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.