Christmas in Boston

Ahem. Before my rapidly-fluttering sentimentality takes wing, let's take another look at life in Boston, shall we?

"For preventing disorders, arising in several places within this jurisdiction by reason of some still observing such festivals as were superstitiously kept in other communities, to the great dishonor of God and offense of others: it is therefore ordered by this court and the authority thereof that whosoever shall be found observing any such day as Christmas or the like, either by forbearing of labor, feasting, or any other way, upon any such account as aforesaid, every such person so offending shall pay for every such offence five shilling as a fine to the county."

From the records of the General Court,
Massachusetts Bay Colony
May 11, 1659

Excuse me? This Irish-Catholic stronghold, this bastion of New England moral uprightness, this WASP-nest actually banned Christmas?? Yup, for 22 years under Puritan rule any such celebration was outlawed, and it was only in the mid-1800s that it was no longer considered a dishonor to God to forbear labor and raise a glass of spiced wine. The Puritans wanted to distance themselves as much as possible from old England, and, more importantly, the custom of poor people wassailing the wealthy (i.e., assailing them for food and alms through carols and cajoles) was getting out of hand.

What's odd is that at Christmastime, it seems like everyone in Boston celebrates Christmas. A creche appears on the Common with no conciliatory menorah; tourists from the bible belt book their holiday here, in the one Northeastern city that feels righteous enough to them; groups of carolers stroll through downtown singing of Christ and redemption. When I spent a few frozen hours singing 'Rudolph' and 'Silent Night' around Faneuil Hall last year, I would not have been surprised if our wide-eyed listeners had fallen to their knees and received the eucharist. Can you picture the same on 34th Street?

Oh, there I go again, Annoying NYC Lady, comparing Beantown to the Big Apple. But the odd lack of diversity (or rather, presence of a rigid class hierarchy) makes Boston a largely Christian town. I freely wish "Merry Christmas" to most every white or black face I see. If I'm wrong, well then, they ought to know that they are merely guests here in the Divine Commonwealth.

In any case, those party-animal Bostonians apparently put the 'ho' back in holiday after the ban was lifted in 1681, as evidenced by this loud tongue-clucking:

"The generality of Christmas-keepers observe that festival after such a manner as is highly dishonourable to the name of Christ. How few are there comparatively that spend those holidays (as they are called) after an holy manner. But they are consumed in Compotations, in Interludes, in playing at Cards, in Revellings, in excess of Wine, in mad Mirth ..."

- Reverend Increase Mather, 1687

So while you're enjoying your tasty Compotations, listening to Chopin Interludes, playing strip poker etc. etc., I offer you some mad Mirth from the archives of the You've Got to Start Somewhere Department:

Victorian carolers Amanda Keil (left), Ellen Peterson, Cyndi Geller, and Justin Dilley visited Globe Santa and his sleigh to sing a carol in Faneuil Hall Sunday. (Christina Caturano for the Boston Globe)

Can I confide in you?

I've had more than one occasion to look a companion in the eye and recite the following:

Wenn so lind dein Auge mir,
Und so lieblich schauet,
Jede letzte Truebe fliehet,
Welche mich umgrauet.

And yet, I've never brought myself to finish the verse:

Dieser Liebe schoene Glut,
Lass sie nie verstieben!
Nimmer wird, wie ich,
So treu dich ein andrer lieben.

But maybe I will sometime. Maybe I will.

(That's all I'll reveal! Gentlemen, start your Googles!)

fall

Oh cherubs….

My writing will have to be on hiatus for a while, as I wrap up this semester; meet application deadlines; prepare for, travel to, and execute auditions; catch up on missing work hours (from all that travel), and perform my little gigs in town. But in what seems to be a trend, I am also reckoning with some other obstacles.

I do well with the return of autumn. The refreshment of cold air, the comfort of long sleeves. While summer boils our senses and exfoliates our cares, autumn’s intellectual sunshine brings us back into balance, and our lives resume their rhythm.

So I’m fine until around mid-November, at which point nervousness seizes my gut like algae infecting still-water. It might happen only because I’m in school, and the cloistered fish-tank of vocal studies can make anyone claustrophobic. But these past couple of years, along with a aspirations for the future, I’ve nurtured a healthy crop of my own neuroses. At home with my parents over Thanksgiving, sleeping deeply in my childhood bed, I was in the eye of the storm. But the instant I’m back into the fray, my nerves spring to life, despite my best rational efforts to keep them at bay. As these feelings are better explored in my offline journal, I will sign off (did I mention I have a presentation tomorrow and I’m also supposed to get some work work done?) and lighten up. And there are plenty of things out there that make me laugh....

Or even better....

Vittoria! Vittoria!!

By now, we’re all back to business as usual. But there was a day or two just a little while ago, when it felt like Christmas, Valentine’s Day, and a kid’s birthday.

American Democrats had a successful election.

Who can remember that such a thing is possible? And the occasion just kept getting better: I went to bed and we had won the House, in the afternoon we were toasting Rummy and Coke, and the next day the Senate was ours. Do I hear impeachment?? It’s been a long presidency, and I will continue to count the days until it ends, but at least now there is the faintest flicker of the notion that there might be some hope in the next two years.

It will be rough going, and this success didn’t happen because of middle America’s sudden rapture with the donkeys (that sounds nearly biblical, doesn’t it!). The Republican base fired Congressmen who have blood on their hands and are riddled with scandals. I’m worried about the Democrats: they haven’t articulated a plan for all our ills, and they are quick to bicker amongst themselves. But this election was indeed a referendum, and I’m hopeful it will give our new leaders the energy boost and the legislative power to act and make changes. I’m also hopeful that the momentum that made these campaigns successful will carry us through the next two years, and even beyond….

Let’s just hope they don’t blow it.

You Can't Get There From Here

I’d like to finally write down some of my impressions of Boston, which have been percolating in my brain since I moved here some 15 months ago.

Europeans will often comment that Boston is a very European city. I am still trying to understand the source of this impression. Maybe it’s the visible Puritan elements that remind them of old London. Or maybe it’s because this is a much more pedestrian-friendly town than, say, LA. Or maybe it’s the besneakered Midwestern tourists traipsing through downtown, much like you’d find in most European destinations. Or maybe it’s the crappy transportation system.

“But wait!” Perhaps you’re saying. “I thought Europe had terrific public transportation??” Aaah, that might be true in, say, Norway, or even France between strikes, and certainly in Germany. I’m thinking more about… Italy. Boston puts the ever-striking Italians to shame.

Like the Roman subway, the local Boston train network is practically useless. A 10 minute car drive is a 45 minute train trip. Just as in Rome, stops directly in downtown are plentiful and convenient enough, but when you wish to travel just a bit further, you start to run into trouble. Because Boston is actually a collection of several sovereign little towns (Cambridge, Brookline, Somerville, etc.), train service is determined not by geography but by politics. Certain distant commuter towns have direct service. A local poor neighborhood has none. Although I am directly across the river from Harvard Square, to get there by train I travel all the way downtown and all the way out in a different direction.

And then there’s the pricing system, which can only be described as Byzantine, another European twist! $1.25 is your basic fare. But once you cross the town line in some places, it’ll cost you twice that to get back. Or sometimes $3.00. By me, the train is above ground. Rides are free when you head “outbound,” but cost the regular fare heading “inbound.”

Outbound and inbound sound confusing? East or West, Uptown or Downtown tell you something, but Bostonians prefer to keep newcomers confused. Inbound means heading into downtown. But what if you already are downtown, and you just need to go one more stop? You get confused, take the wrong train, and try better next time.

Then of course, there’s the schedule, or lack thereof. Sometimes the trains appear two, three, or even four in a row, like elephants. Sometimes there are simply none.

And the journey itself has let me learn how to find my inner Zen amidst chaos. My train line is between two colleges and close to Fenway Park, which means it’s packed with students during the school year, and students plus rowdy baseball fans during the season. And when they only run one trolley, or the wait tops 15 minutes, we’re talking really packed. Tokyo packed.

And bear in mind that the trains are above ground in my neighborhood. This means they can run into traffic with cars, and you get to wait outside in the unfriendly Boston weather. The train system is nicknamed the T. For all of it’s attractive qualities, I’ve nicknamed it the mofo. (Only when I’ve been waiting for 20 minutes in the sideways falling rain, I don’t say mofo.)

Now, this series of Boston impressions won’t be all complaining, I promise! I actually am trying to fall in love with the place, really, I am.

Three Thoughts for Three Decades

So fine, I turned 30, it’s done, and there’s nothing I can do about it, okay? I am happy to have gotten this particular landmark over with – at least there’s another 10 years before I have something else to dread. In my early 20s my elders counseled me that that was one of the most challenging times of life; but now, every 30+ person I know speaks with a gleam in their eye of good things to come. What the heck, I’ll believe ‘em. Some thoughts:

One rainy Saturday, many years ago, I was eight years old and engaged in my favorite activity: rifling through my mother’s belongings. Silk scarves, old photo albums, two-dollar bills, cook books, perfume, hair curlers, and necklaces made her dresser drawers a knick-knack lover’s delight. I was happily burrowing through a pile of hippie beads when I stopped in my tracks. A photo lay on the table, a photo of me when I was probably around four. I sat down on the bed. I started rocking back and forth, and singing to the picture. And I started crying. Mom came up the stairs. “What’s the matter? What’s the matter?” “Oh,” I buried my face in her lap. “I want to be young again!” I remember how her stomach bounced as she laughed her head off.

Two points: 1) I’m a born discontent; 2) despite those tears some 22 years ago, my youth has managed to stretch this far, and I don’t see a good reason for it to end anytime soon…

Nearly 10 years ago, another rainy afternoon, and I am standing in a cement basement, once again in tears. (I guess that’s my leitmotif!) This particular basement is in Vienna, the home of Klimt’s masterpiece, the Beethoven Frieze. It remains the only piece of fine art that has moved me to tears. The work illustrates Wagner’s programmatic interpretation of Beethoven’s Ninth: humanity’s journey from hostile forces, to poetry, then to music, and finally to happiness, celebrated as an embracing couple surrounded by a choir of angels: dieser Kuss der ganzen Welt. From beginning until resolution, waifish genies float above each frame, eyes closed, arms outstretched. They represent humanity’s yearning for happiness: die Sehnsucht nach dem Glück.

Sehnsucht is a beautiful German word (yes, such a thing exists). The sehn means to yearn and is also related to ‘ardent’ or ‘passionate.’ Sucht means addiction, and also comes from suchen, ‘to seek.’ So much in two syllables! Since that musty day in the Viennese basement, I have kept an image of a Sehnsucht genie posted on my wall by my bed next to my pillow, letting me contemplate my own Sehnsucht before I fall asleep. She reminds me to focus on my goals and dreams, but I suppose her presence is also a bit sad. Yearning for happiness implies the present lack of happiness. As these pages reveal, I know how to find many things in life to complain about. Yet, turning the corner around this decade, I somehow have less inclination to whine, and more Lust to look ahead, and remember all the good things along the way (like a trip to Vienna).

Not long ago a friend remarked that a “transformation” happens in one’s early 30’s. He didn’t elaborate, and I’m not sure what to expect, but it’s a beautiful thought. It might be psychosomatic, but I’ve been feeling on the verge of something lately.

Schicksal is another fine German word. It means ‘destiny,’ but the root suggests it comes from the verb schicken, ‘to send,’ as if destiny not only guided but physically sent you along your path. Earlier this month, destiny sent me to read a magazine article by Milan Kundera, discussing, among other things, Flaubert’s shedding of his lyricism (and romantic prose) at the age of 30, when he sat down to write Madame Bovary. I don’t pretend that greatness is around the corner for me, I’m just curious to see how it all turns out. Ten years ago, I couldn’t have imagined that my life would look the way it does right now. Ten years from now, I will be doing things, living somewhere, meeting people, and being a person I can’t begin to imagine now. Only one way to find out what it will be.

Yonder.

A Crisis of Faith

I am about to finish my second degree in music, my masters, which I've wanted for ages. There are times when I am motivated to the core to pursue the musical path I've had in my sights since I was a child. Yet...

Now is the season when thousands of voice students and para-professionals across the country prepare applications to young artist programs and summer festivals that enable them to build their stage resumes. I am gamely entering the fray, encouraged by my teacher but soundly discouraged by the prospects. There are around 200 programs internationally. There is fierce competition to get in. A few I've looked into accept 25 singers from 500 applicants, or 1 in 20. And although there are larger programs that bring in a range of participants, they often cost upwards of $3,000.

But that's not the problem. It's the process. Who you know is more important than what you know, and you certainly still have to know your stuff. And the countless deadlines, and the fees, and the applications that bark: Incomplete applications will not be processed; Please be advised that sending an application does not guarantee an audition; and Age limits: women- 30, men- 32. Demoralizing to say the least.

This morning, I dawdled over my doggerel instead of running off to practice, as I usually make myself do in the mornings. I could picture a productive day at home, trying my hand at writing and seeing where it takes me. Writing is much like practicing music: by the time we get to the finished product, all the hard work has been done, and we are left with the result, as perfect and flawed as it will be at that time in the development of the person creating it. A musical performance involves a great deal more of spontanaeity than a finely tuned piece of prose, but also much more risk. And not just a risk of mistakes: the difference between a competent performance and a transcendent one can be measured by a hair's breadth.

Writing is more forgiving, and allows so much time for the development of the writer before a "performance:" the publication or revealing of his work. It also seems to allow for broad range of aesthetic tastes. A singer with an unattractive voice faces an uphill batle with any and all audiences. A writer with a repugnant style will still appeal to some people.

I found myself in a foul mood this week, and felt immediately better when I relieved myself of its source. I had begun a book of short stories by Ha Jin, and quickly abandoned it when it filled me with despair. Story 1: public mortification and stomach-turning suicide; story 2: gang rape; story 3: a pig fight that mortally gouges the flesh of a young boy. I'm old fashioned, but I like my art to be beautiful.

I fled to Truman Capote, who I had managed to never encounter before, and I'm a much happier girl. Phrases like "bouncy bon voyage oompahpah" or simply "Holly rubbed her nose" let me paint my own pictures and imagine the characters as if they were my own creation. It's an element that music and writing again have in common: setting the audience at ease and transporting them to a different, and often idyllic, place.

So now it's 8:30 on a Thursday night, I've frittered away good practice time by sitting here writing about writing without ever really writing (this blog is little more than scantily edited stream of consciousness) and wondering if I am coming close to developing my voice, but only to discover that that voice could be better off as soundless words on paper.

And the winner is.....

I still can’t decide!! I’m making too big a deal of this, I know, but it’s fun. The majority of ya’ll seem to prefer ‘Wise,’ but my only hesitation is that I don’t wear that expression on a regular basis. Hmm. But a certain salty soprano wins the prize for putting the most amusing words in my mouth. She suggested that the ‘Wise’ photo looks as if I’m saying:

“I am seven feet tall. And I will kill you if I do not get the role I desire.”

HA!

But moving on, (because it’s not really ALL about me…) I’ve been meaning to post an email from a wonderful tenor I met in Seattle, whose big heart and boundless humor are matched only by his beautiful voice. I still choke up to read this. He touches on some of the things that I find most compelling about performing and studying music: how you open yourself to others in a way that doesn’t happen in daily life, and how the act of recreating art from an earlier time is not only thrilling, but a way of creating another world. Or rather, I feel, speaking with the dead.

Also below is Kevin’s portrait, when he miraculously matched the color of the dining room wall in my apartment in Seattle.

Dear Friends,

As I write, I am on the plane heading home. So much of me is still attached to each of you. Perhaps the only thing sadder for me than the end of the music is that awful feeling of letting go of people I have come to admire, people who have touched my life in some new and deeply meaningful way. Being a professional musician has so many glamorous benefits. There are the beautiful cities, the splendid costumes and of course, the glorious music. There is the excitement of travel and the anticipation of making those new relationships that lift us up to a higher, more beautiful level of being. What a gift it is to have music in our lives, and what a responsibility it is for us to preserve this great art, and to continually renew it either by recreating the past, or creating something new and significant for another generation.

These ten days past have been not only rewarding for me, but revelatory. I was able to rise to new challenges, conquer some old fears and most of all, to cement more than a dozen new friendships. At the moment, I confess that I am sad that time and place and art like what we have just experienced has now faded into the atmosphere. A darkened stage is the loneliest place I know. But I rejoice in the good will and the love that I came to experience with each of you, and in turn, I hope that there was something in or from me that made a difference for good in you.

I have a firm faith in the art of music as a catalyst for change. I believe with every fiber of my being that we, the purveyors of that which is good, just and beautiful were placed on this mortal coil to do good, to soothe pain, to challenge evil; to protect that which is eternal and to heal through sound. Music, like the spirit, never dies. Instead it continues onward into the cosmos on an infinite journey. Those sounds which now seem to have died have taken on a new life, and hopefully they will fall on receptive ears somewhere, somehow beyond our knowing.

To our wonderful faculty, thank you for the knowledge and the patience and for and for giving us the freedom to fly on our own. I can speak for us all when I say that your gifts to us are immeasurable.

To each of you: Borys, John, Yulia, John, Doug, Thea, Beth, Jennifer, Katy, Ilya, Amanda, Matthew, Amy and Jason; thank you for the music, and thank you for the love. Thank you for the gales of laughter and serious discussions. Thank you for the girl talk and even for the occasional admonition. You’ve all written a chapter of my story, and I have been blessed beyond measure to have shared in your lives. Perhaps it’s a bit corny to quote song lyrics. It’s almost as if I’m signing your yearbook or something. But I think that the songwriter said it well when he said: “Who can say if I’ve been changed for the better? But, because I knew you, I have been changed, for good.”

With the deepest affection,

Kevin

It's all about me

Friends, please let me know which is your favorite Amanda! Leave a comment below, or email me. Thanks!

Bedhead

Tilted

Straightforward

Eager

Wise

Let me rephrase that.....

After re-reading my somewhat gruesome previous post, I realized I should clarify something: I’m actually starting to like auditioning! After I left the audition I wrote about before, I felt jumpy, that’s true, but fairly pleased with how things turned out, and knowing that I couldn’t have done better than I did. The self doubt etc. comes when I think thinks went poorly, but mostly I’ve learned not to worry about it. After showing up and finishing off, there’s nothing more I can do about it.

That audition even earned praise from the chair of the opera department for my poise. But as for my placement in the opera program? The lowest rung of all: a performance class with no chance of being considered for one of the productions. I was stung, but my teacher was pleased. Apparently, not all voice majors are accepted in the class or the operas, and it was something of a coup for a singer from the historical performance department. In general, opera singers view the early music singer as an ugly, retarded second-cousin. I’ll learn something from this class (and maybe my younger colleagues will learn something from me), and it’s a smaller time commitment that frees me up for other things……

………such as more auditions. It is the beginning of audition season now, as every youngish singer in the country chases after summer programs, young artist apprenticeships, and any other opportunity that will get them onstage. I’ll join that flock, and meanwhile, I’m auditioning for local things around Boston. Quite a few, I must say, and some particularly exciting ones. I have my eye on a role I feel destined for, perfect for a tall mezzo, at a place where they just might want to have me….. I won’t even describe it, for fear of jinxing it. Whatever happens, I am learning to audition, and that’s valuable enough.

* * * * *

“A lot of good voices went down with those towers.” It was days after September 11, 2001, when learning how to sing seemed like the most frivolous thing in the world, but I had dutifully come in for my voice lesson. My teacher was explaining that the World Trade Center was a favorite place for singers to temp, where the financial giants paid the best hourly rates to help working (and aspiring singers) in the lean months. (At the time my teacher was in remission from cancer. It would soon return with aggression, and he would die within 30 months.)

There must have been singers who were just returning from summer programs, or singers who perform during the year but work in offices during the slow summer. Singers just about to quit their jobs for a chance to sing, singers just out of college trying to work to pay their debts before pursuing their career — later.

Whatever my failures or disappointments, I accept them gratefully, as I’m sure these colleagues would have done.

Next?

Non-musicians will often marvel when I mention to them that I have an audition coming up.  They will sometimes gasp with astonishment, and then remark that it must be a frightening experience that they would not have the mettle to undergo.

If you’d like, you can simulate the feelings that surface during an audition without having to go through the process yourself.  Simply insert a dull knife just below your breastbone.  Then cut a shallow incision from the top of your gut to your navel, just deep enough to sever the lateral abdominal muscles.  Then, remove your intestines with your fingers.  See, wasn’t that easier than standing in front of strangers and singing a song?
Auditioning is a critical part of the process of becoming a professional, but it’s an overlooked skill.  When I practice, I imagine the pleasures of performing, not the anxiety of being judged.  Poor auditioning skills have been the downfall of plenty of worthy singers, and my own attempts at the craft certainly need some strengthening.  

Over the summer I had the chance to sing for various different people and groups, and start to figure out how it works for me.  If I begin to judge myself, even with positive thoughts (“Oh they love me!  That note was fabulous!  I’m born for this!”), I set myself up for trouble.  The negative thoughts soon follow: “They hate me.  That note was awful.  What the hell am I doing here?”)  I’m finding that the system I need to follow includes making sure I start and stay on my breath (either singing or at least moving around immediately prior to singing is crucial to this), and imagine a singer I admire standing in front of me, singing along, and encouraging me all the way.  Is that corny or what??

But the thing is, as a singer, every single encounter with colleagues, directors, professors, conductors, instrumentalists, or nearly any other musical professional is an audition.  Whether I’m singing or not, I’m trying to communicate my intelligent professionalism, my profound musical understanding, my sweet and amenable personal manner, my ravishing acting style, and my seemingly psychic connection with composers’ intents.     Any contact or any occasion can ultimately help advance – or stall – your career.

I have my audition for the opera programs at school tomorrow, which will decide my placement in productions for the year.  I’m actually confident, regardless of the fact that the teacher I rejected last year will be among those hearing me.  I’m singing well right now, I know how to pull myself together, and I also know that even when I think I do poorly, the net performance is still passable.

But undoubtedly, I will leave the 7-minute audition tomorrow feeling like I always do: frightened, unhinged, covered in self-doubt, inferior, untalented, and wishing I could try again.  For even if I do well, even if I win a terrific role, I will not come away with what I really want from an audition.  I want the person hearing me to take me in their arms.  I want to nestle my head in their shoulder as they kiss my forehead.  And I want them to promise me that everything will be alright in my career.

No Cure Like Travel

Om.

The single trip I will take on an airplane this year fall two days after an unravelled terrorist plot heightens airline security.

Om.

Because of this, I check a bag I would otherwise have carried on. Om. This is also the first time that the airplane gods decide that it is my turn to lose my luggage.

Om.

During my three day stay in New York, I am anxious about my entire summer wardrobe now gone missing, not to mention my asthma meds.

But the bag came back! And here I am safely in Seattle for a 10-day workshop and visiting friends. I've been looking forward to this all summer, but truthfully, I came here with more than a little dread. I tend to fall apart at these workshops: invariably I am intimidated by singers who are younger, prettier, better, and more accomplished than me. Regardless of the fact that I also encounter people who are my equals, or are older, uglier, worse, and less accomplished (!), I put some work into keeping it together.

But so far, I think I'll like it here. I'm staying with my hilarious college pal Audrey, and I'm meeting friends old and new at the workshop. Yesterday at least four people approached me, convinced that they knew me from somewhere but we could not find the connection. This usually happens a few times a year, not all in one day. I wonder what it means??

I better run off to the bakery now for my breakfast of a scone and mandatory cup of coffee, and then off to work on some very old music in the very new part of the new world!

Me with Madelyn, Jeanmarie's baby girl.

Here's my sassy host Audrey. I offered to take her out to dinner to thank her for letting me stay, and she chose dollar taco Tuesday at a lesbian bar!

My alarm clock Mazzie, one of Audrey's two dogs.
A bouquet for Jeanmarie, dahlias and Queen Anne's lace. The famous Pike Place Market sells breathtakingly beautiful flowers for practically pennies.
The obligatory tourist shot of the very first Starbucks.

Dog Days

My summer employment brings simultaneous blessings and curses, it’s all very interesting:

Blessing: I’m working full-time. This yields more money than my old part-time job, and certainly more than I would have made collecting unemployment, which I would have had needed to do once that part-time job ended.

Curse: I’m working full-time. This means that I’ve made only little progress on the half dozen music projects I’ve wanted to do, and felt less like a performer than an office monkey. Also, the Boston workplace is incredibly isolating – human social contact is kept to a bare minimum – so by the afternoon I’m trying to ward off loneliness.

Curse: The job is temporary. This was rather distressing during my first few weeks here, when my energy was just sucked away by working full time while having to search for a permanent job. As a temp, they can readily get rid of you whenever they please and for whatever reason. There was the chance that they might create a part time position for me, but that was never certain, and even the length of the assignment was unclear. Moreover, working through an agency, my salary is about the same as a high school babysitter's.

Blessing: The job is temporary. Starting a new job this summer would have demanded even more concentration and attention than this gig, even with the preoccupying job search at the same time. Besides, what else but a tempo position would let me blog during the day, as I'm doing right now?

Curse: The job is in Roxbury. One of Boston’s first outlying neighborhoods and quite vibrant in its way, there is no green space anywhere near my office, only one sort-of decent lunch place, and absolutely no shops of any use or interest. Located directly across from a bus terminal, I developed a cough within a few days of working here. The neighborhood is mostly minority, so heads turn when a white lady gets off the bus and many beggars step up their pleas when they see me.

Blessing: The job is in Roxbury. Because Boston is so segregated, it’s actually nice to see the lives of other citizens in another neighborhood. And you can’t say the locals aren’t friendly. When I have ventured out, I’m usually greeted by the numerous men hanging around the streets, some of whom have called out: “You’ve got a great smile!” “Bring those beautiful legs back here right now!” “You’re beautiful! If no one told you you’re beautiful today, then I’ll tell you!” I don't find this threatening at all. After a day in solitary office confinement, this is music to my ears. The cashier at the decent lunch place (Hector) is a character, and chats with me every time I come in. He even gave me a free slice of white bean pie, promising I would love it. (The maple whipped cream it came with was delicious; the pie itself was sweeter than white beans were ever meant to be.)

I’m trying to get what I can out of this place before I leave (in 6 working days!!!). There are some interesting sights (photos below), and even a couple of promising nooks. A new Dominican lunch counter opened up, and I think I’ll check it out some time when I want to fall into afternoon food coma. Local charm is surprisingly hard to find in Boston, especially ethnic, and I’ve actually hoped to find another Dominican joint since I first knew one near my first workplace in New York a bunch of years ago. What better way to cool off than a bucket of oxtail stew, and piles of rice, beans, and pico de gallo? And even better, a batido de papaya or morir soñando, a sweet drink of orange syrup and milk that is so good it earned its name: to die dreaming.

And occasionally I stop in the Tropical Foods "El Cabanero" down the road, where I barely buy anything but just gaze at the other world of immigrant food. Who knew that there were so many different kinds of grain out there, and all with beautiful names: gari, cassava, iyan, moin moin, banku, alubo, egusi, and alligator peppers. Once I bought some delicious chili powder, and mango nectar. I decided to skip the weirdo dried fish section, and the copious collection of tinned ham, of all things, and what would a gringa ever be able to do with these piles of unknown roots and tubers?

Ham in a can is nothing short of a Treet.

What if you could smell this picture?

The aisle is three times the size of this shot.

You can see the skyline from a garden near my office.....

... but alas, it's under lock and key.

I imagine this beautiful corner building (now abandoned) was a busy department store before Roxbury fell into decline.

Yup, the sign's correct, tuxedos for hire, $2.00 and up!

food for those

I'm trying to find time between audition prep (I'll have had seven this summer!), festival prep, recital planning, freelance grantwriting, and dayjob to structure and write my impressions of Boston. In just a few weeks I'll have my one year anniversary of life in this town. Meanwhile, I can share this story with you that happened just this morning.

One of my gripes (not like I have that many ;-) is that Boston fails to fill me with wonder. That is, I haven't encountered one single spot in the city where I've paused, admired, and thought "Oh the greatness of man!" Am I being too demanding? Well, I felt something like this on nearly every subway ride over the Manhattan bridge. A walk through the canyons of midtown or the tall peaks of Wall Street makes one feel like a god.

And in Rome, don't even get me started. Not just the Pantheon or the Colosseum but a crumpled napkin from a rip-off bar or a pile of dust from a construction site were enough to make my eyes go wide. The Puritan ethic of austerity and utility seem to have imbued architecture and city planning in Boston for all eternity. Sure, there are a few iconic churches and a couple of interesting modern buildings, but it's all on a small, restrained scale that does not overwhelm.

But what I am finding - slowly, glacierly - is a bit of what I always had experienced on my visits to Boston over the years: humanity. Friends gathering for dinner at home, new acquaintences becoming friends, people planning excursions to the many pretty villages close to town.

The workplace, however, seems to be exceedingly frosty. I've had two jobs here now, both times sharing an office with someone else, and both times only speaking to my office mate and/or boss only when absolutely necessary. There is no greeting or only a very reluctant hello when you walk in the door each morning. I used to say "bless you" when the other guy sneezed, but it got awkward when he would barely respond and didn't return the favor. Sitting down with colleagues in the lunch room makes me feel like a ghost: I appear to be invisible, no one addresses me, and I can't seem to make my way into the conversation. Whatever happened to the good old, "Hi, how are you, how was your weekend?" I swear, if my heart stopped right now no one would notice until the cleaning lady came!

So I suppose when a little human interaction happens in this ice block it seems like an exceptional event. Here, at last, is my story:

Mary W., a Christian first name and an African last, crooked glasses and relaxed hair, prim office wardrobe and an ample rear-end. She sits at her desk every day from nine to five, headphones permanently on her head.

“Do you sing?” Her question to me would sound like an accusation, but her voice has that delicious West African lilt. “How do you know?” I am surprised. Someone had found copies of my sheet music in the copier, and thought it was hers. She composes, she explains, but she can’t read or write music. She marvels that I can. She sings melodies in Swahili and records them to beat. “Do you have a recording of your work I can listen too?” She hands me a homemade CD from her computer, and I listen, and thank her, and we smile like two schoolgirls sharing a secret.

She replaces her headphones on her ears, and turns back to her work. High above her desk in bold print is Psalm 111:5: He provides food for those who fear him; he remembers his covenant forever.

finding the words

I've been happily living part-time in the fantasy world of Haruki Murakami, whose beautiful and surreal writing defies description. Towards the end of Kafka on the Shore, his latest novel, a line leapt out at me:

"Memories warm you up from the inside. But they also tear you apart."

Tearing apart reminded me of imagery from Bach cantatas, and I thought it would sound even more dramatic in German:

"Erinnerungen wärmen Dich von innen auf. Doch sie reißen Dich auch auseinander."

Nowadays, I think with fondness of the warm memories I have of the hot country I was in this time last year, so Italian came to mind:

"Le memorie ti riscaldano dall'interno. Ma ti fanno anche a pezzi."

I wonder what would I would think of if I knew the original Japanese....

New Look

Do we like it? Hate it? I got tired of the fuzzy typeface and went looking for higher resolution. Don't be surprised if this blog goes through a few face-lifts in the coming months. If I'm calling myself tech savvy, it's time to walk the walk.

I meant to write last night, but collapsed with exhaustion after a rather intense kickboxing class (stop laughing). Every so often it's a good idea to bring this journal back to my original intent: A Singer's Journal.

I practiced well last night, it's a great feeling. I got together on Tuesday to rehearse with a pianist friend (yes, we like making friends with keyboardists who actual want to work with me, not just collect cash to work for me!), but we ended up gabbing and planning instead of singing, so I had a night off. Maybe that's what made my throat more relaxed today, but somehow I was able to sing with greater ease and strength than usual. The trick that I have to keep reminding myself of is in the support system. I had thought of support as abdominal strength, but it actually has to do with using the stomach muscles to open the rib cage, creating more space for resonance. Newborns understand this extremely well, which is why they can produce such powerful sounds with limited muscle.

Good support also frees up the throat, which is the next important space for resonance. The more space, the better the sound, the easier the production, the less air you need, the better the carrying power. The paradox of studying any instrument is that you must work extremely hard for it to become easy. I'm owning the first part of that idea, and finally beginning to accept that in my practice, if it feels easy, it probably is right.

Well, that's enough for boring vacl technique now, isn't it? Back to dreary, soul-searching pity parties.

I've been writing

Really, I have. I’ve written quite a bit over these past two weeks, though none of it’s appeared here. I finished several essays about my impressions of Boston, and the latest challenges and opportunities that have come my way. I wrote a beautiful eulogy for the unexpected death of Lorraine Hunt Lieberson, the woman who was not only my favorite singer but my role model, whose voice I hear when I envision the sound I am striving for. I wrote a charming parody of the sort of poetic free verse one finds in 17th century French secular cantatas. I wrote character studies – for the first time I’ve had ideas for characters! – and sketched outlines for soul-searing stories that lay bear the human condition.

It’s a pity that these texts have only appeared on the interior of my eyelids, and never on paper. Working as much as I do now – and not enough on music projects, unfortunately – I find plenty of fodder for inspiration, but less time and energy to write it down. My non-dayjob hours have to be devoted to an evening practice, and whatever I can do to work on the pile of repertoire I wish to learn this summer. Time to develop myself as a writer – and singer – will have to be found some other season, maybe next year.

Yet, being busy also keeps my mind energized, and has somehow given me the drive to have ideas for new things to write about and music to pursue. If I was back on my care-free part-time schedule, I might clock more hours in the library, but I would also find more ways to fritter away time, and new things to frustrate me. Leisure and contentment does not usually yield great art: when Brahms was pining away for Clara Schumann he wrote his masterpieces, when he was happy he wrote plonk, like the Hungarian dances.

It takes discipline to create a beautiful voice – written or sung. I would never characterize myself as a disciplined person. As a child I would be more likely to curl up with a book and then stare into space, rather than immerse myself in the story. I don’t have the ambition of some of my peers, never being able to tolerate long hours in the office or ruthless behavior with colleagues. This summer is a test of my dreams: can I make some progress on them while making some money?

I’m in the office right now, and should logoff to face my Monday morning and the (not altogether uninteresting work) at hand. My music sits in my apartment, damp with humidity. My voice sits silently in my throat, as if it didn’t exist at all. Those characters I dreamt up go about their days as usual, occasionally blinking at me with expectation.

Here's an idea for a new character: a relatively young women with some talent and drive, who quits bellyaching about not being able to do the things she wants to and actually knuckles down and gets the work done.

Amanda's First Poem

I am running
Late across
Roads that hurt
My soles.

Sweat covers me
In layers and
I am nervous and
My heart races.

Cars and noise
Move faster than me.
I fail to cross on green when

I catch my eye on
A rising shape:
Your arm, above your shoulder,
Forming a square beside your head.

White skin and clear eyes,
Shining for me at sunset.

Update

After that somewhat dreary last post, I spoke with three overseas friends, including a woman I hadn't seen or been in touch with since 2002. Is there anything as nice as hearing a smile in the voice of someone you care about, and who is happy to speak to you too? If there will ever be a time when I cannot hear music, let me at least be able to hear the voices of my friends.

In Touch

Hello there, poor neglected little blog. And hello to you, poor neglected little reader. Has it really been over a month since I last sat down to write? Tut tut. I’ve been caught up in a web of work to do, as well as my customary brooding. Let me explain.

First, I was busy with recital prep, then the event itself, and the inevitable post-recital funk. Then planning for my whirlwind social tour of New York, which involved visiting with no fewer than nine friends (ten including the baby) plus family, and having long, excited conversations on such topics as life plans, relationships, careers, heartbreak, etc. I’m zonked. I won’t regale you with summaries of all those girlfriend bonding sessions, why don’t I just talk about me for a change. :-)

Grief counselors have identified Five Stages of Recital Preparation:

1. Denial: “The recital’s in two weeks?”
2. Anger: “I hate this music, I hate my harpsichordist, I hate you….”
3. Bargaining: “Why do I have to do this? Can’t someone else sing the thing instead?”
4. Depression: “I can’t do this. I’m the worst singer in the world. And I think I’m getting fat.”
5. Acceptance: “I am going to sing this and it’s going to be fabulous and lots of fun. Dammit.”

But go through with it I did, and I even lived to talk about it. It was probably the first performance I gave where I didn’t get tired of hearing my own voice towards the end of the program, or worry if people were bored. I earned high praise from a prof whose heart I’ve been trying to win (professionally speaking, absolutely), and my biggest fan, which would be my Dad, was ever-proud. Then again, he would be proud if all I did was step on the stage and sneeze.

I was a duck out of water for the first week or so after the concert, not knowing what to do with myself or what music to work on. I had lived with some of this rep for close to a year, and as much as I was eager to bring it to performance, I knew I would be reluctant to leave those songs behind, as if they were old friends. But, the 90-minute concert came and went, there is no more work to be done on it, and the music is shelved and put away. But I still sing the tunes to myself, with the lusty nostalgia of recalling an old affair. Now it’s on to new music, new opportunities, and the next steps.

Back in New York, I was touching base with people I consider close friends. Now that I’m out of town, seeing them for a few hours feels like precious moments, as we try to squeeze in a life update since my last visit. Granted, now that I have to make an effort to see these folks I get in some good quality time, and in fact, I might see them more frequently now than when I was living in town. But still, I wonder how long and how deep these long-distance friendships can run.

Friendships, unlike pieces of music, require constant upkeep, attention, care, and feeding. I try to stay close to my long distance friends, but on any given day, there is a finite number of “Hi, how are you” emails I can write. And I think that even in person I can estrange myself from my companions, perhaps with the self-obsession that singers cultivate. Already in my short time in Boston there have been some goodbyes.

Whatever happened to those Dutch girls who visited me a while ago? Or the German relatives I met only once? Or my politics professor who I adored. Or my college friends who have moved far away. Or my tenuous friendships with old coworkers. And what about that certain young man, who perhaps right now is finishing his workday at the office where I used to greet him, turning towards home past castles and pine trees that seem to float above the skyline.

Maybe I’ll look them up the next time I’m in town. Maybe we’ll get together for beers and smiles and it will be as if we never were apart. Maybe we’ll beat the odds and reunite after years of no contact and eventually claim that we’ve known each other for most of our lives.

Or maybe we won’t. Maybe I’ll just make new friends. And eventually leave them too.

organically

Funny, I had been planning on writing down my hilarious impressions of my adopted hometown, but, in this time of pressures from work, school, and what I’ll generously call my music career, I’m afraid you’re in for another emotional post.

Some things have to happen on their own time.  You can’t hurry up and grow your organic wasabi root – the thing can take up to three years to grow, organic or not.  You can’t hurry up and make your voice do what you want it to do.  You can’t wake up one day and have the career you want.

Welcome to the world of vocal studies.  You know how you want to sound, and what it is you’d like to be able to do.  Unfortunately, at any given point, your body is about three months behind your mind.  Musicians get so frustrated in the practice room because of this.  At the very least, writing is an art in which the finished product is not based on your performance in one instant.  I can spend hours – or minutes – caressing a sentence, and the mistakes stay on the cutting room floor.  I can also spend hours in the practice room, but mistakes will still end up in the performance.  You can’t rush your own progress, you can only be impatient with it.

I’m making perfectly good progress.  I feel that every time I perform is better than the last, I work hard to behave professionally, I take every performing experience seriously, and I’m an entrepreneur by creating performing opportunities.  So isn’t it annoying that the other people’s success feels like my own failure?  A colleague wins a steady performing job, without even auditioning.  She was in the finals the year before, and they just decided to give it to her this year.  In so many ways, I’m not at that point.

Just a matter of time, you say, these things have a way of working themselves out, stick around awhile and things will happen for you too.  Hmm.  It ain’t so easy in an unforgiving profession.  Though I’m reminded of a musician I met a few years back.  He played some obscure Renaissance instrument, like the crumhorn or the bombard.  He was describing his career, and how it takes quite a while for things to get rolling along.  But he did conclude that there’s always a space for the next batch of musicians.  “Cause y’know why?  People eventually die.”

A little too busy to properly post...

As evidence of the sleep-deprived, swamped state I’m in, I was laughing to tears during my continuo class this morning. Why? I cracked up whenever the prof described the plucking mechanism of the harpsichord. It brought to mind a favorite tongue twister:
http://www.users.globalnet.co.uk/~mentor01/song.htm

“She’s lost it,” proclaimed a friend.

Strange Dreams

Just before going to sleep the other night I read an email from a friend of mine (una carissima amica mia che voglio bene, che mi manca tantissimo!), who wrote with some interesting news and friendly greetings. In my dreams that night, I dreamt she had also wrote that she enjoyed reading my blog, but just wished I wasn’t so egotistical and snooty. The first thing I did when I awoke was to re-read the email. It was as I remembered, of course not as I dreamt, but I swear I could have seen the words before me.

Last night, I remember only details from a long dream. I was on a train ride, in colors of dark green and blue, and on one of the seats I found three frozen items: a package of fruit, similar to what you would find at a deli, a baby, and something else I can’t remember. That’s right, a frozen baby. Its hair was blonde and brittle, but its skin was rosy and soft, like a normal baby’s, just very cold. I knew that it was still alive. I think the rest of the dream involved trying to locate the baby’s parents, and eventually my mom entered and told me she had found the father. He was in his 70’s and wanted to get rid of the child because he knew it would be brain damaged (whether or not that was a result of the freezing, my dream didn’t make clear.) Mom pointed out that the baby’s developmental delays were evident (it had begun to thaw out) and noted its deformed head as proof.

They say that you are everything you dream about. It makes perfect sense – no one else put these thoughts in my mind, they only came from me. What should I make of them?

Nota Bene

Heavens to Betsy! My last post seems to have struck some complicated chords in some of ye, so here is a handy set of guidelines to improve your enjoyment of Amanda’s blog:

1. I write this online journal in lieu of an offline one. By reading, you are opening the Pandora’s box of my most intimate thoughts. I’m delighted that you read! But you have been warned, all of this stuff is close to the bone.
2. Remember that I write sometimes late at night or in fragmented sections, which can yield some occasional incoherence, contradictory conclusions, or not very nice things about you personally.
3. If the latter occurs, do feel free to leave extensive rebuttal remarks in the comments section! (The more web traffic I can claim, the more attractive I can make this blog to advertisers, the more revenue it will produce, etc. ;-)
4. My original goal with starting a blog was to inspire myself to try to write fiction. Brace yourself my cherubs, that just might happen soon! As such, don’t believe everything you read…
5. But that said, don’t take it all personally. When I address “you,” how do YOU know who I’m talking to??? It could be you, or likely someone else, or I’m just making someone up and messin’ with ya (see rule #4).
6. As with all intensely good things, pace yourself. Think of my writing as a delicacy, like dark chocolate, black truffles, or celestial ambrosia. Just a few bites (or paragraphs) can be overwhelming to mere mortals ;-D.
7. You know that I write, but I really don’t know who reads! As such, forgive me if I forget my audience and write something that rubs you the wrong way. I truly mean no offense.
8. By all means, start your own blog, and see how it changes your point of view…

The One

Frankly, I don’t buy it. We spend our adult lives looking for our One True Love, but I don’t believe there’s only one person out there for each of us. Aren’t we approaching seven billion human beings on earth by now? There must be 10 or 12 guys out there I would get along with just fine.

But whether it’s because the media tells me to, or my mother, or the social messages society gives to girls, my romantic ambitions are more important to me right now than my musical ones. Yup, dish out that tired cliché of marriage and family and I will lap it all up.

It is likely just a matter of time before I settle down. I view it very dryly as a straightforward systems analysis: I am of proper marriageable age, I will look for others of proper marriageable age (much in the way I would search for a job, apartment, or sandals), I will locate one, and that will be that. Done. I know from friends’ experience with all types of dating, that it is absolutely never that simple. And often, my friends have given their hearts to men who have disappointed them over and over. I guess you could say I’ve been lucky of late; I haven’t had my heart broken in nearly 10 years. (“You’re due,” commented a friend recently.) Instead, I’m the one who entices men only to break their hearts. A perfectly nice man will grow fond of me and offer me his heart, which I then rip out of his chest and eat while it’s still beating, dripping blood all down my sleeve.

My parents named me Amanda, which comes from the Latin and means “one to be loved.” How could anyone be mean to me when my name so clearly instructs otherwise? Overall, the name has served me well. I’ve felt surrounded and buoyed by love, especially as I’ve gotten older. Because for the most part, everybody loves me.

Follow my imagination for just a paragraph. From store clerks to boyfriends, long-time classmates to week-long co-workers, perfect strangers to true friends, people fall in love with me. I walk into a room and conquer them with my face. What could it be? The blonde corona that completes my robin’s egg blue eyes? My golden tresses? My slender wrists or graceful walk? True, there is the occasional ignoramus who finds me to be a hyperactive bore, and I’m certainly aware that classier, more beautiful women abound, but otherwise, I’m enjoying being at a place in life where my self consciousness just might be matched by my self confidence.

Anyway. So, without launching into a sweltering stew of trite, what’s love actually supposed to be? Infatuation? Deep admiration? Partnership? Friendship in the extreme?

“Yes,” you answer unequivocally, when I ask you if you’ve been in love. “Three or four times.” But that last qualification naturally leads to the question: “Three or four times?” It raises the issue that has bewitched anyone who has ever been in a mental institution: What is love? I would define love as something that doesn’t end. And as willingness to sacrifice a bit of yourself for another person. And as being unable to take your eyes away from your beloved. “I love you” has crossed my lips countless times with various people, but by my own definition, I was misguided.

You, whose white shoulders I’ve never touched, might I love you? And you, who broke my heart so completely, that I surely must have been in love. And, my dear you. I am sorry, but it might not have been love at all, but it was certainly loyalty. And you, I don’t know what to make of you at all just yet.

Amanda, Amanda, one to be loved. Since I was a little girl I’ve wanted nothing more than to find someone who would love me forever. That turns out to be the easy part. Amanda, Amanda, how strange would it be if you could not love?

The one pure love I can claim, (apart from my family), is what I feel in the practice room and on the stage. To open my lungs and relax my throat, to turn my body into an instrument. To feel words form on my lips and sound vibrate across my chin, cheekbones, and brow. It is a love for the passions of the composers and poets who created the works I sing. The very love they describe in art is the love I hope to discover in life, but have felt only vicariously, like a person who knows the ocean only from paintings.

Let me share with you a prayer that I’ve been listening to lately. It’s not a prayer at all, actually, but a beautiful Mozart trio. Any of the vocal lines would be exquisite on their own, but combined, it is brief glimpse of perfection itself. Listen to it here, read it below, and even if you don’t speak Italian, say the words out loud, for just a bit of Italian on the lips will make you feel amazing.

Soave sia il vento
Tranquilla sia l’onda
Ed ogni elemento
Benigno risponda
Ai nostri desir.

May the winds be soft,
May the waves be tranquil,
And each element
Respond gently
To our desires.

So fortune goodnight, be gentle on our souls, and on our wishes, whatever they may be.

What can I say?

There is a curious paradox that no one can explain.
Who understands the secrets of the reaping of the grain?
Who understands why Spring is born of Winter's labouring pain?
Or why we all must die a bit before we grow again.
I do not know the answer.
I only know its true.
I hurt [you] for that reason.
And myself a little bit too.
-- The Fantasticks

Take, oh take those lips away,
That so sweetly were forsworn,
And those eyes, the break of day,
Lights that do mislead the morn:
But my kisses bring again,
Seals of love, but sealed in vain.

Hide, oh hide those hills of snow,
Which thy frozen bosom bears,
On whose tops the pinks that grow
Are yet of those that April wears.
But first set my poor heart free,
Bound in those icy chains by thee.
-- John Fletcher

To what you said, passionately clasping my hand, this is my answer:
Though you have strayed hither, for my sake, you can never belong to me,
Nor I to you,
Behold the customary loves and friendships, the cold guards
l am that rough and simple person
l am he who kisses his comrade lightly on the lips at parting,
And l am one who is kissed in return,
I introduce that new American salute
Behold love choked, correct, polite, always suspicious
Behold the received models of the parlors -
What are they to me?
What to these young men that travel with me?
-- Walt Whitman

Even in the moment of our earliest kiss,
When sighed the straitened bud into the flower,
Sat the dry seed of most unwelcome this:
And that I knew, though not the day and hour.
Too season-wise am I, being country-bred,
To tilt at autumn or defy the frost:
Snuffing the chill even as my fathers did,
I say with them, "What's out tonight is lost."
I only hoped, with the mild hope of all
Who watch the leaf take shape upon the tree,
A fairer summer and a later fall
Than in these parts a man is apt to see,
And sunny clusters ripened for the wine:
I tell you this across the blackened vine.
-- Edna St Vincent Millay

adequate

Miserable afternoon.

Snow makes you feel cozy, wonderful. It also saps my gumption, making me much more inclined to stay home and read all day rather than getting some work done. If you want to be a musician, you’re always working. There’s not one waking hour that goes by in which you shouldn’t be accomplishing something: practicing your instrument, practicing language, translating, researching new pieces, listening to music etc…

So after breakfast I trooped off into the snow to my department’s studio, determined to practice well and perk myself up. The older I get, the less motivated I am overall. Yes, even though I started late and am not as good as people six years my junior, it might still not be too late to have a career. The demotivator being that even some success down the road doesn’t promise any continued success. I could be doing all this work for a career that’s not much more interesting than what I have right now.

At the studio, I read a couple of chapters of Harry Potter. After about two hours of intermittent loafing and practicing I took a coffee break, returned caffeinated and ready to go, and worked on a tricky cantata I’m rehearsing tomorrow. I needed a pencil to mark my part, so I looked through the drawers of the shabby desk. I did not find a pencil, but I did notice a certain piece of paper. The paper had my name on it, and some other information. I flushed as I read it, twice, I let it sink in, and was silent for a little while. I then dissolved into tears and declared my practice session over.

It was my audition evaluation sheet from last year. You are rated in four categories: “outstanding,” “very good,” “adequate (no aid),” and “weak (not accepted).” The evaluator can also add a + or – to any of these categories. I received, earned, got an adequate+. And here I thought I was the only one in my department without financial aid for no good reason. Turns out, I was just not good enough.

At the time of my audition I had been studying voice for six years. Six years of working full time and dragging myself to practice after a full day in the office. Six years of writing checks to various voice teachers, none of whom, apparently, would give me the tools I would need to sing better than adequately. This is a field in which you have to be competitive at the very top level in order to have any prayer of success. Otherwise, you are wasting your time.

My entire music studies have been a very confusing experience. Whether for horn or voice, I turn up with the same attributes: some talent, some musicality, no technique. I was drawn to early music by the demands it makes on performers for a knowledge of style. My French embellishments and Bach phrasing earned zero points at my audition. The word ‘odd’ appeared twice on my evaluation sheet. Once to describe my voice and then again to describe my language skills. “Technical issue?” was written on the same line. Other comments included a praise for my musicality, “good basic voice,” “needs to free up voice,” “sound in throat,” “could be good,” “intonation weak on top.” I can’t be angry at the person who wrote these remarks. I have only myself to blame for wanting to win with a faulty product.

What feels like a knife in my throat is the fact that I have received similar comments before – years before, when I first auditioned for schools (another godforsaken story…). A switch to another teacher in 2003 apparently hasn’t got me all that far. Last semester was a waste of time, and though I feel better about my current teacher, I feel that even if I do improve, it will still be too little too late. When I started lessons at the age of 23, there already were 19-year-olds who were far better than me. A new crop of 19-year-olds are still better than me, and those erstwhile competitors are now winning competitions. What’s the point of pursuing all this if I never will really catch up?

And most frustratingly, on the other hand there are triumphs. The same audition program seemed to delight a roomful of people last year, and they rewarded me with a free ride. I turned it down to be in a city where I knew I could begin my career, and a voice department that would serve me well. I could be out there right now, lamenting the Midwestern winters but counting my money, singing adequately but maybe building a career anyway.

I know what I want. Up until this afternoon I could see it clearly, and a way to get there. An active and varied music career doing good music with good people, on my own terms as much as possible. I feel as fervent about music as a religious convert feels about his faith. I can’t begin to describe here what it means to me, the many aspects of it that strike through me like lightning. But I keep coming up short, and I have a half mind to cut my losses with this silly grad school idea and crawl back to the full-time workplace. At the very least then I could enjoy my other passion: having a relatively normal life involving friends, family, vacations, and not worrying about money.

This is the point at which most people would try to calm down, try to make themselves feel better, maybe listen to a little music. I would like to do that now, were that not the very poisonous thing that got me into this circumstance to start with.

Boston was built by the Romans

I'll admit it, in cold January, approaching even colder February, I constantly think about sunny Rome. But as I've gotten to know Boston, I've discovered why I have the eternal city eternally on my mind: this place looks like Rome! Below is incontrovertible proof (more or less) that our Puritan metropolis actually has its roots in Mediterranean soil.....


Roman sunlight streaming through stained glass at St. Peter's.....

New England blue sky and art deco splendor in a supermarket (?!) along Commonwealth Avenue.



Fidelity and Security adorning a doorway in the financial district....

....and their predecessors in Pompeii.


The Pantheon!


And the church on Tremont street that wants to be the Pantheon.



Me looking like a goofball in front of Bernini's columns at St. Peter's....


....and more Corinthian columns at Downtown Crossing.



Mom, do you mind having this pic broadcast to the world?


But just compare those column capitals to this one, with winged horses.



And why go around the world for the Appian Way.....

....when there's one right here in Cambridge? (Check out that fall foliage in the background!)



I'll let you guess on this one: is it downtown Boston or Rome? (Well, maybe the answer is fairly obvious...)



The opera house facade in Boston's piccolo theater district...

.....bears some resemblance to San Isidoro, near the Spanish Steps. (While we're here, let me tell you the story of my visit to this church, surely the creepiest I had in Rome! This 1620's beauty is set back from the street by a walled-in garden, to enter you must ring the bell and be buzzed in by a porter. The drunken, seemingly mentally impaired porter took me through the side entrance of the church and past the enclosed Spanish Cloister and into the darkened sanctuary. I was clearly the only person in the entire complex, alone with this guy, and far removed from the street. He turned on the lights and knelt as we entered. He let me look at the ceiling and took me around to each chapel, describing the artwork and artists, all the while resolutely staring at my chest. His breath was heavy and strong with alcohol. I remember virtually nothing of the art I saw. I hastened to get out of there. "Do you want to say a prayer?" He asked as we walked out.

Just one look at the Porta San Sebastiano (leading to the Via Appia, along the Aurelian walls) makes you think that at one point...

it must have looked just like the entrance to an office building in Boston's financial district.

(No? Maybe? Sorta?)

So here's the best proof I have: only the people who built the Colosseum.....

... could possibly have built the Harvard Stadium. (Right?)

And here's Boston's Government Center, which I like to call a mushroom cloud rendered in cement....

And the splendid Italian Parliament.

You know what, I'm way off. What am thinking? Bag this entire idea!

La Mia Vietnamita

So begins, I venture to say, not one single Neapolitan canzona, nor Roman stornello. But let me take a minute to sing the singular praises of my roommate.

Let's get one thing clear: after four years of living solo, having a roommate is hell. Gone are the days when I could come home, shut the door, strip down to my underwear, talk to myself, and pick my nose. (I mean, not that I would ever do such unladylike things...) Although it can be solitary to live by yourself, you can't beat the privacy, independence, and sense of your own little world. Even if you rent, every bit of your space is your own to be used how you'd like. If the place is a mess at least it's your mess. To keep it clean, you've got to stay on top of no one but yourself.

But in going back to school, I was able to swallow the idea of sharing my space with another rent-paying life form. My first living situation, which I've chronicled elsewhere in these pages, involved having two roomates, inadequate space, and paying about $200 more than I should have. I moved in on a Sunday evening, by Tuesday morning, I was looking for a new place in earnest.

The miracle of Craig's List brought me to beautiful Brighton, which exists exclusively to provide stacks of sort-of affordable housing to students and immigrants. (Beautiful is meant sarcastically, in case you didn't notice.) I'm close to the intersection of Harvard Avenue (whose aesthetics couldn't be farther from Harvard University) and Commonwealth Ave, the epicenter of the so-called student ghetto between BU and BC. This crossing is in dire need of some feng shui: the establishments on the corners include McDonald's, Pizzeria Uno, Marty's Liquors, and Dunkin' Donuts. What more could a student need! Cabbies hang out in front of McDonald's, alnog with numerous weirdos and lots of trash.

But I haven't even mentioned my roommate! The arrangement is what's known as a split; the apartment is actually a one-bedroom and one of us is sleeping in what would have been the living room. She found this place by herself in September, and drove a hard bargain by making me move in the middle of the month instead of October 1. She has the bigger of the two rooms, which came largely furnished, and she uses the hall closet as her own; I have no closet in my room, no room for a TV (as usual), and barely enough room for my stuff. We split the rent down the middle. When you're the one looking for a place to live, you're not in a position to negotiate.

It was a royal pain and simply traumatic to move up from New York and then to move again, but it somehow made me grateful to have just a little patch of space to call my own. If I stay here over the two years of my studies, I'll save about $5,000 in rent and utilities costs. I'll be slightly cramped and compromise my privacy for that.

Before I moved in, and for many days afterwards, I spent quite few sunlight hours cleaning and repainting the place. (Repainting??! Management would not do it for me, though they would lend me the paints; I chose their bland colors to avoid having to change it back when I leave, otherwise, I'd be sleeping in a rainbow room.) My roommate appears to have not cleaned anything at all when she arrived. The previous tenants appeared to have had cats. And roaches. Lacking a vacuum to clean up all the hair, I took a scrub brush to window sills and doorways simply encrusted in black. The kitchen range top was opaque and damaged with brown grease, and it took two rounds of oven cleaner inside and out to make it look back to normal. A tiny fry pan of grease sat on the stove the first week I was here. Vietnamese cuisine involves a good deal of frying, I would soon learn.

I didn't get to clean the kitchen before mom arrived to help me move in, and I was embarrassed when she was wiping down the cabinets and sweeping the muck off the shelves. My roommate did not make any room for me in the tiny refrigerator, and the limited counter space was (and still is) crowded with Vietnamese vinegar, fish sauce, a vat of oil, a tub of sugar, etc. etc.

But again, I've yet to tell you about her. Ngan is sweet and shrewd. She's 20, and here on her own to do a one-year accounting masters at BC. She's shorter than the refrigerator. I like Vietnamese food, and I've been getting a bit of a sense of how to make it just by seeing what she buys and how she cooks. There's always an enormous sack of white rice under the sink (roach rice, mom and I christened it) and mysterious Asian greens in the fridge. She also appears to be partial to Klondike bars and Campbell's cream of chicken soup, of all things. (She uses the empty cans to scoop rice and store leftover frying oil.) The frying is the one bit that gets out of hand, and sometimes gets me running full-speed out of the house. If there's a disturbing noise you can use ear plugs, a bothersome sight you can look away, but a noxious smell? I often come home to the aroma of garlic, if I'm lucky, or the nostril-burning pungence of fish sauce, if I'm not.

She cooked for me once, a vermicelli dish with beef, scallions, roasted peanuts, mint, hot sauce, and fish sauce and vinegar. I surveyed the half dozen pots and bowels needed to prepare the stuff, and understood why I don't cook Asian more often. I returned the favor later with a roast chicken with rosemary. I showed her the herb's piny branches, which apparently aren't used in Vietnam, and she asked if I bought it at the grocery store. She thought I had plucked it from a tree!

If there were any common space in this apartment, I would hang out with her. We usually stay in our rooms or out of the apartment, so it's easy to let a week go by with only barely saying hello. But still, when she was gone for a month over semester break, I missed a little human presence. I resolved to make an effort to talk with her and be better friends.

It looks like my longing for company has been doubly fulfilled! She returned today, bringing one of her sisters with her. She had called me from Vietnam to let me know, but had not mentioned how long her guest would be with us. The first thing I noticed when I came in tonight was the presence of a huge number of shoes that weren't her own: winter shoes and flip-flops and dress shoes and boots. More alarmingly, added to the vinegar and cooking oil on the counter, is a package of some kind of supplement drink for pregnant women. I have a feeling my living situation will be not what I expected when I first moved in here....

queasy

Chinese sweet and sour soup is traditionally made with pork blood.

Dread manifests itself in the most physical of ways. In the years before I graduated high school and college, nervous about the future, my face was covered with itchy welts that no doctor could cure. Two years ago, on my way to a new job that made me sick to my stomach with nerves, I stooped under my umbrella and vomited by a tree on Broadway.

Something in the last few weeks has changed to put me ill at ease. I'm nervous. At the office I dose up on chamomile tea and worry about my ability to get the work done. I haven't brought myself to write decent (well, any) emails to some friends I made this summer, and the idea of dying friendships saddens me. (Tu, che magari non leggi più, scomparirai anche tu? Tout ce qu'on dit de l'ambroisie, ne touche point ma fantaisie, au prix des grâces de tes yeux.)

On the surface right now, it’s an exciting and fulfilling time: I’m here doing what I came here to do, meeting people and performing, becoming known by fellow musicians and pursuing my own projects. But it’s a double-edged sword. Thanks to my diva-airhead teacher this past semester, I have strong doubts about my singing skills. I didn't grow as much as I could have, and I feel no closer to having a real vocal technique than I did last summer. To put it another way, I am building a house, brick by brick, but I've got no blueprints to follow. Musicians often doubt themselves fiercely, and I'm sure I'm being over-critical, but my singing feels physically tense, and my ears don't lie. It is also not validating that the diva-airhead* gave me a B+ for the semester, an evaluation that no doubt reflects her low opinion of me and her high opinion of herself. *(This term, of course, is meant in only the most flattering of ways. Diva-airhead is actually an ancient Magyar goddess who was offered the same esteem of other household deities such as grandmothers and mothers-in-laws.)

So here I am with fewer musical tools than I need and several important solo concerts and an audition coming up. Yes, I'm getting myself "out there," but it would be nicer to think that the results of this exposure are likely to be positive, not that I will sing for people who will then never want to hear me again....

In my last year of college I took an introductory philosophy course. I respected my philosopher-bruiser professor, who often dressed in shorts, never lectured from notes, and looked like the erudite progeny of Walt Whitman and Johannes Brahms. While writing my first paper on Aristotle’s Politics, I flipped out. “I just don’t think I’m putting this into words very well,” I wailed on the phone to a friend, my face itching like a fury. "It sounds like you're doing a last minute cobble job now, but you'll just prepare better for next time," she consoled.

The paper came back with an A. "Excellent discussion," wrote Brahms.