Morning. I need coffee. I need it because if not, I will stay in bed thinking about the music I have to practice today. I sit at the table looking at rehearsal schedules.
I suddenly start hearing the music from rehearsal
four years ago
for that one show
I never ended up doing.
It finally occurs to me— this is the La Traviata mens’ chorus music. I sing it before I remember what it’s from, in Italian, and then amuse myself with the ridiculously inaccurate translation that we used to have.
I feel like aliens have taken over my brain and are using me as a radio system. I write down this fact because I didn’t even remember that I did this. But I remember the music. I fear I am going senile for everything but classical music.
Shower. I sing an entire piano piece melody (and some of the supporting left hand parts). I can’t remember why I know it, and I still haven’t had coffee. Please just drink coffee. I still haven’t drunk the coffee I poured at nine o’clock.
I start to stretch and warm up, so that my constantly tense back/neck of a 90 year-old coal miner doesn’t inhibit my ability to perform.
My roommate must think that
I’m either doing tongue exercises,
or judging by the sound,
masturbating to piano music in the living room.
Yes, it’s just tongue exercises. I can’t believe I do these in public.
By lunch time I’ve looked through all my music for the day and sobbed inconsolably (at least on the inside). By just after lunch I have finally drunk my coffee, now cold. I make tea.
I have to go to work. I practice for a few hours, get dressed and run to the train. On the train I hear repetitive melodies in my head, so I turn on some completely different music to shut off my work. I get to work just exactly on time, not sure how. I spend a lot of time singing the tenor’s arias from the show in my head, which are much catchier and easier to love.
At work I try to hold back my excitement every time someone mentions music or art, because the geek parade that would escape from my mouth is painful to hear. I don’t like to be friends with other artists because they are obnoxious. But I can’t be friends with normal people without alcohol, because then we have very little to talk about.
I get home, feel guilty for the little time I have practiced, and punish myself with translations and musical analysis. In a few hours when that guilt has worn off and I’m too lazy to consider any more practicing, the wine and Netflix emerge from the shadows. It is time. I can bear planning lessons with my students much more easily with wine.
…But I will still take notice of every clipped piece of classical music in the movie's soundtrack. And what the music really means. And you will hate me. And I will not care.
Bedtime is usually difficult. I hate bedtime but I don’t want to get sick. Depending on how busy I am, I may have a dream that takes place in rehearsal. God help me.
I suddenly start hearing the music from rehearsal
four years ago
for that one show
I never ended up doing.
It finally occurs to me— this is the La Traviata mens’ chorus music. I sing it before I remember what it’s from, in Italian, and then amuse myself with the ridiculously inaccurate translation that we used to have.
I feel like aliens have taken over my brain and are using me as a radio system. I write down this fact because I didn’t even remember that I did this. But I remember the music. I fear I am going senile for everything but classical music.
Shower. I sing an entire piano piece melody (and some of the supporting left hand parts). I can’t remember why I know it, and I still haven’t had coffee. Please just drink coffee. I still haven’t drunk the coffee I poured at nine o’clock.
I start to stretch and warm up, so that my constantly tense back/neck of a 90 year-old coal miner doesn’t inhibit my ability to perform.
My roommate must think that
I’m either doing tongue exercises,
or judging by the sound,
masturbating to piano music in the living room.
Yes, it’s just tongue exercises. I can’t believe I do these in public.
By lunch time I’ve looked through all my music for the day and sobbed inconsolably (at least on the inside). By just after lunch I have finally drunk my coffee, now cold. I make tea.
I have to go to work. I practice for a few hours, get dressed and run to the train. On the train I hear repetitive melodies in my head, so I turn on some completely different music to shut off my work. I get to work just exactly on time, not sure how. I spend a lot of time singing the tenor’s arias from the show in my head, which are much catchier and easier to love.
At work I try to hold back my excitement every time someone mentions music or art, because the geek parade that would escape from my mouth is painful to hear. I don’t like to be friends with other artists because they are obnoxious. But I can’t be friends with normal people without alcohol, because then we have very little to talk about.
I get home, feel guilty for the little time I have practiced, and punish myself with translations and musical analysis. In a few hours when that guilt has worn off and I’m too lazy to consider any more practicing, the wine and Netflix emerge from the shadows. It is time. I can bear planning lessons with my students much more easily with wine.
…But I will still take notice of every clipped piece of classical music in the movie's soundtrack. And what the music really means. And you will hate me. And I will not care.
Bedtime is usually difficult. I hate bedtime but I don’t want to get sick. Depending on how busy I am, I may have a dream that takes place in rehearsal. God help me.
No comments:
Post a Comment