So, I've got laundry going and it won't be out until 2:30. This is fine, as my first class tomorrow is at 3:35 PM. I have time to sleep in. But I will be filling the time with an LJ entry and making new iTunes playlists. Yay!

So, last night I went to see AU's production of The Mystery of Edwin Drood, which, if you've never seen it, is a fantastic show. It might be one of my new favorite musicals. The original Drood was a serial novel by Charles Dickens, who died when it was exactly half finished. The killer was never revealed and the story never finished.

Then, in the 1980s, Rupert Holmes (most famous for Escape (The Piña Colada Song)) wrote a musical version of Drood, becoming the only person to win Tony awards for the book, music, and lyric to any musical.

Drood was amazing. I had a great time and just loved the music. I left the theater singing and dancing.

Which got me to thinking.

I love musicals. I mean, I love theater and I love acting. I know I'm a relatively good actress. But I adore musicals. There's so much to be said about the seamless integration of acting and music, to create a compelling story that stays in your mind and leaves you singing or rides you on waves of music that make you weep. I would love - love - to be in a musical. There's just one problem.

I can't sing.

Well, that's kind of strong. I'm not tone deaf. I can certainly carry a tune. I can sort of read music. I sang in church choir, even had a few solos. I sing very, very loudly in the car and in the shower. But I haven't sang in front of large crowds of people in ages. I don't think I'd ever be able to audition impressively enough to get anything in a musical instead of perhaps ensemble. Which is fine. I mean, every musical needs an ensemble. But, in the words of Ariel, I just want more.

I've definitely had dreams about singing center stage. I mean, spotlight, stunned and silent audience, me singing with every fiber of my being, the works. There might even be a shiny dress in there somewhere.

It's just so dumb, because just because I can sing lullabies to children and to myself at my computer or in the car, that doesn't mean that I can do anymore than that. It's completely unattainable. I might as well not have vocal chords at all.

*le sigh*

I could always look into voice lessons, but there's no way I can afford them. *groan*

I guess now I'll just have to settle for singing to my Best Musical Theater playlist.

I have this obsession with flying. With flight. With wings.

I write about flying, about unexpected flight and unexpected flyers. Obese women and young boys with wooden contraptions tied to their arms. People leaping from rooftops or levitating from parks. I dream about flying. It's the only consistent dream I've had since childhood.

I don't really believe in reincarnation, but I imagine that there is something in my spirit- some resonance, a faint echo from some other stretch of time and space- that involves flight. When I read stories (Roald Dahl's The Swan as an example) about flight, they twinge some kind of string within me, intangible yet present. I am constantly in awe of the sky and the stars and the sun. I'm a female Icarus (with or without the hubris?); I imagine that somewhere, Falkor or Mrs. Whatsit waits for me. Or perhaps vast, feathery wings of my own.

There have been exactly four times in my life when I prayed for flight, for wings to sprout like an angel's, to be lifted away in steady, heavy beats. I prayed to reach high enough to smear the sky, to inhale the clouds into my lungs.

Like I said, I have this obsession with flying.