reinje's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- - Today was my first truly terrifying day at Opera Camp. No, it wasn�t insect infestation, backed-up toilets, or stinky roommates. It was The Day I Slept Through My Alarm, Part Un. Never to be followed by Part Deux, I promise. I was soundly asleep at 10 A.M. when the phone rang. I knew immediately that it was The International Coloratura Soprano Whose Conductor Husband Rules the Opera World, calling to say �hello,� and �what the hell are you doing when you should be playing in my lesson?� Well, she didn�t really say that, but I imagined that she was, or would, when my trusty bike finally got me there. Only besides the fact that my car was at Gunflint Garage being primed for marauding my bank account, I had forgotten that my bike was actually at the Main House. Thanks to my fabulous housemate Isabelle, who owns a hot Mustang convertible and is a 24/7 party queen, I rolled into the Main House no later than 10:20. Well! Everyone there, including the billionaire donors who have spent doubtless millions of dollars to bring in Ms. Coloratura, was actually very nice about the whole thing. And the singer, Jocelyn, who was a darling and not angry in the least. But for some reason the Artistic Coordinator of Glitter-and-be-Gay Opera didn�t feel quite so magnanimous about the situation. After having biked like the wind to get back to my house for another coaching, and totally boffing it, I was set to begin another coaching. Somehow, all of the people who live in our house, and perhaps our universe, were gathered in close proximity to the answering machine on the other side of the house when Mr. Artistic called. Since I didn�t get to the phone in time, these lucky individuals were privy to the entire reprimand, delivered in Scottish, to yours truly. At this point, my stomach was making noises I had never heard before. I imagine myself, before being fired, being paraded down the streets of Cherry Valley on a lone float, a flatbed decked out with a honky-tonk piano, me clothed in a short T-shirt and nothing else, playing every Wagner opera ever written. And a Gimp, dressed in leather, with a whip, striking me every time I left out a note or made a mistake. And then being fired. And Never Working Again in This Town, as they sometimes threaten us here. Well, to be completely honest, Mr. Artistic quickly forgave me once he heard my story. My housemates were sympathetic. My day went on. Gunflint Garage fixed my car for only twice the amount they had promised (but that�s another story for another time). But do you want to know the weirdest thing about this whole fiasco? In the middle of my disturbed bowels, my botched coachings, my humiliation in front of my roomies, and my tongue-lashing, there was a whole crew of people cleaning my house. I am not joking! And I don�t think I was hallucinating. There they were, at least three of them (maybe four), with their Cleaning Kits, and vacuums, and what-have-you, cleaning our house! I mean. I am fairly certain that this is a sign or omen of some kind. What does it mean, in the midst of mortification, to have an entire team of Cleaning Agents, if you will, show up at your door? Is it some kind of cosmic cleansing of my shame? Did I imagine them because this kind of mammoth disgrace is too much for my mental state? Maybe it was a pat reminder of how life goes on, no matter what our troubles. But I think there is something more, something very profound. Something I am meant to learn about me, my flaws, my perfectionism, grace. It�s never enough, effort. The effort of cleaning, of practicing massive scores, of exercising, exorcizing, Doing the Right Thing, Being Perfect. It�s never, never, never enough. We all fail at something, sometime, somewhere or another. And then the Cleaning Crew comes in to fix it? No, that�s not it. I mean the Cleaning Crew is great and all, but there�s a bigger realization there, I just know it. Well, in the meantime, my day was saved and my house is cleaner than Stink. Benevolence abounds. - Reinje 11:43 p.m. - 2005-06-07 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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