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.
cornfields at night.
We had driven past them that morning in a stupor of nerves as I clutched my black audition notebook while in my black audition dress dreaming black thoughts.
The fields lay fallow beside the football field of Central High School in godknowswhere.
In the evening we could have been diving into unknown waters without any sort of guide–
the flat midwest doesn’t hold you until dawn.
I rubbed my chin as if to massage intelligent speech, as if to muster some semblance of control.
I felt stubble.
My co-lead twirled on the stage
Turned her swan’s neck
and flipped her wings skyward
and I heard groans from the row behind.
The scene was done
But a faint whiff of something
Remained on set
A scent whose sensual finger beckoned.
I’ve seen men stand and excuse themselves
After she performs.
I’ve received the backhanded comments of the choreographer
Like a splash of coke on the face.
I rubbed my chin to clean up the corn syrup goop and
I felt stubble.
Late nights at the arts center, hugging the geometric curves of sleek cinder block corridors of its bowels, have kept me from prowling the streets and my memories in search of the next rocks pour. So I carry the next shot in my purse, a leather flask tippled in parking garages. Soon, I will slouch back to Merry Ann’s or go visit my old friend the Pittsfield, perhaps?