A few months ago, a friend of mine sent me an email about the workshop. The chance to work with a world-renowned vocalist and innovator in the field? I wasted no time in signing up.
I trusted the judgement of my friend and the supposed recognition of the presenter, and didn’t bother exploring the “feral choir” concept any further. The workshop organizer let me in without any screening (hey, I’d consider myself a vocalist so why wouldn’t they?), but for some reason I felt like I was committing highway robbery so I never looked back… until the week before the workshop, when I made more concrete plans for the weekend.
Do you know what “feral” means?
I didn’t either. Turns out Webster’s dictionary defines “feral” as (ha!) “of, relating to, or suggestive of a wild beast“. Oookay… this should be interesting!
I must admit, upon learning more about Minton’s experimental techniques and hearing the performances of previous workshops, I was hesitant. After all, this is what I saw, heard, experienced on YouTube:
Uh oh.
I watched more and more videos, fascinated by the inhibitions of these adults, whose mental state could be considered questionable. And I was about to join them. I had so many questions… What am I, a dog? (I’m not exactly accustomed to barking on command, unless you count workplace and social butt kissing as a related form.) Who’s that making burping noises? And how were they so free and comfortable in completely humiliating themselves on stage?
But I needed to challenge myself. To push the boundaries of my own self-awareness. To see what primal sounds I could create.
The workshop started off with Minton laughing.
He just stood there, in front of the group of about 50 of us (though estimating crowds is not my forte; the Kia vehicle on the other hand…), in semicircles two rows deep, laughing. Pacing across the front of the room.
And so, like monkeys, we followed. Whether out of confusion or obedience or mere contagion, we followed. And it seemed to go on for a good five minutes.
Let me tell you, all those studies claiming how healthy laughter is - maybe there’s really something to them, because I felt alive.
I was amazed by how Minton would orchestrate his unconventional choir of beasts, some of whom were impressively creative with their improvised sounds. He waved his arms like a maniac, eliciting the most outrageous but surprisingly cohesive cacophony of sounds - beginning low and soft, then moving higher and louder - and pointed randomly at singers who were then invited to make short bursts of noise.
Nothing was off limits.
I was probably one of the more tame of the bunch. The group was mixed, with professionals and amateurs, young and old, guarded and free-spirited. It was hard to feel “out of place” when I couldn’t really tell what this “place” was. I belonged in this mishmash just as much as I didn’t. And over the duration of that session, I felt myself letting go progressively more and more, ever so slowly, until I didn’t really care what the $%^& anyone else in the room thought of me.
What I’ve learned from the workshop, as a self-described “vocalist”, is that I have been confining myself to replicating the sounds and music that surround me. Popular music is pleasing because we don’t know any better. Most of what we hear today is the same old thing, over and over again, because we are too afraid to try something different.
I am too afraid.
Have been too afraid, or so I’d like to think.
Now is the time to at least try to mix it up a little. Now is the time to force open those narrow boundaries in which I live, creatively.
Actually, now is the time to make my way over to the last part of the workshop and public performance, so you can experience just what I’m talking about.
I blogged some time ago about the creative genius that is the Snuggie.
Some of you apparently got the impression - and I have no idea how - that I was propagating an unfounded hatred for the infamous backwards robe.
Who are you to judge, you asked. You don’t even own a Snuggie.
A fair argument - at the time. But no longer.
One of you was compelled to send me a Snuggie for Christmas - thank you for indulging me!
And so, in a brief episode of diligent investigative journalism (hey, it happens), I jumped arms first into my very own Royal Blue Snuggie.
Forwards. Backwards. Inside out. Upside down.
The verdict: Yes, I experienced “total warmth and comfort”. Yes, it’s “super-soft”. It is very easy to read a book in, and to watch TV and eat popcorn in. I am able to talk on the phone while wearing it, and work on my laptop (thank goodness for home offices!). And, most importantly, I look incredibly stylish, if I may say so myself.
But it’s not nearly as liberating as it purports to be. It is not actually very easy to leave the house in. It is not one size fits all, those liars! And if it were a hospital gown, I’d be very concerned for whomever was unfortunate enough to have to walk behind me, as the ends like to come apart and cause the whole darn thing to fall off.
It’s worth mentioning that the booklight, which is of the “compact press ‘n open” variety, is a real life saver. You don’t actually have to unfold the light from its compact state; instead, you simply press a button. Already it has saved me so much time and effort, leaving my hands free to catch the open ends of my Snuggie and prevent throngs of werewolves from converging on a brief full moon.
I can’t provide a conclusive opinion, however. I haven’t had the opportunity to take my Snuggie camping, or on a plane. I haven’t had a small child at my disposal, to really test the “complete freedom of movement” supposedly afforded by a Snuggie. I’d anticipate having a very challenging time cheering at a soccer game, but it’s completely impossible to tell at this point, given the lack of evidence. (I am currently accepting loans of private jets and babies and soccer teams for this purpose.)
And I haven’t tried sewing in my Snuggie.
I guess it will be quite some time before I am ever able to provide a definitive answer, as I would first have to learn how to sew, but least I know what my first project will be.
I can say, without any hesitation, that travelling has been the best education. (Sorry, Mom and Dad.)
There were some similarities to my schoolgirl days: giant backpacks, heavy reference books, questionable food quality, uniforms…
But the tuition was steep, even when compared to elite private institutions. The days were long and often draining (much more so than a boring lecture). And at the end of it all, I didn’t get to walk across the stage in my cap and gown to get a piece of paper proving my sticktoitiveness.
Though, I suppose, prancing through the arrivals aisle at YVR and into the open arms of loved ones was an acceptable substitute.
If I were to write my thesis about what I learned in the past few months - a length of time that far surpassed all my previous records for longest period away from home - it would include these chapters.
1. Appreciate the luxury that is horizontal sleeping. Trying to catch some decent z’s while sitting upright is nearly impossible - at least without your little prescription friends (or so I’m told, I swear). Airlines, having caught on to this nifty little fact, now make a habit of charging an arm and a leg to passengers desperate for a good rest. Heck, if the alternative is sitting in a cramped coach seat, you might as well save yourself the discomfort by forfeiting the aforementioned appendages… Think of how much more room you’d have! But I digress. Joni Mitchell may claim that “Big Yellow Taxi”, with its line, “don’t know what you got till it’s gone”, was inspired by what she saw on a trip to Hawaii, but the truth is likely that she was travelling on a budget and was therefore unable to spring for cushy cabins on her overnight trains. Poor, ungrateful Joni.
2. If Paris Hilton were a modest traveller, Duct Tape would be her new BFF. No matter which side of the pond. It’s cheap. It’s (somewhat) easy to tote along. It will never look better than you (well, I can’t really generalize). Before I left on the trip, a wise blog advised that I should pack a fresh roll of duct tape. And I, clever me, had the balls audacity to question if this would be a waste of precious space in my itty bitty backpack (which I could actually fit in). But the duct tape saved me on several occasions. Like when my treasured money belt looked like it might need some help (hey, it was a long trip and there was much to be eaten!). And when I didn’t have a clothesline to dry my handwashed gym gear from the one time I tried to work up a sweat (a short-lived endeavour). And who knows when else. I’m sure it could have sustained me if I spent my last euro on those damn W.C.. Which brings me to my next point…
I'm so clever.
3. Be nice to tourists. It’s never fun to be lost. But for me, the difference between an awesome experience and a solemn pledge never, ever, to return to a particular city was often the reaction I got when I asked a local pedestrian, shopkeeper, or tourist office for directions or information. And then I thought of the times I’d been offered a similar opportunity to contribute to a magical travel experience in my own ‘hood, only to decline - albeit politely - if I was in a rush, whether or not I knew the answer. Now, having been on the other side, I will make a great effort to help foreign passersby in whatever way I can. Even if it’s just directing them to someone who might know. You may find yourself a new friend - and potentially a free couch when you’re in their neck of the woods!
4. Forget “Free Speech”; my battle cry is “Free Pees for All!” Or at least for me. It sure is expensive to urinate in Europe. Personally, I feel that $1.53 CAD is simply too much to spend on saving others the trouble of cleaning up after me in public places. So I drank too much water; is that a crime? Look, I understand why they do this. Some people abuse their privileges. Some people can’t aim. Some people think the washrooms are for “washing”. But I’m not some people! I especially - especially! - refuse to pay for pee when I’ve already paid to enter a venue. Just charge me an extra buck in the admission price and I won’t make a fuss! So I just learned to be smart about my consumption of liquid and my patronage of particular establishments. Dehydration isn’t so bad, right? And oh, your crepe stand doesn’t have a toilet? I’m taking my business elsewhere, thank you very much! I’ve peed in the “forest” on the side of the highway before, and I’ll pee in the “forest” on the side of the highway again! Don’t test me!
It doesn't have to make sense...
5. Sorry for the fixation on emptying one’s bladder, but here’s another important lesson: If there’s any room at all in your budget, spring for the Private Bath. It’s really not much fun to wear your slippers and carry your toiletries and try your hardest not to drop the little towel protecting your you-know-whats from you-know-who (creepy single old man traveller in your 6-bed hostel room) and squeezing a change of clothes under your arm while not touching any of those suspiciously curly hairs on the walls… down the hall and out the door and through the refrigeration-standard temperatures of the great outdoors. Got the picture? Don’t scrimp here. If you can muster the discipline to reach deep, deep down into those shallow pockets, fish out your last few €, and forego that second large gelato of the night, you won’t regret it.
6. You can’t see it all - but that’s okay. Last time I checked, each day still had only 24 hours. There’s simply too much to do in that time. And there is no closure when you leave one city for the next. There can never be closure. You have undoubtedly left many stones unturned, many sights unseen, many would-be - could-be - friends… unfriended. But once you redefine your expectations of the experience as hors d’oeuvres rather than the last supper, you relieve yourself of the pressure to see and do everything on those darn Must See lists. The only Must Sees are the ones you actually care to see - not the trendiest, newest art gallery that all your friends won’t want to hear you brag about. Besides, sometimes I just don’t get modern art. I’ve accepted that. You should too. So explore on your own terms, knowing that you just might have to return some day very soon.
7. Be curious. There’s nothing like walking on almost entirely intact structures from thousands of years ago to make you wonder… And it’s perfectly acceptable to feel like a little kid, all wide-eyed and sugar highed, at the museum. Ask how things came to be, how things got to where they are now. How the heck did the contractors who scored the Acropolis gig get all that rock up there? Dream about how things might look in the future. Design your contribution to society, thousands of years on. How will you be remembered? Ponder if Michaelangelo really understood the magnitude of the Sistine Chapel ceiling when he was craning his neck to paint upside down for 4 years. Notice how small you feel (or how small I feel, and not just because I can barely ride the big kid rides at the amusement park). Ask questions.
Shh, don't tell anyone how I got this terrible photograph.
8. No matter where you are, what language you speak, what colour your skin - family trumps all. The common theme I found as I made my way around Europe was that people love their families. They spend time together, nurturing their relationships. They protect their own. Isn’t it funny that such a concept can, at once, bring both peace and war? We’re not so different. If only we could all see that.
9. You don’t need even 1% of what you own. As I packed my bags for the trip, it quickly became apparent that there simply wasn’t enough room for my leather jacket or fancy handbags or gold jewellery or anything that wasn’t completely necessary to survive three months on the road. Naturally, I wondered how I would fare without all my pretty material possessions, the precious treasures I treated as though they were my children. Those who know me best wondered the same. But I very easily survived on less than 1% of my wardrobe. I didn’t have my laptop. I didn’t have my BlackBerry. I didn’t have my fashion magazines. And I didn’t miss any them. (I did, however, have my Uggs.) What I did miss terribly: my family and friends.
10. The end of one adventure is the beginning of your next. I noticed a deep sense of sadness in my heart each time I packed my bags and left one city for another. It’s not as though I’d grown too attached; instead, perhaps I’d become jaded by the inevitability of that particular time in my journey coming to an end, maybe even prematurely. But I learned that each day brings new opportunities to appreciate life in so many ways, regardless of your geographical coordinates. And so, I will appreciate life each day, even if I’m just sitting at my desk, struggling to make my fingers dance across the silver tile floor that is my keyboard, wondering why spilling my guts online seems so foreign after a three-month hiatus. I will appreciate just being.
Life is good.
And a bonus:
11. You can always learn from others. So tell me, what have you learned from your travels?
The past few months on the road presented almost limitless opportunities for exploration.
As a result of my time away, I’ve had the opportunity to reflect on the roads I’ve taken and to re-calculate my direction for the coming year. (Sorry, too many hours with the GPS!)
I was fortunate to have entered the new year with renewed enthusiasm for expressing myself through words and music. I saw the world and my role in it in an entirely new way, and I can’t help but feel inspired by the incredible journey that I am just beginning.
In the coming weeks, I will be undertaking a complete redesign of this project, including RoshenaHuang.com. Thank you for your continued interest and patience throughout the process. And as always, your thoughts are more than welcome here, as mine have been mighty lonely for some time now…
Wishing you and yours all the best in 2010! Through our ups and downs, may we never lose our sense of silly.
And humour me here - I can’t be the only one who recalls stashing canned food and installing Y2K debuggers on my giant computer at the turn of the century, just one short decade ago…
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