Crushing Krisis

Comic Books, Drag Race, & Life in New Zealand

elise

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Some Things (or: Change Happens).

I have never ever ripped the knee of a pair of pants before last night, when during one of the kneel-skid-kneel routines in my dance audition i caught the worn khaki fabric of my pants on a seam of the stage. I didn’t notice until we got home and i went to poke at the huge purplish bruise on my knee only to find my finger poking clear through the leg of my pants.

Callbacks, for all you who so kindly inquired, went decently. I was convinced that we’d have to sing a bit more tonight, so i don’t think i had any dairy all day and am now making up for it with the most massive bowl of ice cream i’ve ever had. It’s obvious that i don’t have the voice or presence to play any of the cast roles, so i was basically just being used as filler in the scenes we read. Which, honestly, i don’t mind. I just want to sing. The Cast List will be up tomorrow at 1pm.

Lindsay says she can hear everything that goes on in my room, and i suppose she must be able to; i can hear everything that’s said in hers and, though i can’t usually hear her move, my floor is her ceiling. So, i’ve been trying to be very still, and not as stompy when i wake up in the morning.

I had breakfast again today. Somehow, my days have been better every time i’ve had breakfast in the last week, but if i were to be scientific about i think i’d find that the relationship between the two isn’t causal in nature. I really don’t try to dissect better, or happy, or any other good thing too much — lest it disintegrate and flow from my hands like grains of sand. It’s irony, really: you want to have something to hold on to, but have to keep your hands off. Proverbially, that is. Or not. Blah, time for bed.

https://www.crushingkrisis.com/2002/02/9951912/

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Art and beauty are so subjective that i’m sometimes frightened by them. A song that almost wound up going unplayed has become everyone’s new favourite. Last night someone told me they thought i was sexy. Some people read my page, and some don’t.

My audition was terrible… i couldn’t understand where the piano-arrangement fit in with my vocal notes, and i just kept shooting the pianist a befuddled look while my voice teacher sat in the back row and scribbled furiously on her legal pad. Corrections, for our next lesson. Rounder ‘O’ vowels, “remember” should be “ri-mem-bur,” breath before the phrases, don’t move my arms around so much. I don’t remember singing it at all, but i know what i did wrong. In fact, i thought that my audition was pretty terrible — panicked glances to the accompanist are rarely the mark of a chorus-member in the making.

At the end the voice inside my head said “Fuck it, Peter. Show them you can sing.” I shut my ears tight against the pianist and looked straight ahead. “Can lead to joy. And hope. And love… yes. Love.” C, D, Eb, E. Flawless. I just grinned as the piano roll to the end of the song began. The cheering was wonderful; i walked off as calmly as i could and proceeded to totally collapse in my chair hugging Elise and whispering “i did it, i hit it, i did it.”

No one mentioned my high notes, but everyone claims my song was wonderful. I didn’t think so, and i keep saying “But, what about the end?”

Tonight i’ll be at callbacks. Someone thought it was okay.

https://www.crushingkrisis.com/2002/02/9929872/

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I absolutely cannot sing the harmony to “Closer to Fine.” Like, really, i’m honestly trying, but no amounts of lyrics, replays, and really cute girls, i have encouraging me to sing it correctly. So, mostly i’m just sitting here and pouting about not being able to sing it or hit the E in my song. Or, really, sing anything. Not even Billy Joel that i’ve been listening to since i was two. Two.

Distracted much? Me? Never…

https://www.crushingkrisis.com/2002/02/9773642/

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We were going to be late for class. I woke up at six thirty, did all of my laundry, read my email, drafted a post, washed the dishes, folded the blankets in the parlor … and i was still going to be late for class, along with a freshly out of bed Lindsay. She brushed her teeth as she made corrections on my bow-tying abilities. I dashed back upstairs to frantically look for my favourite belt while Lindsay was frantically trying to pull her hair back tight enough to her head that she could muster a tiny “nubbin” of a ponytail. It was at this point that Erika emerged from her room practically still in a state of sleep, glibly relating her dream of being Heart from Captain Planet to us as if she was unaware of our need to be a mile and a half away in the next thirty minutes. Lindsay switched from a clip to a rubber-band and off-handedly asked which of our friends played the part of the blonde russian girl in the Captain Power team as i frantically arranged and rearranged flowers.

Erika couldn’t remember, so she started talking about the wonders of Olympic Downhill Skiing, which she had been watching just before three.

I turned to Lindsay. “We’re going to be late, aren’t we?” She replied through teeth clenched around a hair-tie. “Don’t worry; we’re taking the bus.”

Back up the stairs i went, this time to collect bus money (since my wallet was empty save for a single quarter) from my change jar. Erika’s voice wafted up behind me as she idly teased her pet frog. She, apparently, has the day off from work. Next came Lindsay’s voice, not nearly as calm: “Bus at quarter of, are you coming?”

“Yes!” was both my reply and an exclamation at having found the twenty-some coins i would need to get onto the bus. Leather jacket got thrown on, scarf was wrapped around neck, but Blistex was stupidly left behind on my desk. Downstairs again Lindsay was clawing through her desktop clutter to find her cell-phone and i was screaming down the hall about whether or not i should defrost my chicken in the refrigerator. Poultry was subsequently relocated, flowers were primped a final time, and then Lindsay practically threw me down our entry stairs. Out the door we went in a chattering stumbling tangle of her long denim jacket and my felt-like gloves as i fumbled for keys. Door locked tightly, we were down the steps of our porch and heading north to the Chestnut bus stop.

Lindsay stopped dead twenty-five feet under Walnut. “Wait.”


“What?”


She was clawing through her backpack now; “I need to make copies of my paper.”


“Yes?”


“But i only have bus fare.”


“Hmmm.”


“I need a quarter. I’m going to fail if i don’t have another quarter. Oh my god, Peter, we have to go back.”

Out came my wallet, out came the last quarter i had to my name, and all was well. Well until we arrived at Chestnut street to find the bus a half a block ahead of us; about as far as a bus can get in the time it takes for one roommate to paw through her bookbag while the other similarly examines his wallet.

“I am not running after it.”

I offered no argument at all.

https://www.crushingkrisis.com/2002/02/9721902/

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Girl… making… head… explode… slowly.


Actually, the slow explosion of my head isn’t such a bad thing. And, dude, self-aware witty girls who are as confused as i am about romance in general and the romance in question in specific are alright in my book, especially when we meta-flirt for two hours while figuring out our battle plan.

What, me, sleep? Butterflies in stomach totally refuel me without a need to rest, didn’t you know?

https://www.crushingkrisis.com/2002/02/9572545/