seems pretty basic, i know. but my identity as a singer is something i’ve struggled with majorly since i decided to study music in college, and even more so in the last couple of years as i’ve tried not only to convince the general public but also myself that i have the chops to be an amazing performer. so until that moment a couple of weeks ago, i couldn’t honestly say, “i’m an opera singer.” i didn’t believe it. i didn’t own it. instead, i just floundered in self-doubt and tears of rage and confusion.

i’m not quite sure what happened, but i found a moment of serenity that allowed me to push aside any past doubts and realize that, shit, my voice is coming out. and it’s wicked fucking beautiful. it has depth and richness and maturity, and it’s gorgeous. and since then, even on days i’ve struggled to let the right sounds free, i haven’t been discouraged. i’ve just accepted that there are going to be those days, but those days don’t undermine my value as a singer, or as a person. that’s a lesson i learned a couple of years ago, but a truth i didn’t believe until now.

do you know how brilliant that is? it lets me be free. i don’t have to suffer my own oppression. now i can continue to grow and blossom without having to stop and worry over things that don’t matter. i can just sing. because i am an opera singer. here i come.

criss celebrated his fortieth birthday (yes, fortieth. i’ll save you the math – we’re sixteen years apart) on sunday. i’ll be twenty-four next month so we’re definitely in very different phases in our respective lives, but earlier i did something weird. for the first time in a while, rather than comparing myself upward to criss (“when i was two, you were graduating from high school”) i thought about where i was ten years ago (preparing for eighth grade) and was absolutely boggled by how far away that time seems. on the flip side, criss being sixteen years my senior doesn’t phase me one bit and i wouldn’t notice the age difference but for two things: his friends who are 10+ years older than me and their kids, and the way criss watches out for me with the wisdom he’s acquired in his extra years. but looking back on me in middle school, that feels like a canyon. i can only imagine how it feels for criss.

i never really connected with people my own age, so instead i looked to teachers and adult church members for conversation. i suppose this could have set the stage for my attraction to older men. growing up i crushed on prince william (a few years my senior) and later actors such as hugh grant and pierce brosnan. i even liked my art teacher in sixth grade, and had a thing for the valedictorian of the eighth grade class that year. but ten years ago was when i really started to graduate to actually pursuing older guys.

in eighth grade i had reached my full-grown height of five feet ten inches and a little extra, and the combination of my height and the way i carried myself usually fooled strangers into thinking i was older than my fourteen years, sometimes even college-aged. that school year i met adam, a bag boy (i believe courtesy clerk is the correct term) at our local grocery store. he made a comment about my smile and i was hooked from then on. he was a student at a local community college, and in my deluded adolescent mind, i thought i could have a chance with him, until i let slip that i was in eighth grade. he didn’t smile at me after that.

i had a couple of boyfriends my age, but they were just too young. when i was seventeen i made my first real leap, at least in my heart and mind, to a man twenty-one years my senior. he was a special one. we connected creatively, especially through music. the interest was mutual, but he had misgivings. not so much about what people would think, but more about holding me back and not being able to keep up with my young energy, and we went our separate ways as friends.

i had three other boyfriends within a couple years of my age but for various reasons (younger than me and immature, like rather than love, clashing personalities and ideals) they didn’t work. i met some other older guys whom i fancied (and some who fancied me), but nothing came of that. and then along came criss.

he was thirty-eight at the time, but he didn’t look a day over thirty-two. the funny thing is unlike the other guys i’d crushed on or gone steady with, i wasn’t head-over-heels from the get go, which was probably a good sign, because i tend to jump into crushes and get obsessive, and then i wake up and realize how stupid i am. my attraction to criss took a little longer to develop, and even our first “date” was really just two friends watching monty python. but that night changed everything. there was undeniable chemistry buzzing in the air. within a week i knew i had stumbled upon something good. and within a month i knew i loved him, and i couldn’t be with anyone else.

as weird as he may have felt about dating a college student, he pointed out that we worked partly because of my maturity, and i never felt that he was really that much older than me, just intelligent, mature and wise. so what if he was thirty-eight and i a mere twenty-two? to me, it just felt right.

and yet here i am thinking that ten years was a really long time ago, even though my boyfriend is more than half my age older than me, and that difference seems like a mere technicality. it makes no sense, but then again, i don’t make sense sometimes, and that’s just fine.

edit: i posted this a few years ago and thought it might be relevant to this post, so enjoy! i think i wrote this in high school:

Ageless

Amidst the chaos and calamity of children at play, a young girl walked through the trees in solitude, alone in an environment stuffed with stimuli and gleeful screams. Her long, graceful fingers, accented by gnarled fingernails, tugged at the branches as she climbed into the bush house, shutting herself away from the cold, cruel air as she watched the leaves that flutter violently across the horizon. The foliage separated her from her classmates, intensifying her isolation, yet shielding her from further social harm. She curled up in the cramped, awkward place as a single tear rolled down her downy cheek. She could never be one of them. She would never belong. She would always be in this hardened place … alone.

Six years later, a gangly, towering teenager standing five feet ten inches tall conversed with her history teacher on the blacktop. The sun radiated off the asphalt, kissing her pale skin as she vocalized vibrantly. Adolescent females strode arm in arm past her, not even turning to smile, but the rejection simply bounces off her back. Instead, she immersed herself in the discussion, hands slicing the humid air as she revealed another excitement in her life. Her teacher watched intently as she spilled her most precious thoughts with the natural flow of a glistening stream. Passion stirs inside her in this exchange of ideas, and she relaxed in her skin, for she knew she found her place. She could never be one of them. She would never belong. She would always be in this different place … separate.

She always felt older than her peers. Entering kindergarten the fall after her sixth birthday, her years surpassed those of her classmates, automatically making her the old one in the class. Her height failed to project her true age. In middle school, many strangers questioned her, “What college do you go to?” to which she replied, “Um, I’m not even in high school yet,” cheeks burning and blushing as the words jumped shallowly off her tongue. However, her isolation from her classmates formed the adult she grew into at an early age. With no outlet to participate in normal social activity, she turned to the only remaining people who truly listened to her: the adults. Only they accepted her. Only they understood her. Only they welcomed her into their world. And so she did what any girl in her position would do: she converted to their side. Never again would she be rejected. Never again would she fight a barrier. Now she would always be … at home.

Reborn in her newfound acceptance, she relished the attention and embraced the opportunities, surrounding herself with these mature beings, and subconsciously morphed into one of them. All traces of her teenage personality evaporated, and soon she possessed the interior mannerisms to match her exterior appearance. The gap between her and her peers stretched until the teenagers disappeared into the sunset of her child life, and the sun rose on her adult life, bathing her in the glory and satisfaction of discovering her natural self. From participating in a church choir frequented by a demographic no younger than forty-five, to expressing herself on stage as a mid-twenties mother, her transformation into an adult manifested itself with an ease she never found as a child. She was one of the adults. She could finally belong. She would always be in this natural place … surrounded by love.

She lies in front of you today, her story crying out in the ebony ink emblazoned on this page. Misunderstood yet revered, isolated yet accepted, she fulfills her role as a teenager but lives deeply as an adult. You notice her sitting alone on a planter, scribbling her latest inspiration, approach her and inquire, “How old are you?”
“I’m old. I’m young. I’m ageless.”

rewind to spring break. we (we being the mfa and senior bfa stufents) had been told at the beginning of the semester that we’d be creating a music festival in which we could make our vision a reality. then began the long process of submitting project proposals, then waiting for approval, and once i was chosen i met with the festival directors and they sent me away to develop my script.

i came back with a re-imagined play-with-music (i hesitate to call it a musical) version of handel’s “giulio cesare.” in my initial proposal, i set out to abridge an opera, and replace the arias with music that had the same intentions, but came from a variety of music eras and genres. i ended up with a script derived mainly from the recitative of the opera, with some of my own thoughts and flair.

the real twist, however, was the change in the plot line. i preserved some of the scenes and cut the rest (along with some characters) to create a performance that focuses on cleopatra rather than caesar. after all, the opera is really driven by cleopatra’s desire for sole power, and her manipulation of caesar and her brother ptolemy in order to get it. and she’s much more badass.

casting was somewhat revolutionary and yet very typical. my friend laura woodruff as cleopatra was an obvious choice. she immediately, to my delight, became cleopatra, from the very first read-through. we (i and the festival directors) decided that caesar should also be played by a woman. caesar is often played by a mezzo-soprano in the opera because the role was originally written for an alto castrato. keeping with that theme, ptolemy, another alto castrato role, would also be a woman, even though he’s often played by a countertenor. heather orth as caesar was another obvious choice. she and laura immediately took to one another – their stage chemistry is fabulous.

ptolemy eluded me for a bit. i asked a couple of girls but they were unavailable. one day, i was sitting in class, and i looked over at angelica kamen and knew that she was my ptolemy. she’s a soprano and pianist new to the department this year. i didn’t know her well, but something told me she was the person meant for the role. she accepted, and she didn’t disappoint.

we also took on ben malkevitch, who plays the piano, and did the english translations of some of the songs. he has been an absolute dream: besides being a talented pianist, he gets his work done in time, has great insight, and he keeps the attitude positive among the cast. he also helped with a couple of needed music changes in a pinch.

the best part of working with this group is they added to the creation and development of the piece. they suggested songs and took initiative on some of the staging. they all really stepped up. they really made the whole process a joy.

after a couple of weeks, we’re opening with the first of two performances tonight. of course, the music gods decided to thwart us with an obstacle: laura fell horribly ill earlier this week. but, because we’re resourceful, we’re still going on, with me singing from the figurative pit. i’ll be reading my way through such gems as “v’adoro pupille” from “giulio cesare,” “coin-operated boy” by the dresden dolls, and “in whatever time we have” from “children of eden.” should be an adventure. we had a run-through earlier today, and i was so impressed by how present laura was in cleopatra’s character, despite being terribly sick.

as caesar sings near the end of the show, onward ho!

that being said …

.
..
…
….
…..
……
…….
……..
………
……….
………
……..
…….
……
…..
….
…
..
.

i am seriously fucked in the head. luckily, i’ve been told that we wouldn’t be singers if we weren’t a little screwed up (in the head or otherwise).

i’m sure (unless this is your first time reading me) that you’ve experienced my panic attacks before on this blog, and some of you have been with me when i’ve fallen apart. i usually try to control these moments so they only happen when i’m alone (stupid) or with one person i trust (during voice lessons, or with criss). but lately, they’ve been happening in groups, and a little more often. I freaked out over the organization of the food tables (very ocd) before my sister’s recital (embarrassing). and last night i snapped during opera scenes rehearsal while working on carmen’s card aria in front of some students, my teacher, our accompanist, and greg, who directs many of our shows. that was initially scary as the panic shock through me in waves, but ultimately ironically relaxing and energizing. how fucked is that? but i think the best part was that i didn’t have to pretend to be strong claire virginia, that i could break down, and everyone stood by me, rather than shying away because i’m the freak who has panic attacks (i think i scared a freshman last semester because she chose the wrong day to watch one of my lessons).

this sounds so cliche, but i feel like i’ve been damaged. since i started school as a kid, i’ve always been pushed to do my best, and be the best, and my sick mind took that a step further and developed a perfectionist complex, and since i’m a perfectionist, i’m never good enough, and pretty soon here i am at 23 having broken myself down into a very insecure girl-woman struggling to find confidence in myself. it doesn’t help that for a good part of my childhood, i wasn’t accepted by my peers, and i never really learned how to make friends, so my fucked little head translated this as me having little worth and not being good enough forth world.

but somehow i made it too adulthood pretending that everything was ok, and convincing everyone but myself that i was very confident, and maybe even full of myself. but now I’ve encountered a whole new animal: the scary possibility that yes, maybe claire virginia has a fucking fabulous voice that could one day take her around the world, and it has rocked my foundation. i’m also starting to believe that it’s ok to be broken – my newest doctor told me she thinks i have a panic and anxiety problem, something i was never able to admit. and, for the first time, i’m starting to think i may have an anxiety disorder with a side of depression, something that i never would allow myself to have because as much as i wanted to stand out, be unique, and own my weirdness, part of me still wanted to be normal. but the good news is, as much as finding my voice has made me vulnerable, it’s going to make me whole.

as much as my fucked up mind tries to distract me, sometimes i know there are people who believe in me. one day, i’ll believe in myself. for now, my voice will have to do the believing for me.

if you’re a mind-fucked singer, i want to hear about it. comment below or use hashtag #mindfuckedsinger on twitter.

hugs to all,

claire virginia

that didn’t happen.

but in the past couple of days it has come in handy. i made a stir-fry to go with tempura shrimp. tonight i needed something to go with steak.

so i flipped open the book and found potatoes with some fancy name, but to me they’re pringle potatoes.

i mean, come on, they look like pringles chips!

i was sold at that point, so i went to the store and got my potatoes.

tonight i embarked on the adventure of creating pringle potatoes, which was made even more exciting when i set out to stuff garlic in between the potato slivers!

when my pringle potatoes came out of the oven, criss and i agreed that i didn’t do half bad.

and plated with the steak (prepared by criss) and the veggies (major fail on my part – when steaming the veggies all the water burnt off and i ruined the pan while creating burnt pan-infused veggies) it looked pretty fabulous.

criss agreed.

and now it’s after 11 and i’m making brownies. with reese’s pieces. in a heart-shaped pan.

good times and good food.

yes there are some lovely words, they say “i have found the one whom my soul loves” blah blah blah, but more importantly, i got a mirror! finally!

you really don’t know how monumental this is. i greatly dislike watching myself in the mirror when i sing. and yet, i knew i needed one, and i’ve even been sneaking glances at myself in the window and in a framed picture while practicing just to get some sort of gauge on how i’m doing, even though i really don’t want to see.

but it was time. i’ve been tasked with keeping tabs on my tongue, and i can’t do that without a mirror. i attempted it with a compact mirror, but that ended in awkwardness and a broken lid on the compact (i didn’t throw it, pinky swear). so now i have a cheap, full mirror from target (funny thing is, i don’t think it’s even a real mirror, it’s some other strange material that just mimics a mirror) and i can watch my tongue and scold it for moving and retreating into the cave of my mouth when it’s not supposed to.

and i have butterflies on my wall too.

on another note, i’m super sad because borders is filling bankruptcy. and reorganizing. which means closing stores. one of which is my local store. and i refuse to go to the barnes and noble down the street. so now what? more on that later. for now, you just get a cat in a borders bag.

start with the salivating spread of leftovers:

set the oven to preheat to 350:

and heat up some refried beans:

then get your pie plate! mine’s pyrex

and start layering! put down a tortilla:

by now your beans should be warm enough. add the beans from the leftovers, and just for fun, add taco seasonings to taste:

now back to layering. add the most important ingredient: cheese, of course! and on top of that, the leftover enchilada.

then the beans:

then more cheese and all the leftover bits of chicken:

and then gee, what else? more cheese!

pick some arbitrary number that will make the cheese melt and heat the pie fully and stick it in the oven:

and then wait! it will be tasty when it comes out, i promise!

i would have steamed some green beans so i could pretend this meal was healthy, but our beans weren’t fresh anymore, so i had soy milk instead.

cheers!

sometime’s we are our own obstacle. shoot, getting this post written is a challenge because i’m so tired that i can’t coax myself to move. but these posts are important, because they keep me on track and remind me of where i’ve been and where i’m going.

hopefully i’m leaving behind a time when all i could do is beat myself up. nothing was ever good enough. but as I was told today, i can’t get in my own way. time to suck it up and admit that maybe for once i’m actually doing something right.

claire virginia, get out of my way!

his name was ardavan davaran – “ardy” to many of us – and he was my friend.

but before that, he was a professor. i met him quite casually. it seems my name gets passed around among teachers/professors, so one day in the cafeteria i met the man through one of my other professors. the smile struck me first. so full of life and passion, and a genuine love for those around him. it’s always refreshing to meet people like that; it gives you hope that there is something inherently good in all of us.

i took his shakespeare class in the spring of 2008. i’d had a shakespeare class in high school, and i’d always loved the work of the bard, so this class was going to be no exception. he was one of the best professors i’ve had because he loved what he taught, and he wanted to draw out the best in all of us. it was the little things that let you know that he was rooting for you. the smiles. the silly, offhand comments. he loved my writing, he loved my reading. i read in his eyes that he believed in me, that he thought i could do great things and go places. it saddens me to think that he never got to see me do those things, but perhaps he’s with us somewhere watching me, and someday he’ll see me sing my heart out and know that i did something important and reached out to the world with my voice, and possibly someday, with my songs if i ever write any. but the important thing is, he knew i’d succeed, that i was succeeding every day, and that i had something beautiful inside of me.

my friends jaclyn, panda, nora, and i had a place in our dorm that we called “the wall.” something made it on the wall if it was memorable or funny, or just downright strange. davaran made the wall twice, and both times in shakespeare class. once i accused him, in fun, of flirting with me and he shot right back with, “i’m not flirting. flirting is wishy-washy. i’m openly expressing my love for you.” i mean, what do you say for that? but that’s how he was – he loved people. he loved everyone, and he didn’t hesitate to let them know. and he gave of himself to them. one day i walked with him to his office, and he had me try on the sunglasses he was wearing, and once he decided that they looked fabulous on me, he told me to keep them, that he had a few pairs of the same glasses. i wore those sunglasses all the time after he passed, until i lost them. a very sad day.

the other time he made the wall, we were discussing the author of a book of essays on shakespeare. this particular woman was a trans-woman, and ardy went off on a tangent about how some people would be good as the opposite gender and others wouldn’t. he asserted he’d make a pretty good woman. maybe he would.

i knew him as a friend when we went to ashland together with some other professors and students, as well as alumni and other people related to the university. we danced. we laughed. i had my first vodka with him (he was a skyy man). we all lived that week.

i only had him for that one class. fall rolled around and i saw him on campus here and there. the following spring semester, we were shocked to learn that he was in the hospital and he had been secretly battling cancer, though you would have never known it the way he carried on. a couple of days later he was gone. it only took one of my friends looking at me for me to know he’d gone, and we cried together. and all i could do was wander aimlessly around campus crying as i ran into more people who discovered the news on my face.

some good came of it. i got closer to people who i had known, but not really known. people came together in their grief. but the beacon on our campus had gone. i think it was many weeks before i had fully recovered.

this friday will be two years since his death. today some of us got together in his former office, which has been taken over by a friend and fellow english professor. the room definitely speaks to ardy’s life and spirit. we put back some skyy and some tasty snacks and just talked. talked about his life. talked about what he did for us. i hadn’t been in his office since before he died, so it was a bit of a shock to be in such a different place, but he definitely lives on there, loving all of us.

Dr. Ardavan Davaran, March 4,1940 - January 28, 2009

(that says “send in the clowns” if it’s hard to read)

why are you so ()*&*^$%^$^&&*(&%^$**^$%##()&^&%#$^$#^&GJHF^%$#&**IVHRE#%E*IYDT serious?! (sorry, my mommy brought me up to be a good little girl who doesn’t swear, so i’ll refrain from inserting various appropriate words that fit here).

because that’s what it really comes down to, isn’t it? we’re all too busy being so uptight and anxious and shoving our heads up our *ahem* derrières that we can’t make anything beautiful come about. and at the end of the day, wouldn’t you rather have created something beautiful, or at least made a genuine smile, rather than continually destroying yourself in your seriousness?

ironically, “send in the clowns” is a rather serious song, but if you take the title seriously (i’m really overusing this word, aren’t i?), you can do some good. we all need to laugh at ourselves, with ourselves, and with others. my shirt and jeans must have united with some many dust mites and heaven knows what else during my voice lesson yesterday because i couldn’t stop myself from rolling around on the floor laughing.

have you even giggled today? do it. now. please and thank you.