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the only fool here's me
Because sometimes I need to remind myself why I do it.
(Does everyone have chairs who need chairs? Who's giving us starting notes? Do they need a tabbed score? Where's the power point for the sound recordist to use? Do the soloists have outfits that won't sparkle too much? Does this material fray when it's cut into strips? Which steps are we allowed to stand on? How many folders short are we? Which door to the church will be open tomorrow? Are voice parts balanced? Who's buying the supper? Where can we store the bouquets during the performance? Does everyone know the afterparty details? Do we have enough ticket sellers? Can we store this music stand with the chairs overnight? What have I forgotten? What have I forgotten?)
Because no-one else will.
Because it's my choir and I'm damn well going to fight for it to work
Because I'd go mad if I didn't sing every week.
Because I'm too proud not to.
But sometimes (tonight) I sit down exhausted with my back and calves aching from standing and my diaphragm complaining at the final movement of the Vespers - hovering around the top of the stave, forte-fortissimo all the way, blink-and-you'll-miss-the-cue kind of tempo, Rachmaninoff's final stab of vindictive dislike at the soprano section - and my throat beginning to show signs of wear. And I feel like punching all the old, bitchy, comfortably condescending associate members who have never done anything but show up and be told where to stand and what to wear and how to sing. And I want to tell them that I'm eighteen, that I've never managed a concert before, that I'm trying not to begrudge the time and not to think about my exams and the fact that I need to maintain my HD average to stay in this course.
...
Désolée.
I bought From Hell today. I'm going to do my biology homework and then sit down and watch the wallkissing scene again and again and again until my nerves feel less like they've been dipped in acid.
(Does everyone have chairs who need chairs? Who's giving us starting notes? Do they need a tabbed score? Where's the power point for the sound recordist to use? Do the soloists have outfits that won't sparkle too much? Does this material fray when it's cut into strips? Which steps are we allowed to stand on? How many folders short are we? Which door to the church will be open tomorrow? Are voice parts balanced? Who's buying the supper? Where can we store the bouquets during the performance? Does everyone know the afterparty details? Do we have enough ticket sellers? Can we store this music stand with the chairs overnight? What have I forgotten? What have I forgotten?)
Because no-one else will.
Because it's my choir and I'm damn well going to fight for it to work
Because I'd go mad if I didn't sing every week.
Because I'm too proud not to.
But sometimes (tonight) I sit down exhausted with my back and calves aching from standing and my diaphragm complaining at the final movement of the Vespers - hovering around the top of the stave, forte-fortissimo all the way, blink-and-you'll-miss-the-cue kind of tempo, Rachmaninoff's final stab of vindictive dislike at the soprano section - and my throat beginning to show signs of wear. And I feel like punching all the old, bitchy, comfortably condescending associate members who have never done anything but show up and be told where to stand and what to wear and how to sing. And I want to tell them that I'm eighteen, that I've never managed a concert before, that I'm trying not to begrudge the time and not to think about my exams and the fact that I need to maintain my HD average to stay in this course.
...
Désolée.
I bought From Hell today. I'm going to do my biology homework and then sit down and watch the wallkissing scene again and again and again until my nerves feel less like they've been dipped in acid.