Musings

My first writerly Christmas tree ornament!

No story this week. I have yet to decide which way to go with the next serial. I’d like to post something new, but haven’t got anything new to post. We’ll see what I can do with two more weeks of vacation.

Now that the seasonal festivities have ended, I can devote more attention to Shade. I’ve felt him drifting in the mental background; given time and some solitude, I’ll get his story in writing. There’s a song called “Breathe Me” on Sarah Brightman’s latest album that is so powerful it might be him singing in her voice. Often I will hear a lyric that suggests a character in such condensed detail, I am compelled to expand on the theme and bring him to life. Strangely, Shade himself has not caused any real trouble, though he isn’t as I had originally envisioned him. The other characters are starting to come, crossing wires and messing up the backstory as they emerge. That means some rewriting, some relocating, and some plain – I hate this most of all – deleting. I have yet to accept that it’s okay to write a thousand words and use none. This story will be worth the blood and angst, I think. It’s only that it’s been so long since I’ve tackled a whole new cast in a whole new world and every step I take seems to be on quicksand.

Cristal and her plastic Pony-driving lover are on indefinite hold. Her story seems to be more of a comedy, which is brutally difficult to write well and is not my literary forte. At least Shade isn’t leading me too far off my usual twisty-turny-tragic-romance path. His darkness seems a good fit for winter writing. Maybe Cristal’s story will be less daunting come spring/summer.

As for the novel … kill me now.

I also want to revisit the Cassandra series from a dozen years back, to get that into some sort of shape and resolve the calamities that were left hanging when Lucius took over my life.

Then there’s the Julian series to a) tidy up and b) continue in the present day.

Once the novel is done, the next in that series awaits, too. So much to write, so little time in which to write. I am my own worst enemy in that regard. I don’t make New Year’s resolutions, but perhaps I should start. In 2014, I will write more!!!

Hockey Night in Victoria

Forty-eight hours after traversing the heavens with Sarah Brightman, Ter and I walked into the same arena but a different world. It was cold, for one thing. And bright. And loud. And it smelled rather a lot like testosterone, both in the stands and on the ice. The Kelowna Rockets were in town for back-to-back games with the Victoria Royals, and we were there to cheer on the home team for the second match.

The set was touted as a battle for first place in the Western Hockey League’s BC division and the Royals were on a win streak at home. Kelowna won Friday’s game, 4-1. They won Saturday’s as well, 2-1 in a shootout. My Flyer karma preceded me, so now the Rockets are in front and the Royals are runners-up.

We had a good time, though. Live hockey games are not for fans who want to watch the game undisturbed, that’s for sure. There was more going on in the stands than on the ice: Marty the Marmot banged his drum; pizza and potato chips were doled out to fans in select sections; there was the local “dance for your dinner” promo where randomly selected spectators competed for audience approval and a gift certificate at a local eatery. Royals t-shirts were bazooka’d into the crowd, more gift cards were handed out to winners of “where’s the doughnut?” (Tim Horton’s) and “who has a BMO Master Card?” (Ter wondered if her government purchasing card would be accepted, but she didn’t test the theory), and all the while, 44 strapping young bucks on skates duked it out for top spot in the division.

There were penalties for delay of game (the stupidest call ever invented), roughing, and an actual pair of fighting majors; the Rockets scored first, Victoria tied it in the second, and there was enough board-crunching to elicit the occasional audible wince from the crowd. The game itself, however, was surprisingly so-so. The Royals were half a pace off the beat despite lobbing more shots at the Kelowna goalie – our seats were in the opposing end zone so we got a good look at a lot of missed chances in the guise of fine saves. I was most impressed by #18 for Victoria; a little guy named Brandon McGee, who tried to make something happen on every shift. I kept hoping he’d pop the winning goal, but it was not to be. At least they got a point for pushing the game to OT and a shootout. As fans, we were treated to everything a grown-up game has to offer … except the outrageous ticket prices!

Space Opera

Sarah swag:
the obligatory program, tickets and a signed lithograph

If Sting is a god, then Sarah Brightman is a goddess. She continually surpasses mortal expectation and has made me believe in heaven.

Ter and I saw her perform on the space-themed “Dreamchaser” tour on Thursday and we are still reeling. I’m unsure where to begin, so I’ll start with the obvious: the voice. Be it known here and now that I do not appreciate opera at all, especially the eardrum-shredding shrill of a soprano … yet Sarah is most definitely a soprano. She hits (and holds, by the gods) notes that don’t even exist, but she does it with a crystal purity that sends my spine into paroxysms of pleasure rather than spasms of angst against the flight instinct. By the same token, she can tap into the phenomenal power required to push out the richer, more resonant notes of pieces like “Nessun Dorma” or “Figlio Perduto” and make them sound like silk.

She’s considered to be a classical crossover artist. Classically trained, she can sing pretty much anything. She was the original Christine Daaé in “Phantom of the Opera”, the title track of which is a signature piece of her show. I love it best of all, but I think the climactic high note makes Ter wince. Sarah’s style is perfectly suited to performing some of the best pumped-up operatic chestnuts I’ve ever encountered, a hybrid of classical, pop, and New Age that never fails to send me straight into Right Brain. We started collecting her albums a few years ago – Ter was unconsciously aware of her for years previous, but I first paid serious attention when streaming the New Age vocal channel at www.sky.fm; almost daily a piece called “In Paradisum” was played and the vocal on it sucked me out of my chair and into an alternate reality ablaze with life and colour. It turned out to be Sarah Brightman. My office tea fairy and good buddy, Treena, was way ahead of the curve and already a fan; she had most of Sarah’s albums and was happy to lend me “Eden”, which opens with “In Paradisum”. Our CD library grew like a hothouse flower after that, and Sarah’s concert DVDs will soon outnumber those in our Def Leppard collection.

Then there’s the performance artist. Everything she does is on a grand—dare I say operatic?— scale. Her numerous costumes are glamorous – something like eight changes last week – and the light show on this tour is nothing short of spectacular. Her soaring voice, the swelling music, and the increasingly intense light flooding the arena were too much for some folks, I guess, but not for me. I wanted to be overwhelmed, to be swept away by the complete sensory experience, and boy, did she deliver.

She opened with “Angel”, the first single off her new album, and when the first heartbeat struck, I was gone. She doesn’t even have to form words; she can simply peal like a pristine silver bell and I will burst into tears. Gone. Done. Wrecked. Mortified. But really, when you’re sitting in the dark and everyone else is caught in the same spell, no one notices that you’re sniffling out loud. So I gave up and let the tears roll unhindered as the show flowed from one magical piece to another. Once in a while I’d glance at Ter, whose eyes were incandescent every time I looked. We’d nudge each other on occasion, thrilled at the opening notes of a particular favourite, but for the most part, we were content to be completely blown away. I actually forgot to breathe at times and forgot to blink at others. Mostly, I was road kill. Thoroughly mesmerized. And so deeply, profoundly grateful to be in the presence of such precise and powerful talent. This woman is clearly following her bliss and I was privileged to share a tiny part it with her.

When this tour is done, she’ll be in training to become an astronaut. She’s going to the international space station, a childhood dream of hers being to visit the stars. I hope she sings when she’s there. If ever a voice was meant to be heard in space, it belongs to Sarah Brightman.

* * *

I’ve inserted links to each of the songs underlined in this post – if you haven’t heard her sing and want a sample, click on any of the titles and close your eyes. Naturally, she won’t be everyone’s cup of tea, but she figures prominently in my creative process and for that I am eternally grateful.

Fruit Loops

 

 

Since my last post, I’ve been observing Right Brain’s effort to reclaim supremacy over Left Brain, and it’s been interesting. At home on Thursday night, my mind was wired and tired and racing madly on the hamster wheel until I decided to go to bed uber-early and reboot in the morning. As I tend to wake up in right brain, it seemed the practical thing to do. But, like a vengeful toddler banished too early to her room, Lefty lay in wait yesterday morning while I watched the sun rise and had tea with Ter. I was still buzzy from year end, but starting to loosen up. A walk through the ’hood was next – watch the water, ponder blog entries etc. … then it happened. Whitney Houston began crooning in the back of my mind:

 

“and i-I-i will al-ways love yoooOOOuu … ”

Oh, no.

Three blocks later, the croon had swollen to a full-blown bellow:

“AND I-I-I-I-I WILL AL-WAYS LOVE YOOOOOOOOOOWAAAAAHHHH-I-I-I WILL ALWAYS LOOOVE YOU …”

No more idle meandering, no more contemplation of beauty or potential storytelling, just a frantic need to escape the torment of a 1000 decibel loop inexorably stuck in my head. I wanted to yank my brain out through my ears. I was only halfway home when Whitney dissolved into the hypnotic yet furiously annoying beat of the iPhone commercial that got more airtime in 30 minutes than the TV show I was watching the night before. Augh! Kill me now! Please!

Then I realized something. Music is a creativity enhancer. Music opens up your mind to an outside source, to art and emotion and love and joy and the all-encompassing sense of fulfillment that Left Brain simply cannot abide. Music is Right Brain domain. Lefty, however, is a survivor, and survival often means playing dirty. Lefty has figured out that music can be twisted to block the road to creativity. Oh, Lefty is clever. Lefty is slick enough and conniving enough to be in politics.

Lefty is no match for Ru.

Soon as I got home, I put on the stereo. Sarah Brightman, to be precise. Sarah is an artiste in every sense of the word. She’s dramatic, she’s theatrical, she’s artistic, she sings like an angel and best of all, Left Brain can’t keep up with her, let alone override her. The loop snapped within seconds of music being played in the here and now. So bear it in mind. Right Brain will never torture you with neverending French nursery songs or fast food jingles. As soon as the theme for My Three Sons takes root in your mind, break the cycle. Throw on a disc or plug in the iPod. Play music in the moment and your sanity is saved.

Assuming, of course, that you’re not already loopy.