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Another opera night. I’m starting to believe that I’m really going to do this, that I can fulfil one of the dreams I’ve been exhuming from the wreckage of my twenties. The singing is more difficult than I’d expected, though – it’s not just getting the (very) high notes, it’s coming in for just a few syllables here and there, without having the build-up to a note. It’ll certainly give me a new perspective when next I listen to opera.
When it flows, though, there’s something about singing that seems to clean out every dulled corner of my being, even when I’m reeling from lack of sleep, leaving every psychic nerve-end tingling. It’s been far, far too long since I’ve done this.
Tonight was one of the few times I’ve (almost) wished I were a man. The parts they sang were so achingly beautiful – even against the thumping rehearsal piano and the orange walls of the church hall – that it hurt just to listen.
When it flows, though, there’s something about singing that seems to clean out every dulled corner of my being, even when I’m reeling from lack of sleep, leaving every psychic nerve-end tingling. It’s been far, far too long since I’ve done this.
Tonight was one of the few times I’ve (almost) wished I were a man. The parts they sang were so achingly beautiful – even against the thumping rehearsal piano and the orange walls of the church hall – that it hurt just to listen.
