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That was certainly the worst train wreck I've ever had.
Hummed in the shower, drank a cup of tea with lemon for the morning gunk, contemplated what an arbitrary time 11:04 is for a jury time. Called Sean, and he didn't answer till the fourth try. We agreed to meet in front of the black couches at 10:15. The bus doesn't go on weekends, so I walked in my fluttery chiffon from Jones to Shepherd (about a mile, I think) and it only started pouring when I got out the door. I looked like a wet poodle by the time I opened the door into Shepherd, so, since it was 10:10, I went and squoze myself off in the bathroom and used up a lot of paper towels. Marginally less wet, I sat on a black couch and waited for Sean.
Come 10:35, I had started to panic, not because I really needed the practice time or even the accompanist (Tom played for the people whose pianists didn't show up), but because Sean is prone to bike accidents and has dislocated his shoulder, broken his clavicle, and scraped the skin off his palms on three separate occasions, none of which injuries is conducive to playing the piano. I called him four more times, no answer.
It was a relief when he showed up and explained that no, he wasn't dead on the road somewhere; he'd lost his keys and then forgotten after he'd found them that the bus doesn't run on weekends, so he walked all the way from the grad student house. He had an umbrella, though, so only his sleeves were wet. We practiced amiably for awhile, one break while I went to go get my dress shoes from my mom (she brought them to Shepherd), and deliberated over whether to start with my most familiar Mozart or the Rachmaninoff, because he says I sound really good on the Rachmaninoff but I don't know how presumptuous they consider me for even listing it on my rep sheet.
Now, 11:00, we head to Hirsch to the juries. The juries aren't in Hirsch. Interesting. I have no idea where they are. We have four minutes and they're usually running about 20 minutes late. Sean remembered Dr. Farwell had said where they were, so we went to room 1131 and lo, there they were. And they were running 20 minutes late. So we sat and chatted with some other voice students. Lalala.
My turn. I completely blanked on the words to my Mozart, not just once, but twice, and they fed them to me from the back of the room where they sat writing furiously. In the same song, Sean had his page sin the wrong order, so we stopped for a few seconds for him to rearrange them. They ask for Elgar second. It was both a relief and a bad sign that I don't remember singing it, because that means I made no obvious mistakes, but I was on autopilot with no expression, and it's a very expressive song.
So here I sit in the body sock that goes under my soaking dress, truly regretting the lack of dinner on Saturdays and not taking my vitamins and not writing. Urgh. Oh, well. It's over. I don't think they'll kick me out.
Hummed in the shower, drank a cup of tea with lemon for the morning gunk, contemplated what an arbitrary time 11:04 is for a jury time. Called Sean, and he didn't answer till the fourth try. We agreed to meet in front of the black couches at 10:15. The bus doesn't go on weekends, so I walked in my fluttery chiffon from Jones to Shepherd (about a mile, I think) and it only started pouring when I got out the door. I looked like a wet poodle by the time I opened the door into Shepherd, so, since it was 10:10, I went and squoze myself off in the bathroom and used up a lot of paper towels. Marginally less wet, I sat on a black couch and waited for Sean.
Come 10:35, I had started to panic, not because I really needed the practice time or even the accompanist (Tom played for the people whose pianists didn't show up), but because Sean is prone to bike accidents and has dislocated his shoulder, broken his clavicle, and scraped the skin off his palms on three separate occasions, none of which injuries is conducive to playing the piano. I called him four more times, no answer.
It was a relief when he showed up and explained that no, he wasn't dead on the road somewhere; he'd lost his keys and then forgotten after he'd found them that the bus doesn't run on weekends, so he walked all the way from the grad student house. He had an umbrella, though, so only his sleeves were wet. We practiced amiably for awhile, one break while I went to go get my dress shoes from my mom (she brought them to Shepherd), and deliberated over whether to start with my most familiar Mozart or the Rachmaninoff, because he says I sound really good on the Rachmaninoff but I don't know how presumptuous they consider me for even listing it on my rep sheet.
Now, 11:00, we head to Hirsch to the juries. The juries aren't in Hirsch. Interesting. I have no idea where they are. We have four minutes and they're usually running about 20 minutes late. Sean remembered Dr. Farwell had said where they were, so we went to room 1131 and lo, there they were. And they were running 20 minutes late. So we sat and chatted with some other voice students. Lalala.
My turn. I completely blanked on the words to my Mozart, not just once, but twice, and they fed them to me from the back of the room where they sat writing furiously. In the same song, Sean had his page sin the wrong order, so we stopped for a few seconds for him to rearrange them. They ask for Elgar second. It was both a relief and a bad sign that I don't remember singing it, because that means I made no obvious mistakes, but I was on autopilot with no expression, and it's a very expressive song.
So here I sit in the body sock that goes under my soaking dress, truly regretting the lack of dinner on Saturdays and not taking my vitamins and not writing. Urgh. Oh, well. It's over. I don't think they'll kick me out.
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