Crash

Sometimes I find myself daydreaming that I can talk to someone.  I can be quite articulate and eloquent in my head.  But I’m not often that way face to face.

I’m feeling depressed today.  Last night I saw and English men and boys’ choir perform at a local church.  They were pretty good.  I had some criticisms, but the lasting impression was a good one.  So I spent two hours watching and listening to a large group of cute boys with lovely voices.  One soloist in particular.  He sang the greater solo in “I waited for the Lord” by Mendelssohn, and the last verse in their encore, “Drop, drop slow tears” by Gibbons.  He had a beautiful, even, polished sound, and he was beautiful himself.  Some of the boys were probably nearly six feet tall, but I’d guess this soloist to have been no taller than 5′ if that.  (Not that height is the primary factor is beauty.)  Yet one could see he was no younger than 11.  Probably 12.

I wanted to speak to him after, but there didn’t seem to be a reception of any kind.  So I don’t even know his name.

After the concert I drove up to The King’s house to spend time with him and My Friend on the Facebook.  I wanted to talk about the concert, to talk about this boy, but when I got there I couldn’t say anything.  Even when MFotF asked, “How was the concert?” all I could say was, “good.”

Often after concerts of this sort, that is to say concerts with prominant boy performers, I crash emotionally — sometimes as soon as I walk out of the venue — and fall into this depression.  And I wonder why.  It’s the Unknowable Longing rearing its head yet again.  It’s been a while.  These concerts, and similar situations, remind me of something.  Something I want but can’t have.  Hard to have it when you can’t name it.

Sometimes this feeling is bittersweet.  I sort of savor it; the closeness to the idea behind the Unknowable Longing.  But not today.  Today it just sucks.  Hurts.  Days like today I wonder if it is worth torturing myself like this.  Maybe…  Something about the boychoir, the combination of boys and music, calls to me.  Entices me.  But I’m no closer to figuring out what that is today than when I first felt it.  So I could keep persuing it, or I could walk away and save myself the anguish.

When I put it down on paper like that the answer jumps out at me.  My idealist heart sees the choice between hard or easy and immediately chooses hard.  Prime would disagree, I’m sure.  Now if only I could get my Idealist Heart to do the dishes…

To change the topic, last week I was a little hot headded and over dramatic.  Prime and I are still speaking.  Our friendship will never be what it was at its peak, but it doesn’t need to end.  He just wanted assurances.  I thought I had given them to him, but it seems he needed more.  But he and I disagree on too many things.

Writing this down really does help, for some reason.  I don’t know why.

High hopes, low expectations

I had high hopes and low expectations for that concert.  My expectations won.  In honesty, the boys have potential.  Comparing them against other American boy choirs, they are not too far below acceptable.  (I find it sad, the difference in skill between the average American and English boy choir.)  However the men sang no better than the boys, and often not as well.

This group has ideas to raise money to open a choir school.  I don’t think so.  Long before opening a school I would want to be able to show that the choir has something worth teaching.  First step, ditch all the men.  Hire professionals.  With a solid ATB section to support them, the boys would automatically improve greatly.  Second, start the men performing on their own so that some subset of the organization can give a nuanced and polished performance.  Then start raising money to start a choir school  You may even already have a few teachers among the gentlemen.  I also think a way is needed to inspire passion for music and singing in the boys, as American boy singers are woefully low energy.  If one selected forces in numbers like King’s College, Cambridge (16 boys, 14 men, 1 director, 1 organist) there would be a 1:1 man to boy ratio.  A mentoring/apprenticeship program could conceivably help to inspire the boys to actually start putting themselves into the music rather than just letting it happen around them.

Love and War

***Warning!***  This post contains possible spoilers for the movie The Boy in the Striped Pajamas.  If you have not seen that movie and would maybe like to, consider not reading this post.  Or read until I mark the section about the movie.  Or better yet, go rent it.  Right Now.  Or if it’s still in theaters, go see it, right now.  Then come back and read the whole post.

At choir rehearsal tonight, 20f2 and The Russian stayed for the whole two hours.  And 2of2 sat right in front of me.  God! it was nice.  He is so cute.  His face is wonderful.  Always smiling, round cheeks (but not fat), bright eyes…  He was having a good time the whole time, too.  As always, I’m happy to see boys having fun with music.  When I wasn’t singing (which was too often.  I still don’t have my voice back.  Grr.) I could hear him.  Changing his voice may be, but it is still as cute as the rest of him.

And Italino’s back!  He also sat right in front of me, one row farther forward.  He spent a lot of the night twisted in his seat letting me see his profile and his eyes.  Such dark, exquisite eyes.  I hope the looks he gave me today were not in response to the horrible sounds coming from my mouth.

***Possible Spoilers Begin NOW!  Avert your eyes!***

Before rehearsal, I went and saw The Boy in the Striped Pajamas.  I’m not sure I can talk about it.  It was a great movie, beautiful most of the way through, but…  I saw it coming when it started building up to it, but as a whole it caught me off guard.  I think I finally found what would make me willing to kill.  The soldiers that dropped the gas into the chamber, as well as those who ordered it, oversaw it, herded them into the chamber.  How could one be party to that?  Regardless of the propaganda one has been fed all one’s life, how can one gas children to death?  Even fearing for one’s own life…  Them, I would be willing to kill.

I still wouldn’t have fought in WWII though.  Not only were most of the soldiers on the front innocent of these crimes, but the Allies didn’t even know what was going on.  I wouldn’t have known about the Holocaust until the war was over, and so wouldn’t have been willing to kill to to stop it.

Happy thoughts, eh?

The new year comes

Tomorrow is the new year.  For some reason, for the first time ever, the prospect of the new year excites me.  It’s not that I have dreaded the future before, nor that I’m eager for this year to be over.  I just never before saw any significance to the changing of a number at the tob of the calendar.  Regardless of the reasons theologically and scientifically for what the number is and when it changes, from a human perspective, it’s completely arbitrary.  Dec. 31 2008 is no diferent from Jan 1 2009.  If you lived in a cave in the middle of nowhere without a calendar, you wouldn’t notice anything changing between those two days.

But this year I’m looking forward to it.  Perhaps because of all I’m planning.  Even when I was in college, I had no plan beyond being in college.  Now I’m working towards a goal.  Even if that goal changes.  I may not take myself to England soon (on a permanent basis, anyway) for the sake of the new relationships I’m hoping to form here, but I still plan to get new computer training, advance my career, and form a deep relationship with a boy.  These are good plans, and I can only do so much to fulfill them on this side of the divide, and so I’m eager for the new year.

But that’s not why I started this entry.  It’s probably better than what follows, but…shrug.

Yesterday the cute tray taker was back.  I walked by his station several times (of course) and a few times I caught the sound of his voice.

It’s lovely.  I wrote before that it was unchanged, but I was struck yesterday more strongly by its sound for some reasons.  Every time I heard it my chest got tight, and I had the urge to close my eyes and just listen.  Very musical.  I think it all the time of other people, but he sould be a singer.  Not that he has much time left unless he’s like my two friends from back home who’s voices simply never changed during puberty.

Yesterday I was offered an extra shift.  As I was folding napkins, the scheduling manager came up to look at the schedule on the wall, seeking some people to take a last ninute shift.  She asked if I could, but I couldn’t.  Actually, I could have, I just didn’t want to.  But later that night I picked up a gig that would have conflicted anyway, so it’s a good thing I said no.  $250 for this concert.  (Tomorrow)

After I told her I couldn’t do it, she mentioned that she didn’t want to just post the shift for anybody to take, since the event was for a personal friend of the owner and she wanted to pick good people to work it.

So apparently, she trusts me.  Consideres me one o fthe better servers.  I’d been starting to suspect that anyway since she schedules me so often and is unhappy when I request off, and just generally the way the management acts toward me.  But it’s nice to have it a little more confirmed.

The thing is, I don’t like this job, as I have made clear.  Not only that, but I don’t feel particularly good at it.  I’m often among the last servers to get tables clear, I wander around before and after events, not really sure of what I’m supposed to be doing.  I’m glad they think I’m good at it (and maybe I am and my standards are just higher than theirs) since I hope to get a positive work refference from them when I quit in the very near future.

I’m done.

Seeing Sissy tonight before rehearsal.

Inspiration

I foolishly left my journal at home yesterday.  Well, not so much foolishly as forgetfully.  I meant to bring it, knowing I was working a double.  In actuality, though, I worked a tripple.  The AM shift had two banquets overlapping.

Anyway, The Restaurant seems to have hired a pair of children.  (I assume they are 14.)  The one is about 5’8″, red headed, changed voice, and slightly overweight.  The other, on the other hand, is 5’6″ (still tall for my usual taste), brown haired, skinny, unchanged voice, and has a very cute face.  And beautiful skin.  Quite attractive.  They were stationed by the dish washer to clear a la carte servers’ trays.

Also that day, in my second room, there was a boy probably about nine years old who looked a lot like a slightly younger version of the boy in the JCPenny’s comercials on Hulu.  (The Ice/Nice one.)  Every time I walked out of the kitchen, or carried a tray toward it, he would watch me openly.  He probably watched all the servers as they did their jobs, since the impression I got from him was one of strong curiosity.  He was very cute.  It seems to me that he was watching to see how the job worked.  Where we went, who was where, what we were bringing in/carrying out.

He’s not the first boy to watch me so closely while I waited tables.  Many weeks ago, near my beginning but after my training, there was a wedding when I had my tray stand right next to a boy I took to be around 10.  He also openly watched my every move.  I spent the whole time hoping he ‘d ask me questions.  He never did, of course.

With the dish boy in the kitchen and the JCP boy in the dining room, I noticed that I worked harder, more diligently.  I moved with greater purpose, made sure to smile, follow procedure, do everything with greater efficiency.  It’s something I’ve thought of before, and even considered writing about but never did, in part because I never had this tool –  the journal – that is so welcoming to such observations.

The observation being: boys inspire me.  I mean, really.  They have shaped me since I started noticing them.  While being a pedophile/boylover in an intollerant society has shaped me in various ways – some positive, some negative – the boys themselves have only ever been positive influences.

So many pivotal moments can be dated to when I was 13.  Christmas when I was 13 I discovered (rediscovered) my great-uncle’s colection of English men and boys choirs Christmas carol albums.  Those recordings inspired more interest in the other classical LPs in the basement.  I was drawn to them because of the boys’ voices, but in listening raptly I learned to love the music and the genre as well.  I’d always had an interest in classical music, but that’s when it became a passion.  In those other LPs I discovered Mozart, and then as my ears matured, Bach and Beethoven.

I bought from Boarders two CDs of boy music, also when I was 13 I think.  A compilation recording of Westminster Cathedral Choir and a Vienna Boys’ Choir CD featuring mostly solos by an also 13yo Max Emanuel Cencic.  The Cencic CD I loved, with its Handel, Mozart, Schubert and Strauss.  At first I didn’t like all the 20th century stuff on the Westminster CD, but again the voices inspired me to grow.  It eventually became my favorite CD.

A leadership position got me over my first hump in Boy Scouts (13 yo), but it was the boys (Candy, Orange Hat, Owl, CIA, N, Casper, Little Man, Fox, and finally The Beloved) that got me over the second, so I stayed to and beyond Eagle Scout.

Boys are the reason I joined the Citadel, and that has been an excellent post to have for many reasons.

I’m sure there are many more examples, but now I must eat, shave, change and go to work, yet again.

*I found some pages of skit scripts I wrote for skit night at music camp.  Kinda funny.  I was 14 when I wrote them, I think.  I had horrible handwriting.

Not-so-evil plan

A plan is starting to take shape in my mind.  A goal.  A direction.  I need to write it down to sort it out and to stop myself forgetting.  It will be nice to have direction if I approve the plan and put it into action.

The goal is to move to England with a job lined up.  I sort of have two paths before me.  One of stability and one of dynamicy.  (I know that’s not really a word.)  I can stay where I am.  Get comfortable.  If I do that, I may eventually end up with some semblance of a music career, but I doubt anything great will happen.

The other option is to take myself outside of comfort.  Do something new to inspire me to greater things.  That doesn’t have to be a move to England, and I hate to leave this country just as Barack Obama takes power, just as “my side” has won the election, but if I don’t do it now, it will only get harder.  I must follow the example of my friend who went to China.

So.  The plan.  It involves:
– intense voice study with my voice teacher.
– coaching with two able coaches in my area. One famous.
– maybe some lessons with The Tenor’s teacher.
– finding a roommate.
– getting an associate’s degree in IT.
– attending a prestigious music festival.
– Singing as much as I can.
– Finding employment and housing in England to arrive to.

Let’s start with that last one.  I can kill three birds with one stone if I get a job as a lay clerk at a cathedral, church or chapel.  Not only is it employment, but many offer housing as well, and I would get to sing with a fabulous men and boy’s choir, which has been a dream of mine since I was 13.

While I’m aiming for the stars, I may as well throw in some sort of job working with the boys of that choir in a more supervisory capacity.  In order to increase my competitiveness for such a position, I’ll add a few more to-dos:
– become a Boy Scout leader.
– become a volunteer with a youth mentoring organization.

Obviously, this isn’t an easy list to accomplish.  My time will have to be more tightly managed.  I’ll need to find fun in the journey, and not in the spaces between the steps.

One of the local community colleges is obviously a good place to start for the IT degree.

***

My father and I just had a long, nice conversation.  Talked about everything from the cause of higher humidity on land vs. ocean to voice change, karaoke, computers and countertenors.  He suggested that I take classes in the specific areas of computer technology that interest me rather than pursue a third lesser degree to the degrees I already possess.

Priorities when I get home involve:

– getting out of debt.
– gathering information about local community colleges.
– reconnecting with the coaches.
– submitting applications to become a leader and a mentor.
– cultivating relationships that can provide references for jobs involving children.
– find information about the music festival and apply.

I need to become more involved with the Citadel’s choirs for the second to last point in that list.

To accomplish all this I will need to make sacrifices, obviously.  World of Warcraft is out.  Sadly.  I like it, but I don’t.  It’s fun, and it’s good, but it’s boring and it’s bad.  BBM will be sad.

…I’ve lost my focus.  Good thing I got down what I did.

Complaining

I had a good conversation with Jess today.  This is actually significant, sadly.  Recently whenever we talk it seems like she’s complaining about something, or she’s having a hard day, etc.  I don’t wish to be cruel, but it’s every time now, and she has said to me herself that she doesn’t like it when a friend relies on you only for emotional support, and never for fun.  She was talking about having to be cheerleader for someone else’s ego, but I think it translates.  After a few minutes of the same on the phone with her I started thinking, “all she does is whine at me.”  But then, she stopped herself and basically admitted that.  Then the conversation actually became a conversation and I got into it.  I didn’t want to get off the phone.  It was nice.  I need to be a more active phone participant.  Not just let her talk, but contribute myself.  Steer the topic to something mutual.  For surely, the one sided conversations we’ve been having are as much my fault as hers.

Anyhow, the topic of conversation started with…a complaint.  From me.  I mentioned the recording I just got of a concert I sang last spring.  I got it on Thursday, and listened to it for the first time today.  I did not like what I heard.

I had thought that I was getting much better.  That my tone was richening, deepening, becoming fuller.  but the sound I heard from that recording still sounded to me thin and very like a student and not a professional.  Maybe I hadn’t been as “on” that afternoon as I thought I was.  Or maybe the recording isn’t as true as I think it is.

Or maybe – worst of all – I really have improved as much as I thought, and that’s the better sound.  Which ever, I’m very happy to be having a lesson tomorrow, because I have a long way to go.