In this post, I wrote about how my life was when I first met my partner; the Never Never Landishness of it all. How exciting it was to me as a 25 year old with no education and no work history (but now sober and madly in love) to be embedded in a community where "real" jobs and careers seemed optional.
More than 30 years later (in fact for the past 10) I have bemoaned in a big way the hole in my life resulting from not having and never really having had, meaningful work. Yes, I had jobs, and thankfully most of them were good jobs with benefits, so I am now semi-retired with a nice little nest egg and good health insurance subsidized by my last employer. I have a lot of former colleagues, who are friends in a way, some of whom are a source of the modest amount of freelance work I do to supplement my Social Security. But I never trained for a profession that I loved, even one I eventually failed at. Jobs were a necessary evil. The one thing I really wanted to do, sing classical music, seemed totally out of reach (largely, but not entirely, as a result of my own self destructive behavior). This post (by way of the "not entirely") describes (in my rather immature voice of almost 10 years ago LOL) some of the battles I would have had to fight in my chosen community if I went down that route. So if I wasn't going to sing, I could be a professional Lesbian. What did that mean exactly? To me it meant taking any job, the "low-hanging fruit", which for me meant working as a secretary at a publishing house, being out, letting the chips fall where they might, and raising people's consciousnesses. Because typing, organizing an office, proofreading, and copy editing were skills I had learned at my mother's knee, and the publishing business seemed the least unfriendly place to be "out", particularly if you were willing to stay in a lower level job (which I did for quite some time, but not permanently), I more or less stayed there, until all the life was sucked out of the industry and if I hadn't retired, I probably would have become a living, breathing, machine doing the same mindless things over and over.
A few nights ago I watched this film and suddenly had an "aha" moment. Although I knew that when I was growing up all gay men and Lesbians were in the closet at work (although for many it was an open secret), I had no idea of the mass firings that had occurred in the early 1950s. That would have been when I was a small child, but the fallout lasted for decades. These were people who were the cream of the crop, with advanced degrees, people who had indeed trained themselves for professions that they loved, working in the State Department. Not only were they summarily fired, they were not allowed to speak in their own defense or hire attorneys. For most of them their careers were ruined. Many fell into poverty.
One thing I noticed when I first became involved with the Lesbian Community (this was about 5 or 6 years after Stonewall) was the big time "work-aversion" of so many of these women, my partner included. A lot of them were on Welfare. Whenever I hear the phrase "welfare cheat", I don't see the face of a Black woman with children, I see "Blue", the butch Lesbian who somehow managed to bilk the government out of SSDI for decades by telling them she was going to AA meetings (true) and that the idea of working made her clinically anxious (not). Those not on Welfare worked odd jobs: babysitting, dog walking, house painting, being a typist sent out to different places by a temp agency. Poverty was a badge of honor. Maybe a number of these women had been cruelly fired by establishment organizations or were afraid they would be. My partner, who had had several high level jobs at photography magazines in the decade before I met her, said that she lost the will to show up for work after she broke up with her parther (the one before me) and couldn't talk to anyone about her unhappiness because she had to stay in the closet. She never recovered or worked in a professional job again. A number of these voluntarily underemployed women had had a "Seven Sisters" education. There was a former librarian who became and exterminator (she claimed she actually made more money as an exterminator but she had no benefits). Of course there were several exceptions. There was the doctor who treated patients at the free clinic who also had an ER job (no one in an ER really cares whom you sleep with), and her partner, an accountant, who did people's taxes (mostly in the gay community). And there were lawyers and a tiny handful of academics. And of course all those women, like me, working in the publishing industry.
By the time I had my first full-time job, "out" gays and Lesbians had been around for a while so I doubted that I would get fired for having a picture of me and my partner on my desk and answering honestly if anyone asked about it, but until the mid-90s, I never saw any "out" gay person in a higher level job.
So that's the story. Careers were not the Holy Grail in those days for gays and Lesbians, apparently we had learned our lesson in the early 1950s and it stayed in our DNA for a long time.
As for my dream of becoming an opera singer while being "out"? That was in 1977-1980 and Patricia Racette, the first "out" Lesbian opera singer, to my knowledge, didn't appear with her coming out statement in Opera News until 2002.
ETA: I began singing, the second time, in 2004. Coincidence anyone?
Saturday, June 22, 2019
Tuesday, June 18, 2019
More Deep Sadness, and Changes
Yesterday my partner's doctor came to visit her and said that the chronic sleepiness (and 20 hour sleep marathons) as well as her inability to put words together (different from her typical confusion, which manifests in things like her telling me she had been in Boston) were likely due to a brain bleed. He said that people on blood thinners (she has been on blood thinners, first Warfarin, then Eliquis, for 13 years) often get them.
He said I had two choices. I could have her taken to the ER, which would mean that she would lie on a gurney in the hall for hours, not have her diapers changed, and then be shunted all over for tests. The last time she was in the ER (for something acute and life threatening that could be dealt with with treatment) she was on a gurney in the hall from 6 pm until 1 am, when she went for a CAT scan. They didn't change her diapers very often and she came home with bed sores that took months to get rid of. Or, I could have a consultation with a hospice nurse. I chose the latter.
I know that this is not necessarily the end. The doctor also prescribed an antibiotic for a UTI that she might have, and already, less than 24 hours later, she is a little better. She knows that Sunday is her 85th birthday, for example, which she didn't know yesterday. I think what the doctor meant was that what she mostly needs is comfort care. What could they possibly do for a brain bleed that would enhance her quality of life all that much? He said if she wants to sleep, let her sleep. If she wants to consume nothing but Ensure and cookies, let her do that.
But the end will be sooner rather than later and I am desolate. All the love that I didn't give to the parents I didn't love (my father, who died when I was 14 had a violent temper, and my mother, who died when I was 60, did everything she could to squash and squelch every independent thought that I had). I did not feel much sadness when either of them died. When my father died I felt relieved (although several decades later I saw what a disruption his death was, mostly socioeconomically, but also because his death removed the only person who could tell my mother she was wrong, and make her listen) and when my mother died I felt liberated. Sometimes reflecting on this makes me think I'm a monster. I hear people talk about the deep grief they feel, even over a decade later, over the death of a parent and I feel nothing.
I also didn't have any children. All the love I might have given to a parent or a child I gave to my partner.
When she goes I will be inconsolable. No, she was never perfect, and we had terrible fights. But what she gave me was the gift of letting me know that I was enough. I felt loved. I felt like the most beautiful woman in the world. We laughed, we snuggled, we made a safe haven for each other.
This morning, after having a new rug put down in my dining room and doing some cleaning, I realized that it was my partner who taught me to be a person. She taught me how to cook and keep house (my mother was a wonderful cook, but as she was always obese, I didn't want any part of cooking when I lived with her), how to watch the news and learn about the world. When I met her I was 25, newly sober, had almost nothing in my apartment and less in my refrigerator, and didn't even know the name of the governor of New York State.
Right now all I want is to spend as much time with her as is reasonably possible. I am waiting to hear from the hospice nurse. One wonderful thing is that he or she will stop by regularly and let me know when the end is near. My greatest fear is that my partner will die alone.
But life needs to go on, I know. I am 15 years younger than she is and I still want to sing. I will not give that up. I cannot lose ground whatever happens. Luckily it is the summer, so I have more time.
He said I had two choices. I could have her taken to the ER, which would mean that she would lie on a gurney in the hall for hours, not have her diapers changed, and then be shunted all over for tests. The last time she was in the ER (for something acute and life threatening that could be dealt with with treatment) she was on a gurney in the hall from 6 pm until 1 am, when she went for a CAT scan. They didn't change her diapers very often and she came home with bed sores that took months to get rid of. Or, I could have a consultation with a hospice nurse. I chose the latter.
I know that this is not necessarily the end. The doctor also prescribed an antibiotic for a UTI that she might have, and already, less than 24 hours later, she is a little better. She knows that Sunday is her 85th birthday, for example, which she didn't know yesterday. I think what the doctor meant was that what she mostly needs is comfort care. What could they possibly do for a brain bleed that would enhance her quality of life all that much? He said if she wants to sleep, let her sleep. If she wants to consume nothing but Ensure and cookies, let her do that.
But the end will be sooner rather than later and I am desolate. All the love that I didn't give to the parents I didn't love (my father, who died when I was 14 had a violent temper, and my mother, who died when I was 60, did everything she could to squash and squelch every independent thought that I had). I did not feel much sadness when either of them died. When my father died I felt relieved (although several decades later I saw what a disruption his death was, mostly socioeconomically, but also because his death removed the only person who could tell my mother she was wrong, and make her listen) and when my mother died I felt liberated. Sometimes reflecting on this makes me think I'm a monster. I hear people talk about the deep grief they feel, even over a decade later, over the death of a parent and I feel nothing.
I also didn't have any children. All the love I might have given to a parent or a child I gave to my partner.
When she goes I will be inconsolable. No, she was never perfect, and we had terrible fights. But what she gave me was the gift of letting me know that I was enough. I felt loved. I felt like the most beautiful woman in the world. We laughed, we snuggled, we made a safe haven for each other.
This morning, after having a new rug put down in my dining room and doing some cleaning, I realized that it was my partner who taught me to be a person. She taught me how to cook and keep house (my mother was a wonderful cook, but as she was always obese, I didn't want any part of cooking when I lived with her), how to watch the news and learn about the world. When I met her I was 25, newly sober, had almost nothing in my apartment and less in my refrigerator, and didn't even know the name of the governor of New York State.
Right now all I want is to spend as much time with her as is reasonably possible. I am waiting to hear from the hospice nurse. One wonderful thing is that he or she will stop by regularly and let me know when the end is near. My greatest fear is that my partner will die alone.
But life needs to go on, I know. I am 15 years younger than she is and I still want to sing. I will not give that up. I cannot lose ground whatever happens. Luckily it is the summer, so I have more time.
Thursday, May 30, 2019
Addiction to Sound
Musing on the emotional turmoil that prompted my last post, I did some reflecting on the whole issue of music as an addiction.
I often say that I am "addicted" to performing; there's a part of me that lives from one solo singing opportunity to the next, and when there isn't one, on my calendar, I feel bereft.
But I am speaking about something different: an addiction to having a soundtrack in one's ears all the time. As so many questionable social trends began, this began in the sixties. I mean before that sometimes there was light "elevator music" in places other than elevators, say, waiting rooms at the dentist or restaurants. And then of course there were restaurants, bars, and clubs, where the point was to hear music, often jazz or swing.
But it seemed that it was in the sixties that suddenly the young needed to be accompanied by a soundtrack wherever they went. It began with transistor radios. Suddenly people carried them around, filling every public space with someone else's choice of sound. Some people were thoughtful enough to use ear buds (or whatever they were called then), but many were not. Subway rides were painful. And when the boom box came on the scene, all bets were off. In certain neighborhoods the streets were full of loud music well into the night. I remember once going to Brighton Beach and having to listen to four different groups of people's different radio stations.
Blessedly, the advent of the Walkman with its head set calmed the waters.
But the question remained: why did all these young people need a soundtrack? It affected how they walked (always sort of bopping to a beat, jiggling their legs if they were sitting, or bobbling their heads), which carried over into occasions when they were not actually listening to sound. What was wrong with the sounds of "life"? Why were those so threatening?
Most of the time, I don't want to hear music at all. That might seem odd, as I am a musician, but I think it's because I am a musician that I only want to listen to the music I want to when I want to listen to it, and I find being forced to listen to someone else's music (especially if it has words that are not the words I want in my head at that moment) a lot more painful than listening to dogs barking, babies crying, or hammers and drills in the street.
It seems to be a generational thing: childish boomers again. Milliennials are always engaged with their devices, but they seem to be as much engaged with images as with sound. I see them watching movies on their phones, blessedly with ear buds or head phones, or they are texting, which at least bespeaks engagement with another person. The don't have a "beat" in their gut making them jerk their bodies or bobble their heads. In fact, it has been several decades since I have had to hear anyone's soundtrack at all, which is what makes the man I referenced in my previous post such a polluter of the social environment.
I recall several earlier occasions when he was playing music that I didn't really find objectionable and he asked me "is this OK?" I said yes, to try to separate the mildly annoying from the intolerable and choose my battles, but maybe I just wanted to fold my laundry in silence. Silence is meditative and conducive to unexpected insights. Someone else's soundtrack blocks my internal one.
As a musician, I never listen to music unless I am listening to music. It is not "background". If I want background to do housework by I will put on a tv news channel.
I often say that I am "addicted" to performing; there's a part of me that lives from one solo singing opportunity to the next, and when there isn't one, on my calendar, I feel bereft.
But I am speaking about something different: an addiction to having a soundtrack in one's ears all the time. As so many questionable social trends began, this began in the sixties. I mean before that sometimes there was light "elevator music" in places other than elevators, say, waiting rooms at the dentist or restaurants. And then of course there were restaurants, bars, and clubs, where the point was to hear music, often jazz or swing.
But it seemed that it was in the sixties that suddenly the young needed to be accompanied by a soundtrack wherever they went. It began with transistor radios. Suddenly people carried them around, filling every public space with someone else's choice of sound. Some people were thoughtful enough to use ear buds (or whatever they were called then), but many were not. Subway rides were painful. And when the boom box came on the scene, all bets were off. In certain neighborhoods the streets were full of loud music well into the night. I remember once going to Brighton Beach and having to listen to four different groups of people's different radio stations.
Blessedly, the advent of the Walkman with its head set calmed the waters.
But the question remained: why did all these young people need a soundtrack? It affected how they walked (always sort of bopping to a beat, jiggling their legs if they were sitting, or bobbling their heads), which carried over into occasions when they were not actually listening to sound. What was wrong with the sounds of "life"? Why were those so threatening?
Most of the time, I don't want to hear music at all. That might seem odd, as I am a musician, but I think it's because I am a musician that I only want to listen to the music I want to when I want to listen to it, and I find being forced to listen to someone else's music (especially if it has words that are not the words I want in my head at that moment) a lot more painful than listening to dogs barking, babies crying, or hammers and drills in the street.
It seems to be a generational thing: childish boomers again. Milliennials are always engaged with their devices, but they seem to be as much engaged with images as with sound. I see them watching movies on their phones, blessedly with ear buds or head phones, or they are texting, which at least bespeaks engagement with another person. The don't have a "beat" in their gut making them jerk their bodies or bobble their heads. In fact, it has been several decades since I have had to hear anyone's soundtrack at all, which is what makes the man I referenced in my previous post such a polluter of the social environment.
I recall several earlier occasions when he was playing music that I didn't really find objectionable and he asked me "is this OK?" I said yes, to try to separate the mildly annoying from the intolerable and choose my battles, but maybe I just wanted to fold my laundry in silence. Silence is meditative and conducive to unexpected insights. Someone else's soundtrack blocks my internal one.
As a musician, I never listen to music unless I am listening to music. It is not "background". If I want background to do housework by I will put on a tv news channel.
Sunday, May 26, 2019
Some Moments of Happiness, and an Angry Rant with Noplace to Go
First, I need to say that my mini-concert at the new senior facility went well. I nailed the two high As in "The Drinking Song" and everything else went well. The people seemed to really enjoy it. Later in the year I will get in touch with the woman who coordinates these things and see if she wants us to come back.
And I loved the name of the program: Engage Life. In addition to having concerts, they also have outings for the residents where they take them to museums. Once again, it was reinforced that I have a "calling" to work with seniors that I hope will extend into my future if I am left behind by my angel.
I am also really really trying to love my "little life" which most of the time I do.
As for the rant, I am writing it down here because I don't know what else to do with it. I wrote a letter to the Times section "Social Qs" but have no idea if it will be answered let alone printed (I didn't even get an automated response, which I found odd, as I did when I wrote to The Ethicist a few years ago. They answered, but did not print, my question.)
As I've probably mentioned numerous times before, I live in a NYC apartment building in which half of the tenants (all rent regulated) have lived for 20, 30, or more years. For the most part we are a cohesive and supportive community and are committed to "speaking with one voice" if we have to communicate with the building management.
Unfortunately, I have a neighbor, someone I detest (he is simply a "type" that I detest) mostly because he treats the communal laundry room as his personal "man cave" and any time I go down there to do laundry he is blasting loud music. I have no idea what it is; once he told me what he was playing was the "Velvet Underground". There are several issues here. First, I dislike most of the music he plays. Second, in this era of technology, he should be using ear buds. (I suggested this to him but he said he doesn't like them because he wants to be aware of his surroundings! He's kidding, right? He couldn't even hear if someone said "hello".) Third, no one should be playing music in a public place. Fourth, no one should be playing music that loud if they don't want to end up deaf. But fifth and most importantly I see the whole thing as a form of male aggression.
Any time I come down there if he has music on, he does turn it off, saying "I didn't know you were coming down here." To me that's not enough. That is making it about me. That I'm "too sensitive" so he will be "nice". The typical male/female trope of men taking space (auditory included) and then accommodating to women who don't like it rather than just not doing it in the first place!!
I am at my wits end about this. Actually, when the new building manager took over, they circulated a list of do's and dont's (unfortunately they attached it to people's leases, which is illegal) that covered a wide range of topics including (this is legal if posted in a lobby) that people were not allowed to play music in public places. I mentioned it to my neighbor, who claims he never saw it, which might be true. I was going to email it to him but decided against it because it also referred to people not making noise in their apartments. That's a rats' nest I don't want to stir up. I have never gotten complaints about my singing, even the ten minutes I spend warming up at 7:45 before leaving to sing in the 9 am service once a month. And in fairness, I have never complained about noise coming from anyone else's apartment, which I hear occasionally: everything from loud rock music (never past 9 pm and not as loud as it is when I'm actually standing next to it in the laundry room) to a little girl and her father screaming at each other.
I suppose now with the advent of women speaking out, I have come to see the behavior of this neighbor as assaultive. He's giving the finger to civilized adult society, like a teenager (he's almost 70). And what I hate equally is he's always trying to "engage" with me in some way. Once at a tenants' meeting, for example, he told me I looked like a skinhead because my jeans were rolled up (hello I'm short!!!) and I had on red socks. What kind of idiotic comment was that? What did he think he was trying to do? All it did was make me feel aggressed against.
I think why I hate him so much is that he thinks he's hip and cool and has committed the unforgiveable sin of thinking that I will like him because he is hip and cool. I don't do hip and cool. I sing Bach.
And I loved the name of the program: Engage Life. In addition to having concerts, they also have outings for the residents where they take them to museums. Once again, it was reinforced that I have a "calling" to work with seniors that I hope will extend into my future if I am left behind by my angel.
I am also really really trying to love my "little life" which most of the time I do.
As for the rant, I am writing it down here because I don't know what else to do with it. I wrote a letter to the Times section "Social Qs" but have no idea if it will be answered let alone printed (I didn't even get an automated response, which I found odd, as I did when I wrote to The Ethicist a few years ago. They answered, but did not print, my question.)
As I've probably mentioned numerous times before, I live in a NYC apartment building in which half of the tenants (all rent regulated) have lived for 20, 30, or more years. For the most part we are a cohesive and supportive community and are committed to "speaking with one voice" if we have to communicate with the building management.
Unfortunately, I have a neighbor, someone I detest (he is simply a "type" that I detest) mostly because he treats the communal laundry room as his personal "man cave" and any time I go down there to do laundry he is blasting loud music. I have no idea what it is; once he told me what he was playing was the "Velvet Underground". There are several issues here. First, I dislike most of the music he plays. Second, in this era of technology, he should be using ear buds. (I suggested this to him but he said he doesn't like them because he wants to be aware of his surroundings! He's kidding, right? He couldn't even hear if someone said "hello".) Third, no one should be playing music in a public place. Fourth, no one should be playing music that loud if they don't want to end up deaf. But fifth and most importantly I see the whole thing as a form of male aggression.
Any time I come down there if he has music on, he does turn it off, saying "I didn't know you were coming down here." To me that's not enough. That is making it about me. That I'm "too sensitive" so he will be "nice". The typical male/female trope of men taking space (auditory included) and then accommodating to women who don't like it rather than just not doing it in the first place!!
I am at my wits end about this. Actually, when the new building manager took over, they circulated a list of do's and dont's (unfortunately they attached it to people's leases, which is illegal) that covered a wide range of topics including (this is legal if posted in a lobby) that people were not allowed to play music in public places. I mentioned it to my neighbor, who claims he never saw it, which might be true. I was going to email it to him but decided against it because it also referred to people not making noise in their apartments. That's a rats' nest I don't want to stir up. I have never gotten complaints about my singing, even the ten minutes I spend warming up at 7:45 before leaving to sing in the 9 am service once a month. And in fairness, I have never complained about noise coming from anyone else's apartment, which I hear occasionally: everything from loud rock music (never past 9 pm and not as loud as it is when I'm actually standing next to it in the laundry room) to a little girl and her father screaming at each other.
I suppose now with the advent of women speaking out, I have come to see the behavior of this neighbor as assaultive. He's giving the finger to civilized adult society, like a teenager (he's almost 70). And what I hate equally is he's always trying to "engage" with me in some way. Once at a tenants' meeting, for example, he told me I looked like a skinhead because my jeans were rolled up (hello I'm short!!!) and I had on red socks. What kind of idiotic comment was that? What did he think he was trying to do? All it did was make me feel aggressed against.
I think why I hate him so much is that he thinks he's hip and cool and has committed the unforgiveable sin of thinking that I will like him because he is hip and cool. I don't do hip and cool. I sing Bach.
Saturday, April 20, 2019
Postpartum Depression
I don't really know what else to call it.
The Good Friday service went well. It wasn't as exciting as I had expected (nor as well attended as usual) and when I got home I felt sandbagged by something I can only call "depression".
Is it because I am grieving over Abbie? I have not really felt like crying over her loss. Abbie was not a poignant, sympathetic, tragic figure, similarly to how my mother was not those things. Abbie really was all the things my mother was, only nicer: cerebral, direct, not suffering fools gladly, hating sentimentality. She was also someone who would always turn up and "do" if you needed her. My mother was all those things but she didn't know how to "make nice", which Abbie did. (My mother would have contemptuously dismissed that as "Southern").
In any event, the loss of Abbie is a loss and somewhat of a shock, but I don't feel sad. Since she had moved to the Left Coast about four years ago we had not seen her. And one blessing I now have is, after telling a church friend about my feeling of loss, particularly that I have now lost someone whom I always assumed would be there to be helpful when my partner died, this friend said that if she was "alive and mobile" (she is about 6 years older than I am) she would go to Maine with me to scatter my partner's ashes.
But I am feeling other losses as well. Yes, the Good Friday service went well, but once again it made me realize all the talent I am drowning in. Although there was one thing of note, a situation in which I surprised myself. The "boy soprano" woman I mentioned (she is not young; probably close to my age) sang really well, probably the best I'd ever heard her, and I was genuinely happy for her. I told her it was the best I had ever heard her sing, which is true. And she had the perfect voice for the plaintive "Agnus Dei". I think the issue is that however bitter and envious I often am, I am happy when someone my age, who is still working on her art, does well. Everyone kvells over the young talent. They breathe up all the air in the room whether they want to or not. So us older folks, who are by no means done and by no means a "finished product" want our moment too. Of course the new dramatic soprano was the star of the evening. Just because of her talent (she is certainly the opposite of a prima donna). The tenor with whom I have had a relationship that runs hot and cold (I was stunned last year when he complimented me on singing Maundy Thursday) made a fuss over her, talking with his wife on the street afterwards. On the other hand, her path forward may not be easy. She has a much bigger and more impressive voice than Little Miss, but she is less versatile and less surrounded by a clacque although she does have a supportive voice teacher. She is going to be singing a secondary role in a Wagner production somewhere. I just so yearn to be special, which I will never be.
Easter will be a vocal anti-climax. I opted to sing the alto part in "Worthy is the Lamb" from the Messiah. It is a bleeping octave below the soprano part. I think my teacher was right that the part was written for countertenors, not women. I probably could sing the soprano part (particularly since we are not doing the "Amen" at the end which has a phrase that starts on a high A) but I didn't have time to sing it into my voice and the dramatic soprano will be there singing it, so to coin a metaphor, it is stupid to put the two heaviest people on the same side of the boat. So, ironically, Easter, which is supposed to be a high point, will be a low point for me both vocally and otherwise, but then it will be over and I can go back to working on the "Drinking Song", which has a high A in it. And when I show up for warm up on Sunday I will make sure I have warmed up at home to an A just because I can.
In a more intellectual mode, I was interested to read a quote from Nadia Bolz-Weber in which she said that the message of the Resurrection is that it is an opportunity for people to be resurrected from the graves they dig for themselves. For me (someone who is totally skeptical about the "Risen Christ") this really resonates. Maybe I can rise from the grave I'm always digging for myself? I can never turn the clock back and be a teen or a 20something with a clean, glorious voice undamaged by cigarettes and alcohol, making my way undistracted. So I need to "get over it".
The Good Friday service went well. It wasn't as exciting as I had expected (nor as well attended as usual) and when I got home I felt sandbagged by something I can only call "depression".
Is it because I am grieving over Abbie? I have not really felt like crying over her loss. Abbie was not a poignant, sympathetic, tragic figure, similarly to how my mother was not those things. Abbie really was all the things my mother was, only nicer: cerebral, direct, not suffering fools gladly, hating sentimentality. She was also someone who would always turn up and "do" if you needed her. My mother was all those things but she didn't know how to "make nice", which Abbie did. (My mother would have contemptuously dismissed that as "Southern").
In any event, the loss of Abbie is a loss and somewhat of a shock, but I don't feel sad. Since she had moved to the Left Coast about four years ago we had not seen her. And one blessing I now have is, after telling a church friend about my feeling of loss, particularly that I have now lost someone whom I always assumed would be there to be helpful when my partner died, this friend said that if she was "alive and mobile" (she is about 6 years older than I am) she would go to Maine with me to scatter my partner's ashes.
But I am feeling other losses as well. Yes, the Good Friday service went well, but once again it made me realize all the talent I am drowning in. Although there was one thing of note, a situation in which I surprised myself. The "boy soprano" woman I mentioned (she is not young; probably close to my age) sang really well, probably the best I'd ever heard her, and I was genuinely happy for her. I told her it was the best I had ever heard her sing, which is true. And she had the perfect voice for the plaintive "Agnus Dei". I think the issue is that however bitter and envious I often am, I am happy when someone my age, who is still working on her art, does well. Everyone kvells over the young talent. They breathe up all the air in the room whether they want to or not. So us older folks, who are by no means done and by no means a "finished product" want our moment too. Of course the new dramatic soprano was the star of the evening. Just because of her talent (she is certainly the opposite of a prima donna). The tenor with whom I have had a relationship that runs hot and cold (I was stunned last year when he complimented me on singing Maundy Thursday) made a fuss over her, talking with his wife on the street afterwards. On the other hand, her path forward may not be easy. She has a much bigger and more impressive voice than Little Miss, but she is less versatile and less surrounded by a clacque although she does have a supportive voice teacher. She is going to be singing a secondary role in a Wagner production somewhere. I just so yearn to be special, which I will never be.
Easter will be a vocal anti-climax. I opted to sing the alto part in "Worthy is the Lamb" from the Messiah. It is a bleeping octave below the soprano part. I think my teacher was right that the part was written for countertenors, not women. I probably could sing the soprano part (particularly since we are not doing the "Amen" at the end which has a phrase that starts on a high A) but I didn't have time to sing it into my voice and the dramatic soprano will be there singing it, so to coin a metaphor, it is stupid to put the two heaviest people on the same side of the boat. So, ironically, Easter, which is supposed to be a high point, will be a low point for me both vocally and otherwise, but then it will be over and I can go back to working on the "Drinking Song", which has a high A in it. And when I show up for warm up on Sunday I will make sure I have warmed up at home to an A just because I can.
In a more intellectual mode, I was interested to read a quote from Nadia Bolz-Weber in which she said that the message of the Resurrection is that it is an opportunity for people to be resurrected from the graves they dig for themselves. For me (someone who is totally skeptical about the "Risen Christ") this really resonates. Maybe I can rise from the grave I'm always digging for myself? I can never turn the clock back and be a teen or a 20something with a clean, glorious voice undamaged by cigarettes and alcohol, making my way undistracted. So I need to "get over it".
Thursday, April 18, 2019
Sad News, and Life Goes On
A few days after I wrote my last post, my friend Abbie died. I didn't hear about it until the following Friday, from her older daughter. It is all a shock. I decided to wait to tell my partner until Sunday (Palm Sunday) when I would be at her house. She took it pretty well. And she will forget. There are days when she doesn't remember that my mother is dead, or that her sister is dead. It turns out that the cancer Abbie had was in the liver and pancreas, which rapidly becomes fatal. When she wrote to me she used the word "abdominal" which I took to mean "stomach cancer", which is why I was surprised, because that is a type of cancer that many people survive.
Less important, but to me shocking, is that no one has done anything about submitting an obituary to any news outlet. I have Googled her every day and there is nothing. Abbie had written three memoirs, a novel, numerous magazine articles, and had a Wikipedia page (I don't know who managed that). I also am surprised that she hadn't written her own obituary. My mother (who was not a "personage" like Abbie but thought she was) had one at the ready at least a decade before she died, so that I could send it to the TIMES. All I can think of was that Abbie was modest and perhaps her daughters (one lives on the Left Coast, the other deep in Trump Country) aren't interested in their mother's legacy.
The day after I heard that Abbie had died, I sang the Schubert "Ave Maria" at the funeral I mentioned. It went well. The Good Friday music is going well. As an aside, it seems that after three months of struggling with asthma and experimenting with how to treat it, it is gone. Perhaps it is seasonal. I was at the point where I was using the inhaler every day. I would say that I had some kind of upper airway distress almost every day between December 27 and April 10. Fingers crossed. In any event, that underscores why it is a good idea for me not to plan concerts during that period. And other than florid pieces like "Rejoice Greatly" I think it would be a good idea for me to stay away from singing anything with exposed high notes in public during that period.
I have the alto line in two solo quartets from the Missa Solemnis. I was disappointed not to be given the third (and in some ways the loveliest) solo part, which was given to a woman in the alto section with a pretty, small voice (sort of like a boy soprano). I suppose the choir director wanted that kind of sound at the very end (she is singing "Agnus Dei" which is the last thing we sing). I do love my solo quartets, particularly "Christe Eleison". And of course the new dramatic soprano is singing all the soprano solos. She sounds fabulous. Having her there doesn't get under my skin the way having "Little Miss" there did. Dramatic Sop is enough older (she is 30 or 31 and conducts herself like someone older) that I can sort of look at her as a mentor (if I feel like) not an irksome wunderkind. On the other hand, of course I am green with envy. There is nothing that assuages the heartache of wishing I could go back and do it over. 1964 would be a good place to start. Don't smoke, don't try to be "hip", ignore your mother pushing you to be "with it", and honor your talent.
In other (good) news, I finally heard back from the two places I had contacted about putting on a concert. One is someplace I have sung before. So I need to get back in my high dramatic mezzo groove. My teacher will be singing with me and we will probably sing the Anna Bolena duet. First up is the little mini concert in May where I will be singing the "Drinking Song" from Lucretia Borgia.
And on a totally unrelated topic, I may be a media spokesperson for events to do with the 50th anniversary of Stonewall.
Less important, but to me shocking, is that no one has done anything about submitting an obituary to any news outlet. I have Googled her every day and there is nothing. Abbie had written three memoirs, a novel, numerous magazine articles, and had a Wikipedia page (I don't know who managed that). I also am surprised that she hadn't written her own obituary. My mother (who was not a "personage" like Abbie but thought she was) had one at the ready at least a decade before she died, so that I could send it to the TIMES. All I can think of was that Abbie was modest and perhaps her daughters (one lives on the Left Coast, the other deep in Trump Country) aren't interested in their mother's legacy.
The day after I heard that Abbie had died, I sang the Schubert "Ave Maria" at the funeral I mentioned. It went well. The Good Friday music is going well. As an aside, it seems that after three months of struggling with asthma and experimenting with how to treat it, it is gone. Perhaps it is seasonal. I was at the point where I was using the inhaler every day. I would say that I had some kind of upper airway distress almost every day between December 27 and April 10. Fingers crossed. In any event, that underscores why it is a good idea for me not to plan concerts during that period. And other than florid pieces like "Rejoice Greatly" I think it would be a good idea for me to stay away from singing anything with exposed high notes in public during that period.
I have the alto line in two solo quartets from the Missa Solemnis. I was disappointed not to be given the third (and in some ways the loveliest) solo part, which was given to a woman in the alto section with a pretty, small voice (sort of like a boy soprano). I suppose the choir director wanted that kind of sound at the very end (she is singing "Agnus Dei" which is the last thing we sing). I do love my solo quartets, particularly "Christe Eleison". And of course the new dramatic soprano is singing all the soprano solos. She sounds fabulous. Having her there doesn't get under my skin the way having "Little Miss" there did. Dramatic Sop is enough older (she is 30 or 31 and conducts herself like someone older) that I can sort of look at her as a mentor (if I feel like) not an irksome wunderkind. On the other hand, of course I am green with envy. There is nothing that assuages the heartache of wishing I could go back and do it over. 1964 would be a good place to start. Don't smoke, don't try to be "hip", ignore your mother pushing you to be "with it", and honor your talent.
In other (good) news, I finally heard back from the two places I had contacted about putting on a concert. One is someplace I have sung before. So I need to get back in my high dramatic mezzo groove. My teacher will be singing with me and we will probably sing the Anna Bolena duet. First up is the little mini concert in May where I will be singing the "Drinking Song" from Lucretia Borgia.
And on a totally unrelated topic, I may be a media spokesperson for events to do with the 50th anniversary of Stonewall.
Saturday, April 6, 2019
A Sad Shock, and Life Goes On
I just got a terrible, sad shock this past week. A friend (actually my partner's college roommate, who has known her since practically the year I was born - 1950) just found out that she has stomach cancer with only a few months to live. Everyone was just blindsided by this. I have had friends die of cancer (and I have friends who have survived cancer) but usually even the ones who eventually died had at least a year or more between diagnosis and death. This was especially shocking because this friend was very healthy for her age (84) and had only been in the hospital once in her life (other than to have children): to have a hip replacement a few years ago. And I am sure she went to doctors regularly. I am sad for everyone. For her, because she was such a vibrant, busy, productive person, and for her adult daughters, who are only forty-six and forty-nine, respectively, and for her three grandchildren, who are 13, 8, and 5. I was thinking that they are the "grandparentless" generation because they are the first generation I know whose mothers and grandmothers did not give birth until their late 30s or early 40s. My mother was 35 when I was born but her mother was only about 20 or 21 when she was born so I had grandparents until I was 28 or 31 (my grandmother died when I was 28 and my grandfather died when I was 31).
I have no idea if my friend wants social contact or not. I am assuming that she does not want phone calls. I find phone calls to be a nuisance generally because the person calling has no idea if it is a convenient time or not. She sent me an email with the news, I wrote back, trying to be as supportive as I could, and she wrote me a thank you. She hadn't wanted me to tell my partner (who has dementia) but I felt that I had to otherwise she would wonder why this friend hadn't called. I also called another friend and told her. I think I will write again to Abbie (my friend with cancer - not her real name) next week and just say I am thinking of her and that my partner sends her love. If she responds fine, if not not. I also thought I might send her an Easter card. My partner is well enough to sign it (she doesn't sign any official documents any more; I sign all those) and we always used to visit Abbie on Easter Sunday in the early 90s when she lived on Long Island. We would paint Easter eggs and she would make a big lunch. I think her younger daughter was still living at home.
I am also sad for selfish reasons. I had always assumed that Abbie would outlive my partner and that she could be helpful (even though about 5 years ago she moved across the continent) and supportive in some way. Abbie was the last person about whom I felt that in a dire emergency, I could call on at any hour of the day or night. There is no one left now. Possibly my friend in Massachusetts although she has not been well (she is younger than I am).
As far as singing news is concerned (it hardly seems to matter now) I was asked to sing the Schubert "Ave Maria" at the funeral of the mother of one of the men from the church. I was very flattered that he asked me. Being asked to sing is such an "up" for me. Singing because I've asked and been given is not as sweet as having been asked.
On Good Friday I am singing the alto solo line in the quartet in two selections from the Beethoven Missa Solemnis. I still don't know if I'm singing on Maundy Thursday, but I have something ready so it can wait until the last minute. If not I will probably sing on Trinity Sunday and in the summer. And I have a little mini concert with my teacher in mid-May. I am still working at following up with the two major venues that I hope to be able to sing in in the Fall.
Lastly, because I mentioned it in my last post, I got the biopsy results back about my partner's face, and what is there is not a squamous cell carcinoma. They called it an actinic keratosis and she is going to get it frozen off on the 30th.
I have no idea if my friend wants social contact or not. I am assuming that she does not want phone calls. I find phone calls to be a nuisance generally because the person calling has no idea if it is a convenient time or not. She sent me an email with the news, I wrote back, trying to be as supportive as I could, and she wrote me a thank you. She hadn't wanted me to tell my partner (who has dementia) but I felt that I had to otherwise she would wonder why this friend hadn't called. I also called another friend and told her. I think I will write again to Abbie (my friend with cancer - not her real name) next week and just say I am thinking of her and that my partner sends her love. If she responds fine, if not not. I also thought I might send her an Easter card. My partner is well enough to sign it (she doesn't sign any official documents any more; I sign all those) and we always used to visit Abbie on Easter Sunday in the early 90s when she lived on Long Island. We would paint Easter eggs and she would make a big lunch. I think her younger daughter was still living at home.
I am also sad for selfish reasons. I had always assumed that Abbie would outlive my partner and that she could be helpful (even though about 5 years ago she moved across the continent) and supportive in some way. Abbie was the last person about whom I felt that in a dire emergency, I could call on at any hour of the day or night. There is no one left now. Possibly my friend in Massachusetts although she has not been well (she is younger than I am).
As far as singing news is concerned (it hardly seems to matter now) I was asked to sing the Schubert "Ave Maria" at the funeral of the mother of one of the men from the church. I was very flattered that he asked me. Being asked to sing is such an "up" for me. Singing because I've asked and been given is not as sweet as having been asked.
On Good Friday I am singing the alto solo line in the quartet in two selections from the Beethoven Missa Solemnis. I still don't know if I'm singing on Maundy Thursday, but I have something ready so it can wait until the last minute. If not I will probably sing on Trinity Sunday and in the summer. And I have a little mini concert with my teacher in mid-May. I am still working at following up with the two major venues that I hope to be able to sing in in the Fall.
Lastly, because I mentioned it in my last post, I got the biopsy results back about my partner's face, and what is there is not a squamous cell carcinoma. They called it an actinic keratosis and she is going to get it frozen off on the 30th.
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