I’m in the midst of heavy research on the song cycle La Chanson D’Eve, tech week for a minor opera scenes performance, and preparing my students for a recital of their own. And I have writer’s block. My weekly motto is: enjoy a tall pitcher of martini, take a deep sigh, and get shit done.
a soprano fantasy, irresistibly fashioned by Shrinksarentcheap.
I have an affected limp that subconsciously enters my bodily vocabulary with a swing and a swish whenever by body experiences the assault of life it’s not learned nor practiced and it sticks with me like a pleading panhandler annoying in its pathetic scrapes pitched above comfort with a squeak! Grunt! Ugh! Just look at me.