Wednesday

I slept and meditated 'til noon, washed les cheveux and so on. My damned flute lesson was cancelled because Ms. B somehow got stuck in New York. I don't know what in God's name I 'm gonna due about the concerto audition. Hell, i'll just have to talk to the lady Mrs. A, again. This kind of thing would happen to me.

I've been toying with the idea of buying a box of those butter cookies, y'know the imported kind, and putting them on Mr. K's doorstep, ringing the doorbell and running and hiding. I'd leave a note saying something to the effect of:

To: The child-guised trick-or-treater, candy wife, and hollow-cheeked son
GREETINGS AND SALUTATIONS

May you have a joyfull noël and a felicitous new year!!

Munch in peace.

From: Troubled Spirit of '76 on the Rise

By God I had so much fun dreaming up the note I'm just going to have to do it. One major stumbling block... that being that I don't know where they live. But I betcha I find it.

SU cooked dinner. I gorged myself. Alas learning moderation is not by a long shot the easiest chore.

I walked dow to St. Mary's for the air and exercise. I loved the cold. My numb face felt like a mask behind which I could hide and play. Well sort of. Only five trolleys overtook me. Pretty amazing , huh? It's funny, when I know its ended I'm still drawn to the old haunts. Remember with M-? Another ridiculousness.

For some really insane reason I feel buoyant, or very nearly. Perhaps it's because I've been in the dregs the rest of the day. Mostly, since my lesson was cancelled, wondering about whether or not I should go back to AH. It has become extremely important to me whether or not J2 goes back too. I feel almost as if I we're fighting the same fight. I hope she hasn't lied to me. Because that would really screw me up.

Somehow I've got to erase that letter's effect. If there was any (adverse or otherwise). Very strange. I'll also have more of an excuse to approach A-. J2 always makes my presence either an annoyance, or a little more acceptable. I heard he made the BSO thing. It figures. That kid is a really good violinist.

I have been sounding so awful this week I can't stand it. Thin and weak and unfocused. Like all the results I'd won just slipped away between my fingers. Why? What's wrong with me. Huh. Maybe it's irregular meditation. Speaking of which I'd better do that now and kill the lights, it's getting late.

I hope my writing callous doesn't disappear over vacation. My ears hear things in the air that aren't there, in silence. It's a weird feeling, like air and high frequencies pushing against my ears. The popping and crackling sounds when i swallow don't make me any less nervous either. Oh hell what am I going to do about the GYBSO thing?

It's problems like that which make me lose sleep nights.

The Unpleasantness at the Belona Club is a gas.

I can also hear my blood pounding in my ears from time to time. It surges louder sometimes for no particular reason at all.

I really do sound melodramatic, don't I? Some write a soap opera, for God's sake, quick!

Thursday

Again, I didn't do much, but that's the glory of it all. I made Judy a pair of earrings to go with the bracelet and packed them in the tin can. Sleeper. They seemed to have enjoyed it. Tomorrow I am going to earn some money and bake some cookies for the Ks.

I practiced and I didn't sound too awful. Dad took in the concerto audition form for me. I'm going to play the Air a l'italien from the Suite in A Minor (Telemann). Ms. B gave me permission to forge her signature. It was probably all in vain, but inside there is of course a wedge of hope. Gotta run use WaterPik, be back shortly ~

Well, here I am again (thrills, eh?). Yes indeedy folks, it's been a long haul but I'm on the upswing now, i seen that light at the end of the long road. And mark my words fellow citizens, you and I together can travel that road, burdened with troubles though we be...

Sounds pretty raunchy, doesn't it. Pure Grade A bilge. I bet I can rattle on in just about anyone's style. Shakespeare, Hemingway, Charlotte Brontë... hell, you name it, I'll try it. Four score and... Well, you get the idea.

I wonder what it really takes to get a musical career off the ground. Look at A-, with the BSO thing. That kind of thing can be very helpful. Or you can be well known when you're young and then fade into obscurity in later years. Then there are those you don't hear about until they get a prominent seat, when they're middle-aged. Doriot Anthony Dwyre, for example. (At least I don't know anything of her before she came to the BSO.)

I've really be squirming about whether or not I want to go back to AH. The deadline descends. The big question of course is, people aside, Is there anywhere else I could go and get the right kind of music over the summer? I wonder if there are any really good foreign summer conservatories. They're probably really awful institutionalized places. All in all, you see, you really can't win.

I let that phrase drop when Mom was nearby and instantly she wanted to know what has been going wrong. (Actually I think what I said was "Nothing's gone right lately" or something to that effect.) It's touching how much they want to help. And sad that I can't let them, if I even thought they could. I wonder exactly how much of me is messed up. What would a psychiatrist say? In a way I envy K having someone to talk to, completely objective from her life circle. She surely must get something of value from it.

But I don't like pat explanations of things. Like "Hormones" for an unexplainable mood change. Occam's Razor is sometimes pretty dull. Interpersonal relationships. That's very corny, but now that I think of it, that's what living means, dealing with other people, coping, surviving and helping. The problem is, how often do I live up to my own definitions? And how well would it work out if I did?

I have a funny feeling that maybe I ask too many questions. All it seems to do is create problems. But it's a bore if I don't. And something inside is always protesting or questioning anyway, sometimes it calms it down to give it a voice.

I love the ink smudges and the dents and bumps I get on my hand when I write with this pen. They show I've been working or thinking or doodling or whatever, but at least trying. I'm doing OK now, not too high not too low. Mediocre but bearable.

Read in an old New York Times Mag yesterday about depression. Rather interesting. Now I know about manic-depressives. I didn't know what they were before. Depression sure is strange. It's not the same each time, not like and old friend of Despair you can slip back and hide in. It pokes and jars you sometimes like a porcupine, or a sea urchin, or a cactus. And when you escape the release is likely to send you like champagne, effervescing in the other direction to an ecstatic extreme at the other end. Or you stop halfway to relax in at least calm mediocrity.

Hearing from others it seems that people often have a spell of euphoria before they commit suicide. It's a warning sign. I think I'll remember that. I really don't think I'll commit suicide. I'll probably always live on with hope. In a way that's sad, no knowing when to give up. It's almost an animal trait, the blind struggle to survive, although you can train annimals to be apathetic and depressed. (I got that from the NY Times too.) A veritable mine of information. I really should go to bed. It's late. And I have things I have to do tomorrow. N'est-ce pas?

[ commentary | previous entry | next entry ]

© Copyright 2002 Pascale Soleil.
Last updated: 11/10/02; 2:26:08 PM.
Comments by: YACCS