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I've spent the last month as part of a production of Les Miserables at the Theatre Lab in Washington, D. C. The program finished two days ago, and as part of my therapy for my post show blues, I'm going to try to record some of the memories of the event.

First day, "sing-through": I sit with the altos because I didn't think there were enough. I regret this soon after my decision, coming to the realization that altos have to sing lower than I've become used to in choir. The girl next to me sings so loudly I can hardly hear myself, but Jane, our director seems to be impressed by her gusto. Johnny, our Val Jean has a sweet, comfortable voice, if slightly strained on higher notes. Kemi, our Fantine, pours her soul into "I Dreamed a Dream", sounding full of passion even sitting in her chair. Our Cosette's voice is soft, inaudible at times. I wonder if she'll be able to carry the role off. I have similar worries about our Enjolras, Ryan, whose voice seems weak and who often flats on "big" notes. Our Eponine's voice seems very true, and has the potential to be very impressive. Gavroche, played by a girl, has a clear, true voice. David, who plays Marius, doesn't look like much, but his voice is as beautiful as any professional's. When he belts out "Empty Chairs", Jane leans towards me and mouths "There's the money right there."

I'll post more as it comes to me.
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    The only computer in the house is located in the basement, which means that about fifty percent of my time is spent here. However, this isn't one of those basements that's been "converted" into a habitable space, complete with white carpet and a flatscreen TV. My parents never bothered to finish the basement; for years it was merely a storage place for our old junk. You could hardly manage to wade through the unnecessary memorabilia to reach the laundry room. However, when my father took to repairing antique clocks as a profession, he realized that he needed an actual space to do so, as well as a place to keep track of his jobs. This has turned our basement into one of the oddest spaces I've ever seen.

    The space still clings to the decor of its "storage-only" days. The floor is merely a slab of cement, conveniently located at the bottom of a particularly perilous flight of stairs.The ceiling is unfinished; you can see the wires and pipes coursing the length of the house. Crickets live here year round and often make it their habit to jump onto my keyboard as I type late at night. Not the best sort of company, needless to say. The walls are ridiculously false looking "wood" panels, which vary in length for no other reason then perhaps to be tacky. The basement is always freezing, even in the summer. I needed a heater for my feet up until the end of June.

    My father's clock workshop occupies an entire corner, and spills out over half of the room. One the wall facing me are four clocks, none of which are telling the correct time. To my right is the actual "shop", consisting of several metal shelves creating a kind of "cubicle" for the main workspace, a large desk laden with tools I have no idea how to use. On the very top of the desk, resting atop a box of clock parts, sits a double photograph frame. The first photograph is of me at eight or nine, the other is of my mother. Next to the photographs are a yellow stress ball with a smiley face and a can of "chocolate worms", a gift to my father by a friend of his from England.  In the back corner is a drill press, which, for those of you who don't know, makes holes very quickly. In the new back room behind our laundry room, he now also has a bandsaw, but I never go into that room if I can help it.

    I sit curled up in a swivelly chair, which is purple with a high back and generous armrests. On the desk in front of me are numerous papers, CD cases and a printer that the family doesn't use anymore. And the computer, of course. Which makes everything else worth it.
Current Mood:
tired tired
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    And so, with no little amount of trepidation, I venture into the world of blogging. I'm not sure that anything that I write here will contribute very much to anyone else's happiness, but I suppose that it can't hurt. For any of you who might (but probably won't) happen to read this, yes, I write in an archaic manner. It's not because I think I'm too snobbish to write in 21st century dialogue. Rather, this is my sincere apology to the great writers of the past, who most likely turn over in their graves daily as they hear the way I actually speak.

    I'm determined not to turn this into an outpost for my angst. If there's one thing that I've learned from my years reading the journals of others, it's that no one else particularly cares that you're in mourning because you snagged a hole in your third-favorite sweater. Not that I would post about something as insignificant as that...hopefully.

Current Location:
the cold, cricket-infested basement
Current Mood:
mischievous mischievous
Current Music:
Les Miserables
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