But not this time.
The production was stilted: enter, stand, sing, change coat, leave stage, come back, stand, sing, sit, talk, lie down, penis joke, leave stage, re-enter, change coat, more penis jokes.
Yawn.
The production was flabbily self indulgent. Dear John is a mere shower stall baritone. Let's stick to actors acting and singers singing. Crossing over is dangerous even in experimental opera. No journey, no redemption, no message other than "suffer this train wreck and cringe."
Yes the music was lovely, but I didn't fancy the idea of sitting in $125 seats for nearly three hours with my eyes shut. At least no one in the cast appeared drunk and could deliver their lines without prompting, unlike last year's Rogues debacle. The bar should never be set that low. Oh and did I mention the inaudible dialogue and the illiterate subtitles?
At least it made for an interesting debate: is it bad manners to flee the hall prior to or during the last bows? I opted for etiquette and thought it appropriate to stay and acknowledge the inspirational conductor. Thank you Mr Haselbock.
Home and the misery continued. The good news is that this week I learnt all about irony: a useful literary device for the wannabe writer, but not one that I’d employed often in this remote writing realm. I was on the receiving end of a massive dose of the stuff. It fairly knocked my socks off, but at least its ill timed perversity has inspired this next tale (of woe).
The email arrived last weekend. It was upbeat, urgent and promising, and I responded to the plea to contact the writer as soon as possible.
Reader, you will know from a past yarn that one of my New Year’s resolutions is to enter competitions. And so I uploaded two of my stories on to a Sydney Festival/ ABC website. The theme was hope: the stories were to inspire the readers with optimism and a sense of hope for the future. That amongst it all, through all the most intense vagaries of life, we can move forward (oops: might leave that to Julia G) and find peace. Maybe even joy.
The email was from the producer of the Festival of Hope. Low and behold, my stories had been noticed.
Discussions ensued for five days over the phone and by email. This was an agreeable person who sought my view about which story I thought most appropriate. She asked me about the thoughts behind my writing and she did a voice check to assess, presumably, the suitability of the vocal chords and the potential stumble-ability of this reader. She took the liberty of collapsing the two stories into one and sending me the edit. Deadlines can be most presumptuous. I was bemused, but gave my blessing. She confirmed my availability to attend a sound check for next week’s event, which would be filmed in front of a live audience and streamed live on radio around the country.
The UK and US rellies were primed. My sister found the link and timetabled a few hours of inspirational listening into her busy Monday morning in far away chilly London.
Be careful what you wish for.
I was simultaneously terrified and ecstatic. The birth of a new era, a sign of new things to come, a launch pad. The imagination ran wild as the nerves jumped. My stomach did a cartwheel every time I gave it any thought. I giggled nervously with a friend or two as I updated them during the week, and they booked to attend.
I planned the outfit with cousin Rosie, who wisely suggested I cover my arms and stay away from prints. I waited impatiently for my birthday this weekend when the extended family would come together and help me celebrate. I would tell them about the forthcoming event and watch them turn out en masse.
You may remember another of the New Year’s resolutions. Off I trotted down to the beach on a gloriously still morning to throw myself into the sea. I tumbled around in the froth and cursed the seaweed, grateful for this natural wonder perched on my doorstep. Like a cool bath, the water revived and refreshed and left me sparkling. I romped home, hope and optimism oozing from every pore. Even the prospect of some serious housework before an evening of festival music did not impinge on my levity.
Nor did the blinking of a waiting message.
“Hi Julie. Just wanted you to know you are off the hook for Monday night. I‘ve managed to fill the breach, so thanks for your flexibility and for being so willingly on standby. Looking forward to seeing you on Monday night. I hope you enjoy yourself.”
I was speechless. My guts sank to my ankles. My forehead oozed sweat and my head was pounding. I replayed the message. Hope? Don’t talk to me about hope! Nothing awkward there. She was jaunty, relieved; a job well done, the loose ends tied up.
I sought counsel.
“Ring her up. What a bitch.”
“Email right away. What was she thinking?”
At this low point, I must take time to thank the universe for friendship.
I sent a one liner expressing disappointment and howled in the bath, my very private sadness sanctuary.
Afterwards, as I vacuumed, second stage Kubler-Ross slammed into my chest wall. Anger kicked disbelief out the door and barking mad, I hit the keypad and watched outrage spew forth.
Hi there (unnamed ABC producer)
I just listened to your message again, and I must say I didn't believe I was filling in a breach as a "stand by." I believed it was a competition, that I had been shortlisted, and after much time spent sorting out which story and your subsequent editing to combine the two - this seemed to me that I was one of the two people selected. Not to mention the voice test and my commitment to attending both the sound check and the event. Perhaps I misunderstood you. But I think there was a lot there to misunderstand. I hope the night goes well.
Furiosly calm? After all I didn’t want her giving thanks for having averted disaster by disallowing an unhinged vixen on stage at this most dignified event.
Moments later the phone rang. A confused "what went wrong" tone followed by fervent apologies, deep regret and thankfully, some transparency. Had I known I was third choice to present and that one of the speakers was perhaps unable to attend I might have realized the true nature of the exchange. I didn’t misunderstand. I was hoodwinked.
Expectation, communication. The stars need to be aligned for hope to be possible and in this sad and sorry tale the stars were catapulting at lightning speed away from each other into an abyss. They weren’t friends, those stars. They were pissed off exflatmates who vowed never ever to cross paths again.
An evening under a full moon in a park full of ghostly gums and soaring bats did nothing to cheer my weary soul. The music was haunting and the dance jawdroppingly beautiful. But my mind was far away and I swooned in my ordinariness. A tad self indulgent, yes, but it’s an artiste’s life….
As morning broke and I brewed the tea, I gave thanks for finding my voice yesterday. It was my civic duty if nothing else; my meagre attempt to protect future hopefuls from the scorched earth insensitivity of “the show must go on.”
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