I adopted the moniker of Merryjest in 2000, and it has been my primary online moniker for over twenty-five years at this point. The name came to me as I was reading through T. S. Eliott's Old Possum's Book Of Practical Cats. As I had an affinity for cats, I decided that I should have a 'name that's particular', and it came to me in a flash.  I didn't question it, I simply knew that had to be the name.

Years later, I came across Sir Thomas More's humorous poem "A Merry Jest: How A Sergeant Would Learn To Play The Friar," which is a cautionary tale against trying to exercise a profession outside of one's own area of expertise.  While I take delight in the poem, it had no bearing nor influence in the creation of my name! There is also, of course, a far older poem called A Merrie Ieste Of A Shrewede And Curst Wyfe from the late 1500s, which some scholars argue was the source inspiration for Shakespeare's The Taming of The Shrew, as the ballad became so popular it was circulated as an elaborate folktale after its publication. It, also, was not an influence. 

Artistically, I guess you could say that the name encapsulates my outlook on many things— there is a subtle difference between making merry and making light,  the latter being dismissive while the former is an attitude and an outlook. As I explain my about page, there is a playful and ridiculous element to all artistic endeavor. No matter how serious the subject, it still takes place within an artificial frame that necessitates a level of suspension of disbelief from the audience. Being aware of this frame as a creator is the key to not becoming enmeshed in myths of one's own grandiosity. The beautiful and the ridiculous can co-exist, and often in the same subject or individual.

Being merry also does not mean existing in a perpetually agreeable pusillanimity, however— the capacity for mirth comes from the ability to care about something and regard it as important (hence why being merry is different from making lightof things), and that entails also the capacity for anger and to defend such things. One would be well-served to remember that a grinning cat is still showing you its teeth. 

For me, most pieces begin with a vague mental sketch or idea. There is almost always some form of dramatic atmosphere or feeling that I want to capture— such as cool melancholy in The Rusalka, or subtle mystery and wonder in The Dreamcaster's Cauldron, or playful mockery in And The Cheshire Grinned. That alone goes a long way towards deciding style and language. I am pretty comfortable with functional harmony, but I also enjoy experimenting a great deal with non-functional harmony, ambiguous tonality and modes, but it all must feel coherent to the piece I am writing.  

Jabberwocky's harmonic ambiguity in several of its sections exists precisely to evoke that feeling of an epic that hangs suspended outside of time, whereas the Baroque framework of And The Cheshire Grinned exists so that the Cheshire cat's violin solo can wiggle in and out gracefully outside of the bounds of that setting before darting right back in— he doesn't upset the entire framework, rather he dips his toes outside of the line here and there to destabilize the Queen's carefully-organized control. Sometimes the cat turns a phrase that's very Baroque, but in others it sounds like he is teasing a peek at Ralph Vaughan Williams, or a hoedown fiddle, before letting out a 'meow' here and there and scratching out the ritornello theme in mocking compliance. The whole thing needed to be on the subtler and elegant side instead of broad parody, as the Cheshire cat never bats his paw at the Queen. All he does is grin at her to make her control slip. He is a restrained agent of chaos, but his restraint doesn't come from a place of deference for the Queen but for his own feline pride. He is definitely capable of a lot more upheaval, but what would be the point if others can do it to themselves with only a little nudge from him?  

I hope that provides you some insight behind my process!

That's because I am more than just a singer.  

From the Taoist perspective, you could say that I am neither one thing or another, but rather that I do things. If I am bound by a rigidity of interests, then it means I've placed artificial boundaries on the things I could or could not do. If you've read my 'About' page, you know now that I've never really played into that.

 Nicole Cabell and I once talked —after a masterclass where I had the pleasure of singing for her (she is a delightful and incredibly insightful artist)— about how important it was for opera singers to see themselves as more than simply that particular wrapper, that they should cultivate a wide variety of interests and disciplines. The voice, after all, only lasts so long and, despite even the most steel-set of techniques and regimens, most of us are not blessed to share the perpetual vocal youth of the likes of Alfredo Kraus. What does a singer do, then, when their instrument starts failing due to the simple act of biological wear and tear, however careful they may be?

Well, the answer is simple: If you've wrapped your entire identity into being nothing but a singer,  you'll likely go stark-raving mad with anxiety and terror. The annals of opera are chock-full of examples of singers who, on the verge of a mounting vocal crisis, became emotionally erratic and, at times, even abusive towards fellow cast members and anyone within earshot.

Nicole's sentiment is one that I have shared almost from the beginning. I've never been just a singer, and with that perspective I've come to know works outside of the operatic and vocal canon quite well. It is astonishing how very few opera singers dedicate any amount of time to listening to non-vocal works in the classical repertoire. The younger generation of singers is, fortunately, breaking out of a lot of those restrictive patterns, and it's a good thing— because being a well-rounded person will always serve you well. 

So the answer is quite simple: there are so many orchestral pieces because I made them. And when there is need to write more vocal pieces, then they shall be written. Fret not, though— my next two albums after Small Wonders and Secret Sorrows contain a 45-minute mini-musical, and a collection of songs.

Eventually, yes.  Some of my manuscripts need a little engraving clean-up before they are ready for publication. Both in my visual art and my composition, I am a hopelessly messy artist in my process. Wonders, my Wonderland-themed musical will definitely be open for licensing and performance, and I plan to publish collections after all the album releases. Stay tuned!

No, it isn't sexual for me— but everything is sexual for someone, at some point. I know it's definitely sexual for some people, just like I know there's a considerable sexual component in, say, Star Trek fandom circles (which originated the concept of 'slash fiction' after all.) There are people who gets their jollies off on pumping pedals— as Bea Arthur came to find out. 

For me, the anthropomorphic persona is an object of self-expression, a distillation of qualities and aesthetics that tie directly to my personality. 

I do not think I am really a cat. I do not have the irrepressible urge to bat glasses off the table. Likewise, I also do not have an irrational terror of vacuum cleaners. And unlike cats, I don't go out and make loud, high-pitched noises at rand-

Ok. You got me there. 

Yes! I still perform in the real world, and I also have regular online engagements in Second Life, where I aim to bring knowledge of opera and classical music to new audiences! If you feel like dipping your toes in the fascinating online world that is Second Life, you can check my performer calendar on my Second Life performer websiteand see when the next show rolls around!

Can you think of anything more appropriate for a Cheshire cat?