist Photoshopping it into this:
And then I couldn’t stop myself from writing a faux romance novel based on these two characters. I called it Venetian Vixen. We had a lot of down time backstage.
Originally, I didn’t post it on this site because it’s pretty racy, and, well, most of my stuff here has been PG (after all, my dad reads this blog!). But I’ve been inspired by all the great writing from the folks over at Indie Ink (some of whom have pretty racy blogs!), so I thought, “What the hell?”
Anyway, that’s a roundabout way of saying that you shouldn’t be reading this in your cubicle or while operating heavy machinery. And under no circumstances should you read this aloud to small children or individuals with heart problems.
Now that I’ve gotten that out of the way, here it is, in all its glory. Oh, and I hope you don’t take any of this seriously.
CHAPTER 1 Orror!
Those were the words uttered by almost everyone in the great hall as noble and servant alike fled the wrath of the Moor. Pandemonium in the halls led to a crush of bodies, and Lady Benedetta Albinoni, third cousin to Catherine de Medici, found herself without her maidservant or a bodyguard, dangerously close to having her hem trampled upon by the masses during the exodus.
Someone jostled her, and she lost her footing on the marble halls, stumbling into a wall.
The wall sprouted arms and righted her. “My apologies, signorina,” said the wall.
Slowly, Benedetta lifted her gaze and realized the “wall” she had hit was the massive chest of the most handsome specimen of manly manliness she had ever seen. Her heartbeat quickened as she looked at his chiseled features and mused fleetingly what it would be like to be kissed by those strong lips.
****
CHAPTER 2
Guillermo di Montenegro looked down at the blushing woman in his arms. He knew he was holding her much longer than was proper for a woman of her rank, but he couldn’t seem to release her. The mysterious lady’s sultry eyes were mesmerizing, and Guillermo lost himself in their depths.
“Unhand me, signor.” Those beautiful, dark eyes were now flashing with contempt, but her heaving breasts belied her true feelings.
He smiled lazily and tightened his hold on her. “Oh no, signorina. It is not nearly safe enough for you to be walking about by yourself.”
She pushed at his muscle-hardened chest, but he held her fast. Drawing herself up as tall as she could, she shot him her haughtiest gaze. “Signor, do you know who I am?”
“No,” he murmured, “but I would certainly like to find out.” His chestnut locks fell across his brow as he lowered his head to steal a kiss.
Benedetta gasped in protest, and he took the opportunity to plunder her mouth with his tongue. Her protests turned to sighs of ecstasy as she returned his kiss hungrily.
The crowd around them surged forward, and she was pushed out of his arms. Shocked back to reality, Benedetta was suddenly acutely aware of her surroundings, and with only one glance back to the stranger who had awakened such frightening feelings in her, she fled into the crowd.
I’ve threatened to write a post about how I practice for a while, and I think now is the time. I’m preparing right now for a performance of György Ligeti’s Clocks and Clouds with the New York Philharmonic, and I thankfully was able to get my hands on the music before rehearsals have begun. I flipped through the score and my eyes bugged out when I saw this:
I’m not a fan of reading manuscript, especially in the age of digital music. Even though the score was published by Schott, who normally prints lovely, legible music, I have a feeling there hasn’t exactly been enough demand since its premiere in 1973, for them to go through the trouble of republishing a proper, printed version.
That being said, I think I should be able to at least read what I have to sing. That squiggly line you see going through the staves? That’s the bar line. And with everything so squished together, it’s essentially impossible to see what beat goes where. This is a sight-reader’s nightmare.
After I posted this picture onto Facebook, several of my friends suggested that I transcribe it into Finale to make it more legible. With over 200 measures of 12 staves each, I wasn’t too keen on transcribing the whole thing, but it would certainly help me learn the music if I transcribed some of the harder bits.
Here is the same passage, only legible (click on image to enlarge):
Now that you can actually see it, you may notice that each part only sings two notes: G# and F#. The trick, therefore, is not trying to find the notes themselves, but making sure you sing those notes at the right time. This is what all the parts sound like together:
It’s not so easy to tell which part is yours, is it? In situations like this, I like to use a feature on Finale that changes the instrument a particular staff is playing. Since I’m singing Alto 2, I’ve switched my part to “Oboe,” and all the other parts to “Choir Aahs” (very cheesy MIDI sounds, I know, but they do the trick). This is what the same passage sounds like, only with my part pulled out of the texture:
I practice like this all the time when I’m at my computer, especially with difficult passages like this. I can also turn on a click track to remind me where the beats are, and I can play different passages at different speeds, depending on what I want to target during my practice session.
I don’t only use this technique with difficult-to-read music; I am also a terrible pianist, and I can’t afford to pay a coach every single time I want to rehearse something with accompaniment, so I use Finale to practice my regular rep as well (I’ve written about my accompaniment tracks here).
I do happen to have several very useful skills in the singing world: 1) I’m a good sight-reader, and 2) I have perfect pitch. That means that most of the time, I can show up to the first rehearsal, pick up the music, and sing what’s on the page without very many mistakes the first time around. But I’m certainly not perfect, and when I can get prepare my part ahead of time, it makes the entire rehearsal process go more smoothly.
So, that’s my “process,” such as it is. Feel free to ask questions in the comments section. And if you’re just starting out and need some advice: learn how to sight-read. That one skill will make you ten times more marketable than any other tool in your vocal toolbox.
In the warm unfurling of the morning, after the first alarm has sounded to begin the day, we have nine minutes to traverse the road back from Morpheus’ realm to this world. We are two spoons lying lazily in a web of comfort, teasing each other with giddy giggles. I am always quick to start my busy day, but he reaches his arm around me and stops me from going anywhere. He is helping me, he says. Helping me go back to sleep, I think.
My odds
Today is my wedding anniversary. I’ve been married for four years, and it seems like only yesterday we were in Hawaii exchanging vows in front of our friends and family (and the curious peacock who decided to wander in during the ceremony).
And so, the people who have stepped up in the fight to save the world have been the queers, the gamers, and the geeks. Just because we can’t catch the virus doesn’t mean we can’t become a meal, so we have been on the front lines every day, creating and distributing survival kits, strategizing, and generally scaring the bejeezus out of the zombies when we run out of ammo.
And now for the grand finale of Venetian Vixen. Because this entire “novel” has been written backstage during the run of Opera Company of Philadelphia’s 2010 production of Otello, and because this was written during the final performance, I realized I would never get around to finishing the story of Benedetta and Guillermo. So I have skipped to the end. Our two lovers, after having escaped — not without much tribulation, vexation, and misunderstanding on both their parts — the mortally dangerous political intrigue of post-Otello Cypress, have finally married and moved back to Venice. This scene takes place six months after the dénouement of the “plot” (of course, I use that word loosely when referring to this storyline).
