Living on a string of harmonic paradigms

As I sit here trying to think of how to put the words down, I’m struck by the hundreds of possibilities, hundreds of routes this one little post could take. I feel like my mind’s continually expanding, not unlike dry-rotted elastic, to be honest. Think hairtie: you pull to stretch it out and it just gives, with a little initial unsettling snick-groan of resistance. Then oh– well it just keeps going, the elastic inside fraying and crumbling away while the threads that bound it stretch to their breaking point– eventually you have a ring about twelve times the size of the hairtie.

The only issue with that is finding out what to use it for, now that it’s been ruined for its original purpose.

That’s kind of where I think my brain is right now. Just crammed to bursting with new information and pressure, not to mention deep concern and love for family and friends, combined with the stress of keeping grades up. Now, I love school, and think it’s fun– but the fact that I struggle in some subjects worries me and is material for endless hours of freak-out. Let me see you take a harmonic dictation for an eight bar excerpt from the literature and put roman numerals beneath it. Then have that make up twenty-five percent of your grade, or have it determine whether you fail a course or not.

That’s okay, I can’t really do it, either.

It’s really a learning process, and it’s better to gain the skills– they’re what’s important. But if my grades slip? I lose a scholarship. And other semi-important things, oh, I don’t know, self-respect.

So classes are stressing me out.

But I’ve really wanted to write, lately. And I’d like to write every day, without pressure or obligation, since I get too much of both from school right now. I do think it would be a nice change to just sit down and let some pressure go through words, though. I haven’t done that regularly in probably a couple of months, and I’m sure the style of this blog post shows it.

Oh, shit. Okay, well it’s 1202, and I have class at 1230 and I need to listen to that dictation one more time before it’s due. Maybe I’ll see you later, WordPress.

You drift upon the silence of my dreams

I almost didn’t write. I had this window closed and everything. But I guess I needed to.

There’s not a whole lot going on right now, though: it’s one of those chunks of time that you’re so busy with everything that time just slides by.

Good. It should. I’m ready to go back home.

It’s silly, though, because I adore it here. I’m just ready to see my family again.

My accompanist told me this morning that he feels old. He’s twenty-five or six. I’m eighteen, and I feel old every morning.

I have eleven frappuccinos from Starbucks in my fridge (before you scorn me, I did not use actual money, I used declining).

I am completely typing stream-of-consciousness right now, so what you see is what I’m thinking, I suppose.

I’m listening to a recording of “The White Swan” right now (Ernest Charles). I sang it tonight in studio, and I got a lot of really solid feedback for it. It’s got an indigo and red-violet shimmer to it that’s edged with a sliver of white gold. That’s the song in color for me: deep jewel tones with a bright, hot edge.

It’s about someone who wants someone else. She thinks she’s forgotten this person, and has closeted away thoughts of them. But there’s something striking and vivid about a memory from before, of a white swan bursting through a sable pool she and this person saw years or days or months ago… and it slides deeply and sharply into her heart, that she craves this person more than anything. “I dared to dream I had forgotten you. Yet from the shadows of my darkened heart, like a white swan upon an onyx pool, you drift upon the silence of my dreams– and fill my heart with longing! With longing… and desire.”

It gets pretty intense. And as two of my favorite studio mates (grad students) told me this evening, with the accompaniment, “That’s hot.” So by that standard alone it was a great class. It never ceases to amaze me that I’m actually here. I’m really living, breathing– and studying at Eastman. What the hell?

A year ago I was hating life and yearbook and wishing to Jesus that I could just have fun. I thought for sure I was going to Syracuse to do something else with my life… besides sing.

I still want to do something else with my life: like be someone worth knowing? that would be cool. But singing is something I find myself connecting with on a deeper and deeper level every day. Especially since “O del mio dolce ardor” at the departmental recital, I just have a feeling (a confidence? maybe) that I should be doing this. I could travel with this, I could learn so much if I continue with it.

I take my music ed assessment tomorrow at 430. This is directly after four hours of classes (not counting the two in the AM). The assessment will determine whether or not I can double major officially or not. Oh God, what do I do if I fail it?

I won’t fail it. I hope.

With that, it’s time to conclude these completely disconnected ramblings and go shower. Buona notte, wordpress.

In another life, maybe

So I realized upon waking up and reading what I wrote last night, I left a few important things out of my post.

First of all, I realize it’s a pretty personal subject. When I mentioned the vulnerability? It’s kind of weird leaving that last post up, just because it talks about crap I’ve tried my best to not even think about for a long time.

Because let’s be realistic. I sing opera. I have plans for my life, and they’re not all money-making or stabilizing. I’m ambitious and fairly smart and love to read, write, think, and work outside/shovel horse shit/run around with my dogs when it’s not snowy. I don’t fit the typical mold for a significant other and I’m aware of it. But that doesn’t stop me from thinking about it, or having a yen for it. Even if it doesn’t make sense.

And hey. This was a blog for my thoughts, first and foremost. So if I’m thinking about boys and the future, then that’s what I’m going to write about.

But upon further reflection, I almost feel as though I should resign it to fiction. Keep the thoughts of a future with some faceless, nameless gent within the pages of a word document. The idea of jeopardizing my future plans because of some unknown stranger is horrifying. It’s just not worth it.

So ignore my lists and forget the standards. It’s just a silly topic that happens to surface in my mind whenever I see my friends happy in that way. I’m glad for them, but in the more selfish section of my brain I do tend to wonder why I can’t have it, too.