Satisfaction Guaranteed

I don't know how I have managed to write as many blog posts as I have without yet discussing my love of movies. I actually had to check, because it seemed hard to believe. I read through every single one tonight. (I'm funny sometimes, by the way! Good for me.) Although I have mentioned movies in passing, I have never spent more than a paragraph in this blog on the one thing that I do in every town, at every season of the year, alone or with friends: I find the nearest movie theater, and I go and see a movie. I try to go about once a week, because I find after about 10 days of not going, I start to get cranky. It's best for everyone if I get my fix.

I should specify right away that I can only calm the beast within by GOING OUT to the movies. I have to sit in a theater, in the dark. I have to have the big screen and the slightly uncomfortable seats with the sticky cup-holder armrests. It's part of the ritual for me.

I was just at the movies this evening, to see Drive (Ryan Gosling and Carey Mulligan). As I was walking into theater number 11, my customary kid pack in hand (seen here)...



...grinning ear to ear, I realized that this might just be something I should write about.

I have been like this for as long as I can remember. When I was a kid, my parents and I used to go to the movies on Friday afternoons, after school, for the cheap twilight show. Those were the days that you could get in for $3.50 per person before 5pm. The weekend entertainment section of the Philadelphia Inquirer, with all the movie reviews, would accompany us in the car on Friday morning. Mom and I would have our plan in place by the time she dropped me off at school. Dad sometimes made requests, but usually he was up for whatever we decided. Mom and I would get home around 4pm, drop off our school stuff, and the three of us would be out the door again in a half-hour or less. My parents and I would dissect the movie afterwards, over dinner, and talk about the characters. We would argue over nebulous endings and holes in the script. Mom, ever the English teacher, would often take an opportunity to point out a dramatic device or familiar plot motif. Sometimes, (mostly during my mopey pre-teens) we would split up, and see different movies--but we still maintained our tradition of talking about what we had seen.

When it was time for me to get my first “real” job, my mother advised me to get a job around something I liked. That was a no-brainer. I was a popcorn girl at The Ritz at the Bourse in downtown Philly. I was 15 years old, and I was like a pig in slop. I got to see all the movies (and eat all the popcorn) I wanted. I never had to be there before 10am. My coworkers were all film students who knew much more about the foreign films we were showing than I did, but they tolerated me and were amused by my enthusiasm. Beyond the obvious perks of the atmosphere for a cinema-phile like me, the concessions stand itself conformed wonderfully to my need for order; my favorite shift was the Friday day shift, because I was responsible for stocking the store for the weekend rush. I would pack the Twizzlers in like nobody's business. The soda cups were stacked to the ceiling. The popcorn warmer gleamed.

When I went to college, it was a rough time for my movie addiction. The local theater in Decorah, Iowa had only three screens. The movies would languish there for weeks without changing--and often I disagreed heartily with the owner's taste in films. My friends and I would regularly drive the hour it took to get to a larger theater (across the state line in Rochester, Minnesota). It never bothered me that we spent as much time or more in the car as we did in the movie.

In Paris, when I was a young artist at the Bastille, there were 2 theaters across the street from the opera. Although that was awfully convenient, I also learned quickly that the best place to go the movies was the enormous cinema at Les Halles. There were at least 15 different movies playing at any given time. Everything was in “version orginale” with subtitles. No wonder I remember Paris with such fondness! During the first week of my contract there, contemplating what to do with one of my first nights off, I looked at a long table of fellow singers in the cafeteria at the Bastille at lunch and said unabashedly to anyone who was listening, "Who wants to come to the movies with me tonight?" A young Russian-Israeli bass cocked his head, interest piqued, and the rest was history. Yuri and I dated for two years, and it all started at the movies.

In the summer of 2009, when I was in Frankfurt by myself, feeling alone and miserable, I got online and found a theater that was showing Star Trek (the new one) in English with German subtitles. It was 4pm on a Thursday afternoon. There were two other people in the theater, way in the back. I don’t they heard me giggle happily when the lights went down, but I’m sure they heard me when I said with a sigh, my voice pregnant with contentment, “This is SO GOOD!” about 30 minutes into the movie. It was an uncontrollable reaction brought on by complete satisfaction. Those two hours in the dark watching a movie about space with a bag of popcorn in my lap made my entire week.

I am still completely undone by a good afternoon at the movies. Mom and I still go to the movies when I'm home for a visit. I drag my colleagues with me when I'm on a gig. When nobody wants to go with me, I go alone. When I am in Switzerland and it costs me $25 to go to the movies (not including snacks!), I go anyway. When I am in provincial Germany and everything is dubbed, I go and hope I can read lips. I go. And I am never disappointed.

It's good to remember that I can be so easily satisfied.

Back in the Saddle

It's been a while, folks.

It's not that I haven't been thinking of writing. It's not that I haven't wanted to write. It has been, mostly, that everything that I want to write about these days is too personal/depressing/embarrassing to share on the internet. There it is.

The bare naked truth of it is that I have not been so good about keeping the drama on the stage, these past few months.

I keep waiting for my life to clean itself up so that I can want to write about palatable things again--like lovely walks I take in picturesque neighborhoods in Norfolk, Virginia...interesting conversations I have on the train to Bremen. A great meal I had in Portland: something engaging yet decidedly impersonal.

It hasn't happened yet. After all these months of patiently waiting for the drama to recede, my life is still kind of a mess.

I don't know what's going on with me. Maybe it's my age. I'm in my middle thirties (roughly), and all Hell seems to be breaking loose. I hate to sound melodramatic, but it's been a time for me of real heartbreak and loneliness and anxiety. I'm exhausted. I keep having these deep and unresolvable thoughts about LIFE (yes, it's the kind of thinking that requires the caps lock) and my FUTURE and what I REALLY want. I'm very ambivalent about everything, and my vacillation is beginning to annoy even me, so I am loath to imagine what kind of bother I'm putting my family and friends through. Is this a third-of-life crisis, or something? I'm a little young for a mid-life crisis. But if this were a third-of-life crisis, I would have to plan on living to 102. That seems excessively optimistic.

I've spent more time than I would have liked this year mourning and getting over lost or unrequited love. I've spent a lot of time, too, feeling displaced and home-less. All of the rest of my time, it seems, I have spent singing.

Of course, that's not entirely true. I've had some very good non-musical moments this year. I've laughed and felt cared for and experienced lots of new and interesting things. But, when I'm in a hotel room with a noisy refrigerator and generic wall-art, by myself, pondering unanswerable and enormous questions--if I'll ever have a man in my life who will hang in there with me for longer than 3 months; if I will ever own a house that has all my stuff in it that I can afford to leave empty (and waiting for me) when I'm on the road singing; if I'll ever have the fortune to express my humanity as a mother or a wife (or both!!) in addition to expressing it as a soprano--that's what it feels like; that I'm floundering except for when I'm actively engaged in music-making. It's a crappy feeling. It makes me feel like a one-horse show. I have more to offer this world than my two little vocal chords, don't I?

The kicker is this: all that's wrong with my life right now, all the things that I would change if I could, I can't change by myself. Everything I have control over is going well! I realize that fact, and am very grateful. I almost feel ashamed for wanting more. Who am I to complain? I'm working regularly, I'm proud of the way I'm singing, and I'm able to pay all my bills. I have great friends who love me and a small but very supportive family. I have my health. SERIOUSLY, who am I to complain?

And yet, I do complain. I am genuinely terrified about being alone for the rest of my life. I'm afraid that all I'll have at the end of this career is anecdotal stories and a full passport. I want a family. I want to feel part of a unit. I want the kind of stability that comes from building a home with someone, and filling it full of stuff that one cares about and takes responsibility for. I want to build something beyond me and these two little vocal chords. And yet, I can't will this stuff to happen. This seems to be the crux of my current frustration: the impotence of my will.

The people who are around me to witness my frustration, who love me, tell me that I have to be patient. That "things" come when they are supposed to. That I am doing what I am supposed to be doing, and that "things" will work out as they should. Maybe they are right. I just wish "things" would hurry up already. I have an agenda.

Let's talk about this again in 10 years, at my real mid-life crisis. I still hold out a faint hope that I will have made some progress by then. Whether the progress will be made in my agenda or my ability to patiently wait remains to be seen.