It's sort of interesting to look back and see what you wrote on a particular date in different years, different stages of your life. Here are a few entries I wrote on past January 3rds.
1995: Another example of the cruel but necessary happened today. "J" played a staging rehearsal this morning for Porgy, and, as Richard summed it up to me afterward, "it was a disaster." Apparently, she couldn't keep a tempo, and distracted John so much that he couldn't concentrate on what the principals were doing. Richard told me she will not be playing any more stagings after today. He'll speak to her this afternoon. The sad part is, she doesn't seem to have a clue. At the end of this disastrous rehearsal, she said to Richard, "I didn't think it went that badly, huh?" I feel for her, particularly since she and I have become friends, but if she hinders the rehearsal process then she has to go. It's a fact of opera. A good pianist, one that can not only play the score, but one that has a solid sense of rhythm, can follow a conductor well, and can play orchestrally, is so crucial. Most people don't realize how difficult it is, being a répétiteur -- even a lot of pianists don't realize. It's a skill - a multi-faceted, highly disciplined skill.
1998: Sometimes I think I have too many ambitions. I didn't used to be this way; my life seemed much narrower and easier, albeit somewhat paler in many ways, when I was younger. Now, looking at the stacks of books I've been meaning to read, and contemplating all the subjects I've been meaning to learn about, I'm overcome by the uneasy feeling that I'll never be able to get around to it all; there's not enough time. And on top of all that, I unfortunately do not have the kind of mind that can retain vast amounts of information. I've read many books, but I can't remember the plots of most of them. I only remember whether I liked them or loved them, or was devastated by them. I remember if a book made me cry, but I don't remember why. Sad thing.
2001: I don't quite know what I'm doing or where I am. Off balance. I hate being off balance. What do I need to be doing this for; I'm 41 years old, damn it, I can't be mooning around like some kid. Comes a time when you have to face up to the fact that you've -- to use a dull cliché -- given the best years of your life to a man who ultimately couldn't make it up to you. And you have to face up to the fact that you're alone and you're likely to stay alone. It's as if I started digging myself into a hole 21 years ago and it's taken me this long to realize just how deep it's gotten. I don't know how to get out. And now what? Just keep plugging away, doing my work, trying not to care that my heart is shriveling up?
2003: Scotti, my therapist, said something interesting about that dream I had Christmas morning, about Carol and the gunman. She pointed out two sexual references -- the man in the blue shirt, and the gun -- and that Carol was really myself, the newly religious part of me, defending myself from the sexual part of me because of my thoughts about monastic life.
Went to dinner and the movies with Peter, Susan, and Kay. Patrick joined us for dinner, but had rehearsal afterward. So the four of us went on to see Chicago, which was fabulous.
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