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May. 8th, 2002 10:21 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
kuangningThat's kind of what I was feeling right now. Like I'd lucked into a peek at one of the big mysteries of the world, and if I kept it to myself, then I'd always be a part of it. It'd be our secret. Something nobody could ever take away from me.
(Dreams Underfoot, Charles de Lint, p. 116)
And I guess as long as I'm on the subject of dreams... the other thing that makes them hard to talk about, is that strong wanting to hold them secret. I'm strange, maybe, in that the things which bother me, anymore, aren't the things I hold secret. The things that leak badness into my internal landscape and poison the groundwater that feeds my soul's roots don't get to stay buried. I've learned at least that much.
But it means that what people see most of in me is those excavations. The empty spaces and upheavals and the wilted areas... and the gemstones (yeah, everyone has 'em, I'm not different) stay tucked safely away.
Thing about dreams that stay tucked away? They're the dreams you didn't make happen. A dream come true is hard to hide. But dreams that didn't come true stay dreams only if they're wrapped around some moment when they felt possible.
I'm definitely not a professional singer; my voice, while decent, is never going to be star quality. But I went through voice lessons in school, sang in my church's choir, and only turned down the school choir because it was suggested that I take choir instead of orchestra because "I'd never catch up to the other kids." After that, I wouldn't have been caught dead in choir, and, anyway, I got orchestra, so I couldn't have done both.
Fast-forward to college, my second year. I had gotten caught up in the music and drama departments, and chosen not to take violin lessons for purely economical reasons. But I got into choir and chorale with no difficulty and no audition beyond the choir director having heard me sing during our run of The King and I. When the semester opened, however, he wasn't there; he had taken a sabbatical, and would be gone for that year. The new director had her doubts, but was pretty much stuck with his choices for that semester. The semester went well, but not amazingly, and I did figure out that, no matter how many people asked how come I wasn't pursuing singing as a profession, I was making the sensible choice. My voice has some peculiarities... that sound clip is a capella for more reasons than convenience.
The college was not a huge school, and I had a variety of classes that took me all over the campus. The older buildings are huge and echoey, and one of them had a staircase up the front that just intrigued me. I played around on some evenings, after the main classes were over, and figured out that if I sat on one particular step, (the third from the top) I could go through pretty much our entire repertoire and make it sound as though I had several voices with me. It was fun, and it killed those hours between when my classes ended and when my dad would get there to pick me up.
And then one day I walked into choir class, a little late, and the director was playing a tape, and the rest of the class was sitting there, looking absolutely spellbound. When she turned it off, she said that she'd happened to be in the hallway of the building the day before, and had heard someone singing. She'd had a meeting, so couldn't stop to find out who it was, but she did leave her tape recorder running in one of the other professors' office. She said that whoever was singing had a great range, and good breath control, and a lot of potential. Coming from her, it was high praise.
In a fairy tale, the ending would be a real change, a star career for the singer. In reality, I didn't speak up, and the semester ended two weeks later, and I've never sung on that staircase again. But - I remember the looks on their faces.
(Dreams Underfoot, Charles de Lint, p. 116)
And I guess as long as I'm on the subject of dreams... the other thing that makes them hard to talk about, is that strong wanting to hold them secret. I'm strange, maybe, in that the things which bother me, anymore, aren't the things I hold secret. The things that leak badness into my internal landscape and poison the groundwater that feeds my soul's roots don't get to stay buried. I've learned at least that much.
But it means that what people see most of in me is those excavations. The empty spaces and upheavals and the wilted areas... and the gemstones (yeah, everyone has 'em, I'm not different) stay tucked safely away.
Thing about dreams that stay tucked away? They're the dreams you didn't make happen. A dream come true is hard to hide. But dreams that didn't come true stay dreams only if they're wrapped around some moment when they felt possible.
I'm definitely not a professional singer; my voice, while decent, is never going to be star quality. But I went through voice lessons in school, sang in my church's choir, and only turned down the school choir because it was suggested that I take choir instead of orchestra because "I'd never catch up to the other kids." After that, I wouldn't have been caught dead in choir, and, anyway, I got orchestra, so I couldn't have done both.
Fast-forward to college, my second year. I had gotten caught up in the music and drama departments, and chosen not to take violin lessons for purely economical reasons. But I got into choir and chorale with no difficulty and no audition beyond the choir director having heard me sing during our run of The King and I. When the semester opened, however, he wasn't there; he had taken a sabbatical, and would be gone for that year. The new director had her doubts, but was pretty much stuck with his choices for that semester. The semester went well, but not amazingly, and I did figure out that, no matter how many people asked how come I wasn't pursuing singing as a profession, I was making the sensible choice. My voice has some peculiarities... that sound clip is a capella for more reasons than convenience.
The college was not a huge school, and I had a variety of classes that took me all over the campus. The older buildings are huge and echoey, and one of them had a staircase up the front that just intrigued me. I played around on some evenings, after the main classes were over, and figured out that if I sat on one particular step, (the third from the top) I could go through pretty much our entire repertoire and make it sound as though I had several voices with me. It was fun, and it killed those hours between when my classes ended and when my dad would get there to pick me up.
And then one day I walked into choir class, a little late, and the director was playing a tape, and the rest of the class was sitting there, looking absolutely spellbound. When she turned it off, she said that she'd happened to be in the hallway of the building the day before, and had heard someone singing. She'd had a meeting, so couldn't stop to find out who it was, but she did leave her tape recorder running in one of the other professors' office. She said that whoever was singing had a great range, and good breath control, and a lot of potential. Coming from her, it was high praise.
In a fairy tale, the ending would be a real change, a star career for the singer. In reality, I didn't speak up, and the semester ended two weeks later, and I've never sung on that staircase again. But - I remember the looks on their faces.
