Murphy’s Law states:
Anything that can go wrong, will go wrong.
In case the significance of Murphy’s Law is still lost on you, please go to your DVD collection. Select any movie from the comedy or horror genres. Fast forward to where one of the characters unwittingly says “What could possibly go wrong?” Watch the ensuing catastrophe.
Murphy’s Law also has an alternative definition. That definition is 21st September, 2013.
Oh! for the days when removal of a band-aid required courage, gritting of teeth and the sacrifice of arm hairs. When you could cut yourself, put on a band-aid and rest happy in the knowledge that it wasn’t coming off until the wound had healed. When you knew a super hard core fabric band-aid would not only sterilise a blister on your foot, but also function excellently as blister prevention until new shoes were broken in.
Those days are gone.
It seems to be expected that the formation of one’s attitudes and outlook should derive from grand and dramatic life events. Maybe I’m an overly cautious being, but in general I believe my strongest beliefs have been formed slowly, from long periods of observation, experience and reflection. I’ve had the average share of teenage angst, intense and dramatic friendships, poorly founded and poorly executed flings, and probably above the average share of travelling solo and exposure to great art. And while all of these things have of course contributed to the person I am, I can safely say that they have offered no extraordinary flashes of insight, no moments of epiphany. If I go to bed and wake up feeling like a radically different person than the day before, I probably have a hangover.
I have a feeling this is going to be a topic I revisit frequently.
I have to admit that the bike my parents gave me when I graduated from training wheels was the last bike I owned. Suffice to say, it’s been a while. I was never more than an indifferent bicycler at best, and by indifferent I mean capable of staying upright and moving in a forward motion 70% of the time.
So of course I moved to the Netherlands.
I woke up with the day all mapped out in my head. First up, I would run to the office and collect my keys, swing by my new home and scope it out, then dash back to the hostel, check out, stash my suitcases in my new abode, then head off to IKEA to initiate the flat-pack joy that would define my coming days.
The first step went well. I collected my keys without difficulty. The sun was shining and the giant seagulls cawing happily as I made my way over to my new home. I climbed the four flights of stairs, and breathless with anticipation and unfitness, I unlocked my new front door and pushed it open with an excited flourish.
We singers don’t make it easy for non-laryngeal obsessed humans to enter our world. Consider the following sentence:
“At the moment I’m a lyric mezzo, as that’s the most comfortable tessitura, but because my passaggio sits quite high and I have a freak stratospheric extension, I’m probably going to transition up in the next few years.”
A singer would react to this in varying ways. Some might correct the pronunciation of passaggio. Some might offer technical advice based on one semester’s worth of pedagogical study. Some might launch into competition over who has the largest range, who has the most promising voice, who has developed more vocally. Continue reading