I sang tonight for the first time in public in almost exactly a year. I would have appreciated knowing that I was expected to lead off with the "Anchor Song," since as it was I sat down and took off my coat and was promptly requested to open the song circle accompanied by Benjamin Newman and his guitar, but fortunately I can almost literally do that song in my sleep and later on I had a chance at "Soldier, Soldier," which I had actually brought for the purpose. Other singers including ![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
teenybuffalo and ashnistrike did "A Pilgrim's Way," "The Land," "Rimini," "Troopin'," "A Tree Song," "Philadelphia," "The Hyænas," "Hymn of Breaking Strain," and "A Smuggler's Song." A young man I had not heard before did a very good "Danny Deever" and graciously took my request for "Back to the Army Again." I suspect I'm leaving something out, possibly a Leslie Fish setting I didn't know—my Kipling familiarity is almost strictly Peter Bellamy. I closed with "Recessional."
I was not in my best voice. I didn't expect to be: I've been running a throatsore fever since Thursday and talking all weekend in an Arctic-dry hotel. The panel immediately preceding "Songs of Rudyard Kipling" was both in an unmiked room and ran over time; I had no time to warm up and I felt rushed as soon as I came in. ("Canonicity in Theatre" was a genial mess; it did not know whether it was about theater fandom or actual theater, which are two different things, and the moderator did not decide either way. It was fun and it just kind of sprawled.) And I am not sure it mattered. I used to be able to sing—and sing well—short of everything but total loss of voice. Then some things were changed very terribly in my body, against my choice and desire, and everything became much less secure. I've spent half this last year working to change that. It does not feel safe to be hopeful, but I know these were bad circumstances and I do not think I sounded bad. I do not know that my voice will ever feel like my voice again to me, but it did not feel like not mine. It worked. And I enjoyed myself. I think that's important, too.
Just before my panels started, I found the novelization of The Robots of Death (1977) in the dealer's room and although it is a rather skeletal adaptation of a very rich script, it was also three dollars and so now I own it. I read it on the Red Line back from South Station, where I appreciate that I only had to deal with a smell of burning plastic from Porter to Davis.spatch was getting off work at the Somerville Theatre and because it is fifteen degrees Fahrenheit we took a taxi home.
My last two panels tomorrow are readings. After that, sleep.
teenybuffalo and ashnistrike did "A Pilgrim's Way," "The Land," "Rimini," "Troopin'," "A Tree Song," "Philadelphia," "The Hyænas," "Hymn of Breaking Strain," and "A Smuggler's Song." A young man I had not heard before did a very good "Danny Deever" and graciously took my request for "Back to the Army Again." I suspect I'm leaving something out, possibly a Leslie Fish setting I didn't know—my Kipling familiarity is almost strictly Peter Bellamy. I closed with "Recessional."I was not in my best voice. I didn't expect to be: I've been running a throatsore fever since Thursday and talking all weekend in an Arctic-dry hotel. The panel immediately preceding "Songs of Rudyard Kipling" was both in an unmiked room and ran over time; I had no time to warm up and I felt rushed as soon as I came in. ("Canonicity in Theatre" was a genial mess; it did not know whether it was about theater fandom or actual theater, which are two different things, and the moderator did not decide either way. It was fun and it just kind of sprawled.) And I am not sure it mattered. I used to be able to sing—and sing well—short of everything but total loss of voice. Then some things were changed very terribly in my body, against my choice and desire, and everything became much less secure. I've spent half this last year working to change that. It does not feel safe to be hopeful, but I know these were bad circumstances and I do not think I sounded bad. I do not know that my voice will ever feel like my voice again to me, but it did not feel like not mine. It worked. And I enjoyed myself. I think that's important, too.
Just before my panels started, I found the novelization of The Robots of Death (1977) in the dealer's room and although it is a rather skeletal adaptation of a very rich script, it was also three dollars and so now I own it. I read it on the Red Line back from South Station, where I appreciate that I only had to deal with a smell of burning plastic from Porter to Davis.
spatch was getting off work at the Somerville Theatre and because it is fifteen degrees Fahrenheit we took a taxi home.My last two panels tomorrow are readings. After that, sleep.
