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.
Friday, January 29, 2010
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.
Friday, January 8, 2010
Fragments (Unfinished, unedited, first draft)
"You are a tailored polyester suit, a Cubic zirconia set in platinum, a Frolex, for Christ's sake."
"A Frolex? What's a Frolex?"
"A fake Rolex. A knock off, you imbecile."
"You know, you're one-hundred per cent wrong. I'm nothing if I'm not a man of substance. Take into account my success-"
"-Monetary success."
"-Yeah, so?"
"So? That's precisely why I call you a Frolex. Listen, ever since you were little you've connived and manipulated. To what end? You've failed in everything besides your career."
"Entirely untrue. I haven't failed. They've failed me, time and time again. Take Prussia, for starters, lets go way back!"
She was a beauty, that long blonde hair and crystal blue eyes. More curves than an Austrian summit... and stupid. Utterly vapid. Birds would nest in her brain. She thought their chirping was an army of men bent on driving her insane, pushing the unlock buttons on their key less entry devices. As long as she didn't speak much (thankfully her bad English was peppered with unknown Norse dialects and wasn't understood, anyway) she was a thing to behold. That Troy bitch, Helen, had nothing on Prussia. I chased her for the better part of two years. When she finally agreed, I picked her up and couldn't contain my desire. She was a sight to behold in a too short red dress and plunging neckline.
Sitting at the drive-in, I began to devour the beauty. Yeah, I was hard with teenage lust and felt confined in my fly. I opened up and received my first real, albeit partial, blow job. My hands scoured her back, I yanked the zipper and peeled her right out of all that red, exposing an enormous, silver bra, clasped in the center by a five digit combination lock. It winked at me in the gleam of the projector's light.
'What!' I shrieked, lurching back. 'What the hell is that?!'
'Oh!' She answered as happily as ever, 'this, my father makes me this! He likes to say boy cannot get to boobies, boy does not want to get to yum-yum.'
"That didn't happen."
"It absolutely did so happen."
"Nesting birds in her brain? A combination locked chastity bra?"
"You think I'd make this up? Prussia was nuttier than all three of my wives put together. And her dad, no offense to primates, was a gorilla."
"There you go again."
"There I what again?"
"You're establishing an existence based solely on imagination. Remember, Fro, I was there. Miss Prussia despised you. She considered you below ferret quality, right between a rat and horseshit. She was definitely not stupid, either. If you recall, she had that thick, sexy Norwegian accent which you found irresistible. You couldn't handle her rejection. She refused to coddle that enormous ego and you retaliated by creating a fantasy where she was a wretch and you the heroic, if not misunderstood, victor. Yeah, it's a hilarious story and fit in your second novel quite nicely but reality? Only in your warped sense of it. The only life a chastity bra like that would have, would be on paper and even then, it would only stand as a metaphor of your distant longing and her blatant rejection. No matter what you did, you couldn't get in."
"See? That's what you know! Her dad hand crafted that thing, paying, night after night, into his obsession with his daughter's virginity. Shit. What are you even doing here? You haven't showed yourself in at least five years. Why the visit, why now?"
"You really have to ask?"
"...yes, I really have to ask."
"Christ, Fro-"
"Stop calling me that."
"Would you prefer I call you Dick?"
"Dick? DICK! C'mon, Colby, if you please."
"You're a squat catholic from Brooklyn, you were a freakin' altar boy, for Chrissakes! Dick, Richard, your birthname is rather suitable, doncha' think? Your parents obviously did. Good enough for their lips to utter, good enough for mine. Even Dick is a lie, however, and for only the sole purpose of my own enjoyment, I'll continue with Fro. Now, think back, brilliant, what happened five years ago?"
"I met Linda."
"You met Linda, yup."
"Ok, oh wise sage, what the hell does meeting my third wife have anything to do with your return?"
"Oh, man, you are thick. You still refuse to see. You refuse to understand. Meeting Linda was the catalyst for my departure, not my return. You finally had something real. She was not a caricature, drawn from the pages of your incessant imaginary worlds. She was as real as any of the hookers you've spent your fortune on, only she gave you something tangible, meaningful and I finally felt confident enough in your choice to take that long needed vacations. Brother, I explored among Mayan ruins, tasted the sweet nectar of the Italian vineyards, swam with dolphins in the Keyes and studied philosophy among the ancients in Greece, all while you basked in the glory of your one, healthy relationship. But, and there's always a but, no matter how big, I'm back to tell you I've had enough of your self destruction. After all, you go... I go."
"So, I'm to blame, then? As you just confessed, you were off gallivanting and had no idea what that marriage turned into. She went cold, sickly fucking sour cold."
"She went cold? That's it? That's your excuse?"
"It's not an excuse, DOC, it's fact. Do your homework next time."
"...Doc, huh, heh, that makes me laugh, a little, and makes me want to vomit endlessly. Fro, I wouldn't be here if that was the whole truth. But, just like your mind, your reality is fragmented. Three words: Linda's Little Sister."
"Joanie? So? I craved her! A dull, lackluster marriage would derail even the most stoic monogamist!"
"You're lying, again. You couldn't resist Joanie's full lips or long, curly red hair. You practically drooled over her at their father's funeral. You seduced her, began an affair and dear Linda, stable, loving, gentle Linda grew cold only in response. What more could you expect?"
"You're right because No Man could have resisted. I acted as anyone else."
"What, by fucking her in their parents' house, the eve of the funeral in Linda's bed? If that's not putting a loaded gun to your head, I don't know what is."
"Cleverly dramatic, eh? For your information... I despise guns."
"And when Linda and their Great Aunt Mary came up to see what all the noise was about, you had the audacity to humiliate her further by claiming you and Joanie were practicing nude Calisthenics!"
"It was a popular fad!"
"STOP! Stop right there-"
"What the hell is this? Are you channeling a Dickensian character? Oh, spirit, show me the way so I can change before I'm doomed to Eternal Damnation!"
"You don't believe in Eternal Damnation."
"Right. So what's the point of this walk down Ghosts of Fucks Past Lane?"
"Because you enjoy self destruction. You are only satisfied when you're royally screwing yourself and the hapless women around you. I don't want to fucking disappear. Like I said, Einstein, you go, I go and I'm not ready to go. Fro, you're missing a very important piece of the puzzle, here."
"Well, you're not an invisible six-foot, three-and-one-half-inch tall rabbit, but I get your point. Linda was great. I know. I often return to that wonderful night when the skyscrapers were hidden by a fuming blizzard. Electricity had faltered all over the city and we hunkered down under Great Aunt Mary's heavy quilt. We read Plato by candlelight, drank ourselves silly with red wine and dined on fine cheese and grapes."
"You reflect on that evening because it embodies your romanticism. Once the lights turned on, however, you threw the quilt aside, got up and meandered behind your monitor for five hours, never giving a second thought to Linda."
"A Frolex? What's a Frolex?"
"A fake Rolex. A knock off, you imbecile."
"You know, you're one-hundred per cent wrong. I'm nothing if I'm not a man of substance. Take into account my success-"
"-Monetary success."
"-Yeah, so?"
"So? That's precisely why I call you a Frolex. Listen, ever since you were little you've connived and manipulated. To what end? You've failed in everything besides your career."
"Entirely untrue. I haven't failed. They've failed me, time and time again. Take Prussia, for starters, lets go way back!"
She was a beauty, that long blonde hair and crystal blue eyes. More curves than an Austrian summit... and stupid. Utterly vapid. Birds would nest in her brain. She thought their chirping was an army of men bent on driving her insane, pushing the unlock buttons on their key less entry devices. As long as she didn't speak much (thankfully her bad English was peppered with unknown Norse dialects and wasn't understood, anyway) she was a thing to behold. That Troy bitch, Helen, had nothing on Prussia. I chased her for the better part of two years. When she finally agreed, I picked her up and couldn't contain my desire. She was a sight to behold in a too short red dress and plunging neckline.
Sitting at the drive-in, I began to devour the beauty. Yeah, I was hard with teenage lust and felt confined in my fly. I opened up and received my first real, albeit partial, blow job. My hands scoured her back, I yanked the zipper and peeled her right out of all that red, exposing an enormous, silver bra, clasped in the center by a five digit combination lock. It winked at me in the gleam of the projector's light.
'What!' I shrieked, lurching back. 'What the hell is that?!'
'Oh!' She answered as happily as ever, 'this, my father makes me this! He likes to say boy cannot get to boobies, boy does not want to get to yum-yum.'
"That didn't happen."
"It absolutely did so happen."
"Nesting birds in her brain? A combination locked chastity bra?"
"You think I'd make this up? Prussia was nuttier than all three of my wives put together. And her dad, no offense to primates, was a gorilla."
"There you go again."
"There I what again?"
"You're establishing an existence based solely on imagination. Remember, Fro, I was there. Miss Prussia despised you. She considered you below ferret quality, right between a rat and horseshit. She was definitely not stupid, either. If you recall, she had that thick, sexy Norwegian accent which you found irresistible. You couldn't handle her rejection. She refused to coddle that enormous ego and you retaliated by creating a fantasy where she was a wretch and you the heroic, if not misunderstood, victor. Yeah, it's a hilarious story and fit in your second novel quite nicely but reality? Only in your warped sense of it. The only life a chastity bra like that would have, would be on paper and even then, it would only stand as a metaphor of your distant longing and her blatant rejection. No matter what you did, you couldn't get in."
"See? That's what you know! Her dad hand crafted that thing, paying, night after night, into his obsession with his daughter's virginity. Shit. What are you even doing here? You haven't showed yourself in at least five years. Why the visit, why now?"
"You really have to ask?"
"...yes, I really have to ask."
"Christ, Fro-"
"Stop calling me that."
"Would you prefer I call you Dick?"
"Dick? DICK! C'mon, Colby, if you please."
"You're a squat catholic from Brooklyn, you were a freakin' altar boy, for Chrissakes! Dick, Richard, your birthname is rather suitable, doncha' think? Your parents obviously did. Good enough for their lips to utter, good enough for mine. Even Dick is a lie, however, and for only the sole purpose of my own enjoyment, I'll continue with Fro. Now, think back, brilliant, what happened five years ago?"
"I met Linda."
"You met Linda, yup."
"Ok, oh wise sage, what the hell does meeting my third wife have anything to do with your return?"
"Oh, man, you are thick. You still refuse to see. You refuse to understand. Meeting Linda was the catalyst for my departure, not my return. You finally had something real. She was not a caricature, drawn from the pages of your incessant imaginary worlds. She was as real as any of the hookers you've spent your fortune on, only she gave you something tangible, meaningful and I finally felt confident enough in your choice to take that long needed vacations. Brother, I explored among Mayan ruins, tasted the sweet nectar of the Italian vineyards, swam with dolphins in the Keyes and studied philosophy among the ancients in Greece, all while you basked in the glory of your one, healthy relationship. But, and there's always a but, no matter how big, I'm back to tell you I've had enough of your self destruction. After all, you go... I go."
"So, I'm to blame, then? As you just confessed, you were off gallivanting and had no idea what that marriage turned into. She went cold, sickly fucking sour cold."
"She went cold? That's it? That's your excuse?"
"It's not an excuse, DOC, it's fact. Do your homework next time."
"...Doc, huh, heh, that makes me laugh, a little, and makes me want to vomit endlessly. Fro, I wouldn't be here if that was the whole truth. But, just like your mind, your reality is fragmented. Three words: Linda's Little Sister."
"Joanie? So? I craved her! A dull, lackluster marriage would derail even the most stoic monogamist!"
"You're lying, again. You couldn't resist Joanie's full lips or long, curly red hair. You practically drooled over her at their father's funeral. You seduced her, began an affair and dear Linda, stable, loving, gentle Linda grew cold only in response. What more could you expect?"
"You're right because No Man could have resisted. I acted as anyone else."
"What, by fucking her in their parents' house, the eve of the funeral in Linda's bed? If that's not putting a loaded gun to your head, I don't know what is."
"Cleverly dramatic, eh? For your information... I despise guns."
"And when Linda and their Great Aunt Mary came up to see what all the noise was about, you had the audacity to humiliate her further by claiming you and Joanie were practicing nude Calisthenics!"
"It was a popular fad!"
"STOP! Stop right there-"
"What the hell is this? Are you channeling a Dickensian character? Oh, spirit, show me the way so I can change before I'm doomed to Eternal Damnation!"
"You don't believe in Eternal Damnation."
"Right. So what's the point of this walk down Ghosts of Fucks Past Lane?"
"Because you enjoy self destruction. You are only satisfied when you're royally screwing yourself and the hapless women around you. I don't want to fucking disappear. Like I said, Einstein, you go, I go and I'm not ready to go. Fro, you're missing a very important piece of the puzzle, here."
"Well, you're not an invisible six-foot, three-and-one-half-inch tall rabbit, but I get your point. Linda was great. I know. I often return to that wonderful night when the skyscrapers were hidden by a fuming blizzard. Electricity had faltered all over the city and we hunkered down under Great Aunt Mary's heavy quilt. We read Plato by candlelight, drank ourselves silly with red wine and dined on fine cheese and grapes."
"You reflect on that evening because it embodies your romanticism. Once the lights turned on, however, you threw the quilt aside, got up and meandered behind your monitor for five hours, never giving a second thought to Linda."
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