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Thursday, January 30, 2003 ::5:59am:: I woke up around 3:30 this morning. I lay on my bed wondering why I didn't feel tired anymore after only three hours of sleep. My room was warm and I felt the dampness of gathered perspiration on my collar. I stopped wondering why I was awake and started trying to fall back asleep--pulling off my sweatshirt, trying to rid my seemingly untroubled mind of the eerily anxious, constantly worried feeling of a troubled one. It didn't work. I turned on the TV; my finger automatically pressed the channel-up button en route to Channel 33, Food Network. It took a pitstop at Ch.11, PBS. JUILLIARD was being spelled out on a black screen, each letter in a different color. I used to want to go to Juilliard. I played the flute from fourth grade until the end of high school. Making music was the only thing I've ever felt passionate about, even more passionate than when I thought I might be in love. I don't know why I stopped. I don't know why, after leaving high school, I picked chemical engineering over music. Maybe I stopped because I knew I wasn't good enough. I played well, but I was no virtuoso. I lost my spirit, the only thing at which I remotely excelled, the only thing that belonged to me. The show documented some of the famous instructors that had taught at Juilliard, some of the students who went there and found success in their field later in life, and some of the students who were enrolled at the time of filming. They were dancers, actors, singers, musicians. They were all passionate. I felt something akin to to the feeling I always had while watching the Boston Pops Orchestra perform on PBS--that tearful, joyful feeling that makes your heart skip a beat or two. And now I'm suddenly conscious of why I've had that cloud of anxiousness and worry cast over me. So many doors have been shut behind me. I feel old, as if I've waited too long to become seriously good at anything. The best musicians, the best writers, the best anythings seem to always have begun their careers before they were old enough to babysit. I imagine that this is a natural fear to have before graduating from college, but it's shaken me. I don't how to get out of it, how to convince myself that I won't amount to nothing, that I won't be stuck in the dead-end jobs for which I've sent my resume. Monday, January 27, 2003 ::6:07am:: Man it's early.. or late, I guess. I have two tests later today, and I've elected to forego sleep in favor of study. My stomach is feeling chowderish--three cups of cream-and-honey hot tea, pecan caramel silk pie, and (just now) a billion banana chips. I love banana chips. *** Super Bowl = Penis Party? An old friend of mine invited me to a Super Bowl party at his apartment. I didn't go, because I knew I'd feel awkward in a room full of friends that were not my own. Instead, I watched the game with a friend who lacked both interest in the outcome and the company of any fellow males. He asked if I didn't go to the party because of the abundance of penises. I laughed. Sunday, January 26, 2003 ::3:58am:: Comfort lies in certainty, but the land of dreams belongs to those who don't know what the future holds. People speak of a perfect society as if it something so distant and untangible. We get caught up in the ugliness of the world, forsaking all of the beauty, all of the progress, all of the perfection that we are so lucky to be given the chance to witness. But our eyes are shut too tightly to notice. Friday, January 17, 2003 ::4:37am:: Perhaps because I went with a friend to the campus cinema to watch Indochine, a 1992 French flick set in the 30s that depicts the feeling of love and loss so well that it won an Oscar, or maybe because my brother would have been married six days ago if Fate didn't have its way--either way, I'm feeling something close to melancholy. Love is a power stronger than any of us. It toys with human sensitivity; it brings us the greatest joy and hope, pain and despair. But the fact that we frail human beings can experience love--can actually feel love--is the most beautiful blessing we have been afforded. For that, I can be nothing but grateful. Friday, January 10, 2003 ::2:32 am:: Many things have happened, as things do, in the time since I last posted here. I have difficulty talking about a lot of it, though I know it has to be done sometime soon in order to salvage my sanity--maybe even through the avenue of my small Web space. At this moment, however, I seek a different kind of therapy. I need to write. As a self-proclaimed non-reader / -writer, I have felt some secret shame, especially considering the degree I'm pursuing. Sure, I've written and read extensively--but unless you consider weblogs to be some high form of narrative prose, I'm essentially inexperienced (translation: totally ignorant). But I'm trying to change. I started reading. I'm sticking to just the easy stuff right now, because my brain has been fried sunny-side up after recent events. (Funny though... One of the books I read is Stephen King's On Writing -- yes, a book about writing.) I don't know if it's my short attention span, my attention to detail or both , but I've never been able to finish books quickly. I enjoy reading, but most of that enjoyment comes from studying the language rather than the content. Reading is just author assessment, deciding whether to feel hot, cold, or indifferent. But writing is a form of narcissism; it's mind masturbation. And what better way to express self-love than to post to a freaking online journal. It used to be some innocent, virginal thing. I kept a real journal for a year or two and had a notion that it would be dandy to continue it online. I'm bothered now. Online journals perpetuate that angst (translation: bitchyness) that always seems fashionable, no matter how outdated it may be. Grrr. Maybe once you learn to get over yourself, convince yourself to stop yanking it, you can learn to use writing for a higher cause -- to share with others, (or since I'm on a roll with the metaphorical innuendos) to have a mind orgy. I'm not sure how I should begin spreading the love -- essays, poems, short stories, greeting cards, email -- but I'll be sure to let you know. Bring protection. Thursday, January 9, 2003 ::2:09am:: How freaky is Tori Amos' new video?? For the first part of it, her head is just attached to the calf of a leg. That's how freaky. more of what Sarah's saying >> |
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