I should have touched wood. Now I'm sick as a dog. My throat is an inferno embedded with razors, my nose is dripping buckets, I have an awful dry cough that only gets worse when I try to sleep. Last night I totalled about 2hrs. Exhausted and needing TLC. Brett is sick too though, so limited sympathy and care is available. Tomorrow I have to clean the house from top to bottom for a buyers inspection on saturday. Woo-hoo and Huzzah. I also have dear Lydgate coming up to celebrate the end of his course. I am determined to make a huge vegan lasagne and a crispy salad. Best of luck to me. I wish me all the best.
It's all over. I am left in the wake of the Symphony, elated, exhausted, a little lost.
It really was a wonderful evening. No, wonderful is the wrong word. It was an epoch in my performing life. It didn't feel like an epoch, but I know it was. It felt like just another gig, albeit with a better cast than I've worked with in some time.
Tuesday the 27th November was a grey, steamy day. The air was so thick you raised a sweat just getting out of the car. Mum and I went down early and parked at the Garrison, then walked around the unpleasantly fragrant harbour to the Opera House. The Stage Door was packed with catering staff, -neatly ironed penguins waiting to be led into the culinary bowels of the Opera House. They were there to create tempting delicacies for VIP's and sponsors and to serve them quietly and efficiently. Little penguin ghosts carrying champagne and canapes. I wanted to be one of them. There is some comfort in total anonymity. Up the stairs we went to the blue Green Room. I ordered Chips and Gravy and enjoyed their absolute averageness in peace. Members of the Australian Ballet flitted to and fro amongst tables like butterflies with impossibly erect postures and well turned-out hips. ballet dancers don't run, they prance and frolic from one place to the next. I was an impostor in their world. My bottle of Mead was promptly stashed in a locker. Mead is necessary to coat the cords with pleasant viscous warmth before concert performing. It's brown paper bag was suitably crumpled and seedy. Music? -check. Posters?,-check. Pen?,-check. T-Shirt?,-check. Time to adopt an erect turned-out posture and check for Choristers arriving. In a matter of minutes the Green Room is a sea of white t-shirts. The sea has endless questions for me. At some point I have to find the 'stars' of the evening and take annoying back-stage photos of them for my brother's archives. I hate this job. Through the endless intestinal corridors of the concert hall I amble, camera in hand. No sign of my brother. He is chauffering the amazon to and from another gig. I worry. He will be stressed. When he is stressed the ripples spread wide and fast. Garret, Humble and Mardar are congregated around a steinway in a dressing-room with a view. I take an awful photo of the three and attempt wit. Garret gives an on-camera interview about my brother. It is odd to hear someone else speaking with authority about my brother and his work. I stand in the background amusing myself with alternative answers to the questions. Everyone laughs at his observations. Famous people are always witty. No sign of the Nightingale or the Horse though. My plans of a photo of the lead cast are fast coming unstuck. A brief visit to the holding pen and I get welcome cuddles and kisses from my favourite people. Time is slipping away fast and the choir needs to be warmed up, given notes to, and inspired. I pop outside for a quick cigarette with Garrett. We discuss the TV series, Bjork, Superstar and repertory theatre. Again I am surprised by how much I like this guy. He promises to procure me a soundtrack I have been craving for some time. Back upstairs the amazon and my brother have finally arrived. She looks like Titania, only more beautiful, he is surprisingly calm and wanders amongst the sea of white, meeting, greeting and laughing with his choir. The Camera follows him. I am reminded that success in the music industry is something I do not crave. Unfortunately there were no mall-babies for him to kiss. It is time. I yell instructions. Waves of white wash past in excited whispers. The orchestra are all dressed up this time. Emperor penguins. they have the status and they know it. The hall is full. Faces and colours shift and murmur like grass in the breeze. Lights go down. All eyes are glued stage right. Out strides our master and commander. I am struck by the sheer grace and presence of this man. His place in our strange world is well-deserved. I hope my voice responds appropriately to the graceful arc and sweep of his baton. I hear the music. It washes through, in and out, round about. My eyes are fixed on our gallant leader. I could watch him for days. I wish I could just slouch in this seat, pour a glass of champagne and gaze. 40 minutes goes. I can't believe it. We are done. I have pulled the best out of my protesting throat. I am definately developing a version of my fiancee's cold. I have needed to cough every time the orchestra is quiet. I completely forgot to have any of the mead I so thoughtfully brought. It is still in its locker. The entire audience is standing, cheering, yelling, clapping. In the distance my brother and his luminous colleaugues are being presented with Chandon and Roses. I grin like a fool and am surprised by tears welling in my treacherous eyes. I am so proud of him. I am so proud that the ditty that was given birth in my lounge-room has moved 2000 people. I feel very small, very happy, very sad,very overlooked, very proud, very ashamed. I leave the stage very quickly and head for that bastion of sanity,-the ladies bathroom.
I leave the Opera House with possibly indecent haste. I want to get away from all of it. It is too much. I smile and laugh and accept congratulations on my brother's behalf. I can't pass them on because he is with the VIP's and penguins somewhere lofty. Incidentals are not invited. I put on my festive face and make a rather large hoo-hah about procuring a margharita. It is expensive and average. Pan and tinks buy it for me. We, the unimportant sit at the Opera bar and try to dispel insignificance with bright laughter. I am surrounded by my dearest friends and loved ones, but I am not happy.
I steal a look at the programme. My name is there on the back cover. That's something I guess. There is proof that I was there.
The evening steams and sweats as we disperse. Home. bed.
This in response to my dear friend, the funky lamb, who made the mistake of asking:-)
WHY VEGAN?
The Environment
In 2002, more than 1/3 of all fossil fuels produced in the US are used to raise animals for food. Where the environment is concerned, eating meat is like driving a huge SUV or an 18-wheeler. Eating a vegetarian diet is like driving a mid-sized car, and eating a vegan diet is like riding a bicycle or walking.
According to John Robbins, the average vegan uses about 1/6 of an acre of land to satisfy his or her food requirements for a year; the average vegetarian who consumes dairy products and eggs requires about three times that, and the average meat-eater requires about 20 times that much land. We can grow a lot more food on an equal amount of land if we're not funnelling the crops through animals.
It requires about 300 gallons of water to feed a vegan for a day. It requires about four times as much to feed a vegetarian, and 14 times as much to feed a meat eater.
Human Rights
Right now, 1.3 billion people, more than 20% of the world's population, are living in dire poverty. Right now, 800 million people are suffering from what the United Nations calls "Nutritional deficiency". That's a euphemism: they're starving. It is depressing to consider that throughout the last big famine in Ethiopia, that country was exporting desperately needed soy to Europe to feed to farmed animals. The same relationship held true throughout the famine in Somalia in the early 1990's.
Two years ago, the Un commission in Nutritional Challenges for the 21st Century said that unless we make major changes, 1 billion children will be permanently handicapped over the next 20 years as a result on inadequate caloric intake. The first step toward averting this tragedy, according to the Commission, is to encourage human consumption of traditional grains, fruits and vegetables.
Animal Rights
Science and understanding may have progressed, but factory farming hasn't. As Senator Robert Byrd told the US Senate, "our unhimane treatment of livestock is becoming widespread and more and more barbaric". He went on to detail the suffering of pigs in tiny stalls, hens in cages, calves in crates, and the inhumane slaughter of all these animals. Senator Byrd stated, "These creatures feel; they know pain. They suffer pain just as we humans suffer pain."
In the rush for profits, abnormal breeding practises are used so that animals will grow far more quickly than they would naturally, and their organs and limbs can't keep up. So, for example, chickens' upper bodies grow seven times a quickly as they did just 25 years ago, but their lungs, hearts and limbs can't grow that fast. These factory-farmed animals live for fewer than two months before they're at full slaughter weight, and yet they still suffer from high rates of lung collapse, heart failure and crippling leg deformities.
Add to this the torture of calves for veal, the distress caused to the mother cow, the insane cannibalism of factory-farmed pigs, the day-old chicks ground up live for fertiliser, the emptying of our oceans...
The Lost Sacred
I'm not talking about religion, but the intrinsic connection of all life to our planet and each other. "It's raining blood and everyone is getting wet".
Imagine "civilisation" from the perespective of a non-human -any non-human-and the grotesque, out-of-focus picture comes into clear relief: humans are consuming everything else, with reckless abandon.
Part of what is stirring in the dark places of the Australian psyche, invisible becoming visible, is the inkling that this paramount value of society is atrting to reach its limits. And as our collective buttons pop from our accumulated obesity, the fear that there will be a price for this century-long binge is becoming more apparent. The move from kill as you please to kill nothing unnecessarily is the escape hatch from that torrent of blood.
try as you might to block it out with packaging and "merchandising" -pseudo-science supporting your need -what it boils down to is you are addicted to it, feel it is your birthright and are willing to sacrifice innocent lives of many species to satisfy it.
Now, if you can accept that premise as true in yourself and still love yourself unconditionally, then dismiss this as an angry diatribe, a litany of laments from amongst the ranks of the disenchanted, disenfranchised minority. Dig deeper into your own habits and determine whether you are dripping blood along your karmic trail.
All the prophets of all great religions preach the same basic concept: "Do unto others". It is in the definition of "others" that humans are so limited.
I really love Cicadas. No really. Every time my fur-kid brings in another green beauty to chomp on, I promptly save it. So, my reaction to walking into my backyard this morning was surprising. I was hit by a throbbing, pulsating wall of high-pitched screeching. Every Cicada in NSW has gathered in Valley Heights for a clan-bake. If I had an enormous gun full of deadly insecticide (thunk I..) I would douse the entire valley. This constant noise does very bad things to my edginess levels.
Mind you, I am edgy for other reasons. Half my world has been reduced to brown paper boxes and the other half needs to be packed pronto. I have also recently swallowed a lead-weight of 'Oh My God' when I realised how much removalists will cost me.
Nimue is cranky and swipey (of course). She knows something's up.
I also have to venture out into the screeching heat this afternoon to teach for someone else. This is not a huge problem, just another thing that gets in the way of packing. Through all this though, I have plans. I am not a mouse, or a man, so I have every expectation of fulfilling thiese plans. The front garden of the new house needs love...badly. While at Faulconbridge fruit-market yesterday I found some gorgeous white hydrangeas and some espaliered star-jasmine. For $100 I can get 4 hydrangeas and 3 jasmines. This will be my new front garden. Hydra-Jasmine-Hydra-Jasmine etc. There is also a beautiful pale pink briar rose twined about my letter box that needs poo & pruning.
So, although there are weeks of teaching, symphonic carrying-on, packing and trips to NZ to be planned, I DO have a beautiful garden to take it allout on very shortly. Oh, and I know what I want for Christmas. Anyone at all, please feel free to buy me lucerne hay, pea-straw or poo. I'm not fussy about the variety. Am also calling for bags and bags of rich compost. Please do not wrap said bags of poo nor place them beneath the Christmas tree.
Oh, just in case I know rich people. A large Persian Rug wouldn't go astray. I have a log-fire in my new house and it told me it wanted a persian rug in front of it. It has vanity issues I think.
