One of my deepest joys (and vilest disappointmetns) lies within singing.

When I was in college I had a friend who was a musician and he had the occasion to hear me singing (as part of a crowd attending a play). While walking home he informed me that I really shouldn’t sing, because I am tone deaf. It was an effective as a gag, and far worse: I felt like opening my mouth was the equivalent of having incredibly bad body odor. Offensive.

So a thing I enjoyed, had l;earned to breath correctly to do, had worked on for fun, became a torture. I no longer sang in the shower, or the car, or even while alone. My voice grew rusty, my breath shallow, and… bad.

I still liked to sing, though. I couldn’t stop forever. I just got used to a scratchy voice, gave up on high notes, and sang just every once in a while (usually along with very loud music so that I really wasn’t heard by anyone). And eventually, I got caught.

By my boyfriend (although he wasn’t more than a friend back then). A former musician with perfect pitch, no less. He stopped by to see if I wanted to go to a movie, he just didn’t call first like he usually does. I was playing my music loud, and didn’t hear the door, so he just came on in. And there I was, singing my heart out to Sinead O’Connor’s “Troy.” (If you don’t know it, find it and listen to it, and the irony of this story will go to new heights for you.)

I almost threw up, the blood rushed to my face so fast. I was mortified and I ran out of that room as fast as I could. I kept waiting for his laughter, or even the sound of him leaving, but… I didn’t hear that. I crept out. He was just sitting in the living room, reading, and when I came in he simply asked if I was alright. I stammered something taht was ehading towards being an apology when he interrupted me. “I’m sorry if I embarrased you singing, but I wanted to hear you better.”

What? You wanted to hear me better?

“You sing great. Not polished, and you could use some exercises, but you have a nice voice. Why, don’t you think so?”

No. (And I told him I was tone deaf, and why.)

“You’re not tone deaf. You can hear the difference between notes just fine. You don’t always match them, but…” (I almost fled the room again, it felt like i was being set up for a joke or something). “Stop, I’m sorry. Look — you sound fine. No you’re not a professional, but you’re not tone deaf. After all the bible said make a joyful noise, not a beautiful one, didn’t it?”

A few days ago a student shared this (and gave his permission to repost here):

Yes, yes, you are right, I suppose, yet I find it a sad thing, a 
 very sad thing indeed to see crows–innocent birds that were content 
 with their all too brief lives a moment before–flying from the 
 trees upon hearing me sing, “The Sound of Music” only to become so 
 nauseous that they cannot fly, and then to see them puking en masse 
 on the ground like a thousand ships loaded to the brims with drunk 
 sailors and sea-sick passengers. Then to see hysterical 
 cows–creatures that would be crows if only they had been born with 
 an “r” in their names–desperately trying to climb those same trees 
 that the crows so recently abandoned…But more than the pity I 
 feel, it’s the laugher that emanates from deep within me when I am 
 trying to sing during the midst of such a scene, that makes it hard 
 to go on. Yet, I must, simply must go on, because the spectacle and 
 the sense of power I feel, just knowing that I caused it all to 
 happen tickles me so that I would not trade a voice such as mine for 
 the sweetest notes the angels ever heard.

Don’t worry, dear Lady. I do sing. I sing all the time, but 
 especially when I’ve had too much coffee. A friend taught me to sing 
 years ago, so I now sing at all times and in all places. The older I 
 get, the less I care about the crows and the cows. They can buy 
 earplugs for all I care, impudent, intolerant creatures that they are.

He captured, eloquently, amusingly, and joyfully why some of us sing.

Over the years I’ve grown more confident in my voice. Oh, I’m not headed for StarSearch or American Idol. I don’t want to do karoke or anything like that. But “Walking in Memphis” sounds sweet in my voice, and although I don’t wail during “Troy” I can do all the rest.

It may not be beautiful, but it is joyful.

Friedman is one of the few authors I will buy the moment i see the new offering, beginning with her first novel, In Conquest Born in 1986 (gods, that makes me feel old). Her characters are exquisitely drawn, her worlds rich, and her story-telling skills superb. More importantly, she’s an author who fulfills the promise to take me somewhere new.

This Alien Shore opens with a young girl’s frantic escape from the Habitat orbiting Earth that has been her home, just before it is blown up in a a corporate raid. A last message from her mentor raises more questions than it answers. She learns that she’s been part of a highly secret, highly illegal experiment that “modded” the communication and data storage systems in her head. And someone is willing to kill her to keep others from getting access to it

Throughout the novel are questions of humanity via the central premise of its universe: what is human? Is it a matter of how it looks or follows social norms? Is it only confirmed at the genetic level — in which case what is the ‘baseline’ for measurement? Is it human to control sanity via chemicals (drugs or ‘natural’)? To alter the brain for maximum creativity? How can two cultures — both ‘human’ interact when their frames of reference are wildly incompatible, if not mutually exclusive.

The Guerans were especially fascinating: a world where insanity (as we would define it) is understood and appreciated while being cultivated and controlled — by the individual, not the state — as pathways for specific genuis. (It was interesting to try to figure out what disorders these people had. I recognized people with autism, Tourette’s, obsessive/compulsive disorder, and paranoid schizophrenia.) This is a society based on polite formulas to mitigate the clash between ‘clans’ as represented by various animals — lion, spider, snake, otter, etc.

These ‘power animals’ if you will, further the mythic quality Friedman tends to weave into her novels. The anniq — the naturally occurring rifts in space-time– is described like the icy waters of the Arctic, and dragons (sana) lurk within, waiting to eat the souls of unwary travelers.

As well, we are encouraged to think about the these of ‘define human’ by the universality of ‘net access. Today’s internet has become universal — literally. Where is the line between natural and unnatural when babies have implants so they are never denied their ‘right; to net access? For me, this writing takes Gibson’s best, and makes it readable. (I love his ideas, I hate how he expresses them.) In my opinion, the way she’s thought through how a computer virus would look and act in eight centuries is phenomenal.

Another day where I will spend most of it working for my mundane job — about 6 hours worth, to be exact. The rest of my life is falling ‘behind.’ I know I’ll catch up, but its making me a tad crazy in the moment.

… but a state of being.

Yesterday (7/1) I worked 16 hours. All told, my work week (starting on Monday) was 60 hours long. Amazing. I haven’t done this ot myself since I was in college and combining part-time work with an over-full class schedule.

My company moved from our quaint, but expensive and poorly designed office space inside a semi-converted house in a sweet neighborhood to a ‘regular’ office space on the fringes of downtown. We now have private offices and cubicles, as well as a real kitchen (seating for more than 12!), a library (which may actually get organized, now) and an environment where we all can see one another, daily.

I have to say, I’m pretty convinced that I’m going to get crap about the new space. The people I work with (and have ‘gone to bat for’ on numerous occasions) don’t think well of me. They are fools, as I am generous with those I manage and am always looking for a way to promote people into better places. Amusingly, they think the grass is greener elsewhere, but won’t just leave to find out. I’m going to get shit for having an office, and a corner one at that (although I didn’t choose it, but the Founder asked to switch with me and I said yes). I say: put in 15+ years of excellent, focused work in one area of expertise and then tell me I don’t deserve an office. In the end: I’m not sure how much longer I want to stay, even if the benefits are great and the pay is very good.

The sad part: I have to be at work on Monday, a day when everyone else in the company has off because I committed to making the common areas fully functioning for them. Will I get thanks? Maybe. The IT lady will be with me, because she’s a trouper and ‘gets’ the need for a functioning office when we start up again. One other person in the company offered to help with the move.

Oh my, I’m grumpy about this.