Or Bloomington, as it were. Today I went to school to print out some paperwork and stopped by the financial aid office to officially hand back my AI. It was surreal, being in there and telling them that I'm leaving and accepting that today could be the last day I set foot in that building where my little closet of a studio lived on the third floor with the psychotic harpsichordist professor around the corner who banged on my door every time I practiced Lakme and the long dark hallway of other voice studios filled with wannabe cast members of Wicked and the eccentric early music kids (no offense friends) talking about groppos and mordents and whether or not well-tempered could exist in a climate controlled building. I've gotten a string of emails from my students: average age 18, ambitious musical theatre kids who showed up in their leotards and jeans from ballet class, holding their tap shoes, bringing in extra music to learn for their auditions, writing out their French IPA and tape-recording their German pronunciation so they could check it against their IPA and seeking the eternal perfection of the correct [i] vowel while learning the correct style interpretation of Cole Porter and why Sondheim is different than Schwartz and yes it's a ballad so sing it like a ballad I don't care how Bernadette Peters does it and no you cannot belt that high today because you're not warmed up and besides, don't you have some Italian to speak to me today? I will miss them so much.
It's 75 and sunny. Thanks to the new contacts I got this morning, I can see things with more clarity and as such, I'm going to sit on my back porch swing with my beer while I still can. Don't get into too much trouble while I'm gone.
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