Singing September

I have mentioned before that I enjoy the singing.  Of me.  The singing of me.  I am a fabulous singer.  That's a big fat lie, I am an acceptable singer, better than several but not certainly worse than many.

All this is preamble to talk about a great big concert at which I am singing (in which?) on Sunday, a 9/11 and Hurricane Katrina Memorial.  Me, little Sarah-bean, getting all makey-uppy and standing in the smack-middle front of the stage (gulp) to sing like 20 songs in the company of some other Very Good musicians, and possibly somewhere between 100 and 500 community people hangin', waiting for cake-o'clock.

People will probably cry.

I will probably cry.

I miss what it felt like to not suffer from PTSD in early September.  Maybe this will help me get back to that safe feeling, the one that a hot bubble of panic robs me of each year. 

Alternatively, this might be the worst year of all.

At any rate, I will not have any voice left at the end of the night. 

I've been working hard.

I get to sing Peter Gabriel (I believe I mentioned that before.)

I sound good.

I'm nervous.

WHAT TO WEAR.

I wish you were going to be there.