TO SURVIVE
(1-9-11)
The last 4 and a half months,
are a blur to me.
I've delved back into the darkness,
and survived.
I saw my self morph into that person,
I didn't like,
again.
It happens so quickly,
I realize now,
If I let it.
I let it,
and,
am in recovery once again.
Stopping isn't hard.
It's the changes to your body,
and your mind,
that are hard.
The dreams,
The raw emotion,
The restlessness,
The longing,
The pins and needles,
The inability to focus.
Moving on is the path,
I have to take,
If I am to survive,
in this wilderness,
That I've created for myself.
People ask me if I'll do it again.
I don't know,
I say.
People ask me why I've stopped.
The not so simple answer,
I reply,
is,
To Survive.
Sunday, January 9, 2011
To Survive
Sunday, December 19, 2010
Thinking About It
Thinking About It
12-19-2010
I’ve been thinking about this life.
It feels as though I’m stagnant.
Though life continues on around me,
I feel alone,
stuck in this holding position,
Until something happens.
Am I a conduit,
For the chaos that swirls around me?
Or, a conduit,
For the life that swirls around it?
I try to be the nicest person I can be,
Some see me wrestling with that,
With the chaos inside me.
Some would call it personal demons,
Some would call it drama,
Some would call it regrets.
I call it,
Self.
I’m just me.
Not above reproach,
Not above mistakes,
Not above regret,
Nor Forgiveness.
I’m ready for it to happen,
It will happen soon,
I can feel it.
Yea,
I’ve been thinking about this life,
I’ve been thinking about it.
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
Creators of our circumstance
I once read a quote,
I can't remember who wrote,
It was something to ponder,
It really made me wonder.
When I chose my mate
Did I choose my fate?
Knowing he wasn't the fittest
Should've known to regret it?
Do I regret the time we had?
That does make me glad.
Wishing always for more,
It still makes my heart sore.
Can someone control their love?
Where does it come from, up above?
Pierces through your soul
Entwines two to the core.
One gets ripped to soon,
Shooting back up to the moon.
Up to the stars, into the heavens,
Leaving me here in my oblivion.
If I had thought to seek
Similar to me,
It would alleviate the fate
Of making my husband late.
Monday, February 22, 2010
Good Enough
I write, I edit, I think,
People don't realize,
Or stop to even blink,
That I maybe humanized.
A blonde I may be,
To see what they desire,
But most don't see me,
Yet, I do grow tired.
Will I ever be good enough?
Always second best it seems,
Never the one thought of,
On the Day of Valentines.
Don't know what's wrong,
A good person is worth a risk,
When a person has fallen,
In love with another, it's sick.
When the other doesn't think,
You are as special,
As you might feel your instinct,
Before you hit hard from the fall.
Friday, January 29, 2010
10r Wfe
For a long while, now, I've been thinking about adding the title of this entry to my car in way of a vanity license plate. Hardly few would 'get' it, however, and is it really worth the extra bit of money to publicize in a road worthy medium my very real status as 'Tenor Wife'? As a highly regarded publicist recently told me, seventy-five per cent of Americans probably wouldn't even know what a tenor was. That's rather discouraging. Must we lump sopranos, mezzos, baritones, basses and, of course, tenors in one common pile - opera singers? Does it really do justice? I fear it doesn't. That's why I heartily believe opera must somehow become part of our daily lives again, in respect to the masses or that seventy-five per cent of Americans.
Opera is still highly regarded in Europe, however minimalist the productions may be, updated, modernized and sometimes ridiculously staged, it is still a pastime among Europeans, old and young. The state pays for their theaters, which ensures their livelihoods. In recent times many houses in the United States have closed and those that haven't may be facing bankruptcy. It's a sad, sorry state to lose something so beautiful, so timeless and precious due to unavailable and/or meager funding.
To suffer for one's art has always been a requisite for any artist. Painters, musicians and writers alike have all at one time or another starved for the benefit of their work - or starved because their work yielded little to no income. Which brings us back to that license plate. I am the wife of a tenor. We've had many prosperous years but the down times are hideous and debilitating. Even with the bio that my husband has behind him, at the beginning of last season he lost nearly 60 performances due to cut backs. This, my dears, was in Europe! The houses he had been contracted with decided it would be more financially secure to have their 'fest' (in house) singers perform the operas instead of hiring out guests, which happened to be just what Emmanuel was, freelancing his way through Europe. It was a hard blow. The mortgage, car payment plus two little boys to care for was crippling enough without the losses - with them, it was nearly impossible to survive. We decided to start our website, henceforth, http://musicforahome.com, in order to generate income and save our beloved Southern California home from foreclosure. Emmanuel worked tirelessly on his debut album, 'From the Bottom of My Heart' - the sales of which would hopefully keep us in the green. I hit every major news market, tried and tried to drum up interest. I was able to have a few bites from local news agencies but nothing that would propel us to the next level.
We are still very much in the red. Fortunately, Emmanuel had made a good friend and contact with the head of an opera house in Poznan, Poland, and he called at the eleventh hour, offering several performances at a reasonable fee. Bielefeld followed suit as well as the Caramoor festival in NY this summer (headed by Will Crutchfield, another of Emmanuel's friends and invaluable contact). With all of this, he sees us only a few times a year for short intervals. He has a hard time coping with being away and not experiencing our little boys' milestones and growing up. But, we cannot complain for some of his colleagues - many with established names in the opera community are scrounging for work as waiters and have all but given up their hopes and dreams of singing. And, yes, we are still in foreclosure. What will tomorrow bring? I feel if I don't stay optimistic, all will crumble under us. As artists, we persevere through the most difficult of times, for our art, love and our lives.
Opera is still highly regarded in Europe, however minimalist the productions may be, updated, modernized and sometimes ridiculously staged, it is still a pastime among Europeans, old and young. The state pays for their theaters, which ensures their livelihoods. In recent times many houses in the United States have closed and those that haven't may be facing bankruptcy. It's a sad, sorry state to lose something so beautiful, so timeless and precious due to unavailable and/or meager funding.
To suffer for one's art has always been a requisite for any artist. Painters, musicians and writers alike have all at one time or another starved for the benefit of their work - or starved because their work yielded little to no income. Which brings us back to that license plate. I am the wife of a tenor. We've had many prosperous years but the down times are hideous and debilitating. Even with the bio that my husband has behind him, at the beginning of last season he lost nearly 60 performances due to cut backs. This, my dears, was in Europe! The houses he had been contracted with decided it would be more financially secure to have their 'fest' (in house) singers perform the operas instead of hiring out guests, which happened to be just what Emmanuel was, freelancing his way through Europe. It was a hard blow. The mortgage, car payment plus two little boys to care for was crippling enough without the losses - with them, it was nearly impossible to survive. We decided to start our website, henceforth, http://musicforahome.com, in order to generate income and save our beloved Southern California home from foreclosure. Emmanuel worked tirelessly on his debut album, 'From the Bottom of My Heart' - the sales of which would hopefully keep us in the green. I hit every major news market, tried and tried to drum up interest. I was able to have a few bites from local news agencies but nothing that would propel us to the next level.
We are still very much in the red. Fortunately, Emmanuel had made a good friend and contact with the head of an opera house in Poznan, Poland, and he called at the eleventh hour, offering several performances at a reasonable fee. Bielefeld followed suit as well as the Caramoor festival in NY this summer (headed by Will Crutchfield, another of Emmanuel's friends and invaluable contact). With all of this, he sees us only a few times a year for short intervals. He has a hard time coping with being away and not experiencing our little boys' milestones and growing up. But, we cannot complain for some of his colleagues - many with established names in the opera community are scrounging for work as waiters and have all but given up their hopes and dreams of singing. And, yes, we are still in foreclosure. What will tomorrow bring? I feel if I don't stay optimistic, all will crumble under us. As artists, we persevere through the most difficult of times, for our art, love and our lives.
Thursday, January 14, 2010
Can it be?
People can be one,
People can be some,
Close for a time,
Always going sublime.
Confusing you, making you think,
They love you, then it stinks,
Turn your back,
The love then lacks.
Trying to twist your fate,
for the worse,
Thinking it will make them great,
Only bringing on a curse.
A curse for the wicked,
To live a life of evil,
Always unfulfilled and sickened,
Maybe one day, will be a believer.
They will have happiness,
Within themselves,
Not from a Prince or Princess,
Or things that can be put on shelves.
Look into your souls,
That is where it can be,
What is this goal?
True happiness, you silly..
Saturday, January 9, 2010
Boob Tube
Marty believed that his success could only be measured by three things: One, a career - not a job, mind you, a career, two, a good relationship with his mother and, three, a healthy, vibrant sex life. At fifty, things weren't adding up. Marty had the career, his evil, bitch of a mother was long dead and he had a marriage with twenty-five years of great sex (perhaps, servitude) behind him, coupled with three beautiful, intelligent daughters. For all intents and purposes, from the Bird's Eye View, all was successful, all was well.
But what Marty really wanted was a TV.
A rough patch developed between his youngest daughter and her boyfriend. Marty felt inclined to impart his wisdom to the boy. He took the C train and no more than two buses to the boy's railroad apt. set high on Central Park West. It was a walk up, six floors and, out of breath, Marty kicked aside the stoned artist on the top stair. He approached the avocado flavored door, covered in nicks and scratches, knocked and emerged (yeah, through the looking glass) into WONDERLAND. Carroll had nothing on this place.
The face, framed by thick dark hair, eyes alight with youth, did not deter Marty's focus. He sank into a worn yet plush chair - the kind someone looking for immortality would replace with a piece much more streamline and modern, giving perfection a pauper's burial, unceremoniously left to rot on the corner of 117th and Riverside Dr. The kind of chair young dreams are made of.
Marty took a moment to look around. Next to him, on a makeshift table of cardboard, he spied a series of randomly placed remote controls. He could hear the boy speaking but could not decipher the sound. The lure of the Queen of Hearts was too profound. He stared at the epicenter of the railroad - a gleaming 52 inch LCD flat screen.
How could he ever go back to his 28 inch tube?
"Could you put the game on?" He heard himself mutter, as if in a dream.
Later that evening, when the bottle marked 'Drink Me' had been drained, he took the buses and the train back to his brownstone. The East Side had its pleasures but there was a high price to pay.
Marty removed his coat, hung it on the cheap, metal rack adorning the inside of the small closet door as he had a million times before. He reached into his pocket, felt around for the stowaway keys and dropped them into that fussy, little dish Judy insisted on. Marty, with every being of his soul crying out, tread with heavy feet into his living room and picked up the black remote with the thick, clicky buttons. Judy was upstairs. He didn't bother waking her. Marty fell asleep in the doldrums of an 'I Love Lucy' he had watched a thousand times before.
Patterns of sunlight fell through the plantation shutters. That stupid, salt and peppered kid had forecast rain but it was clear and bright. Marty clicked the top right button on the box that was assaulting his hand. He looked around. Six pairs, right there, in the box near the kitchen. Four more on a low shelf in the hall. Shoes. Prada, Louboutin, Gucci. Struck by a truth as sharp and deliberate as lightning, Marty found his waking legs and pounded the stairs.
"What is wrong with you?" Judy was pleading. Marty couldn't help but notice that even just rolling out of bed, her hair was still perfectly coiffed.
"What's wrong with me?!" Marty's question was rhetorical as he pulled shoebox after shoebox, most embossed with gold labeling. "What the hell do you think is wrong with me, Judy, huh? FUCK!" He returned to his pillaging, "one after another," Marty yelled, continuing, " I worked my ass off! I established myself as a cocksucker! I became an enemy to my friends and colleagues, for what? So you could have the best collection of designers, immortalized by the inseams of your damn shoes?"
"Marty!" Judy screamed, pleading, "please... I..." But Marty had no ears for it.
He ran down to the kitchen, threw open the pantry door, grabbed a GLAD bag and headed back upstairs, to the closet.
"What are you doing?!" Judy shrieked through tears. "No! Please, don't take the Prada boots! NO! I love those! Please! I can't wear my green suit without those! WAIT!"
Marty refused to hear her protests.
"So many shoes," he swore, "so many damn pairs of shoes! I could have had a flat screen if it weren't for all of these damn shoes!"
A free man is a successful man, Marty finally realized. It probably wouldn't have hit him if he hadn't run across an electronics store on 102nd that just happened to be going out of business. With only his coat and his wallet, his keys left sitting placidly in that stupid china, Marty entered, pointed and left to his studio apartment, utterly alone, wearing a smile even the Cheshire Cat would envy.
But what Marty really wanted was a TV.
A rough patch developed between his youngest daughter and her boyfriend. Marty felt inclined to impart his wisdom to the boy. He took the C train and no more than two buses to the boy's railroad apt. set high on Central Park West. It was a walk up, six floors and, out of breath, Marty kicked aside the stoned artist on the top stair. He approached the avocado flavored door, covered in nicks and scratches, knocked and emerged (yeah, through the looking glass) into WONDERLAND. Carroll had nothing on this place.
The face, framed by thick dark hair, eyes alight with youth, did not deter Marty's focus. He sank into a worn yet plush chair - the kind someone looking for immortality would replace with a piece much more streamline and modern, giving perfection a pauper's burial, unceremoniously left to rot on the corner of 117th and Riverside Dr. The kind of chair young dreams are made of.
Marty took a moment to look around. Next to him, on a makeshift table of cardboard, he spied a series of randomly placed remote controls. He could hear the boy speaking but could not decipher the sound. The lure of the Queen of Hearts was too profound. He stared at the epicenter of the railroad - a gleaming 52 inch LCD flat screen.
How could he ever go back to his 28 inch tube?
"Could you put the game on?" He heard himself mutter, as if in a dream.
Later that evening, when the bottle marked 'Drink Me' had been drained, he took the buses and the train back to his brownstone. The East Side had its pleasures but there was a high price to pay.
Marty removed his coat, hung it on the cheap, metal rack adorning the inside of the small closet door as he had a million times before. He reached into his pocket, felt around for the stowaway keys and dropped them into that fussy, little dish Judy insisted on. Marty, with every being of his soul crying out, tread with heavy feet into his living room and picked up the black remote with the thick, clicky buttons. Judy was upstairs. He didn't bother waking her. Marty fell asleep in the doldrums of an 'I Love Lucy' he had watched a thousand times before.
Patterns of sunlight fell through the plantation shutters. That stupid, salt and peppered kid had forecast rain but it was clear and bright. Marty clicked the top right button on the box that was assaulting his hand. He looked around. Six pairs, right there, in the box near the kitchen. Four more on a low shelf in the hall. Shoes. Prada, Louboutin, Gucci. Struck by a truth as sharp and deliberate as lightning, Marty found his waking legs and pounded the stairs.
"What is wrong with you?" Judy was pleading. Marty couldn't help but notice that even just rolling out of bed, her hair was still perfectly coiffed.
"What's wrong with me?!" Marty's question was rhetorical as he pulled shoebox after shoebox, most embossed with gold labeling. "What the hell do you think is wrong with me, Judy, huh? FUCK!" He returned to his pillaging, "one after another," Marty yelled, continuing, " I worked my ass off! I established myself as a cocksucker! I became an enemy to my friends and colleagues, for what? So you could have the best collection of designers, immortalized by the inseams of your damn shoes?"
"Marty!" Judy screamed, pleading, "please... I..." But Marty had no ears for it.
He ran down to the kitchen, threw open the pantry door, grabbed a GLAD bag and headed back upstairs, to the closet.
"What are you doing?!" Judy shrieked through tears. "No! Please, don't take the Prada boots! NO! I love those! Please! I can't wear my green suit without those! WAIT!"
Marty refused to hear her protests.
"So many shoes," he swore, "so many damn pairs of shoes! I could have had a flat screen if it weren't for all of these damn shoes!"
A free man is a successful man, Marty finally realized. It probably wouldn't have hit him if he hadn't run across an electronics store on 102nd that just happened to be going out of business. With only his coat and his wallet, his keys left sitting placidly in that stupid china, Marty entered, pointed and left to his studio apartment, utterly alone, wearing a smile even the Cheshire Cat would envy.
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