Whee! Home eating chicken soup and listening to good music with my mom! If this doesn’t make me feel better i can’t imagine what would work. And her computer is even performing competently! It’s even managed to load SurvivorBlog2, where i posted a ton this morning. Did you know i have the longest average post length by nearly 10 words per post? Yep… i antagonize them with my neverending stream of consciousness too, it’s not just you who has to sit through it. :p
Archives for January 2001
Life just keeps moving on, whether you’re done with it or not. Sometimes i have days where i just haven’t had enough time to do everything i needed to do. It gets to be ten or eleven at night and i realize that i’ll be up until three or four because there simply aren’t enough hours in the day. Or, maybe i’m not putting the hours i’ve got to good use. Either way, i could really use an extra few hours…. a 30-hour day would be especially nice. So… i dunno if any of you have a say in that sort of thing [you know, that Earth’s rotation around the sun and upon its own axis thing], but if you can do anything about it i’d really appreciate it. Thanx.
Matt’s amp is buzzing. To get any kind of volume out of it you have to turn up the Gain knob, which distorts the signal a little and leaves you with this constant amplifier hum. It feels expectant, as thought some rock band’s big sound is going to come crashing out of the amp any second in a tidal wash of big guitars and growling bass, but really it’s just me sitting on the floor trying desperately to read sheet music from the Bass Cleff of a Tori Amos book.
The apartment is otherwise empty. I did a lot of wash yesterday, so the bedroom looks somewhat organized. In here is another story … everything scattered – papers, cds, jackets, shoes. It’s really the fault of this weekend; i didn’t spend much quality time with the apartment this weekend. Saturday night Drexel had their homecoming dance and i have this single glowing picture of me with a tie tied around my head as though i was some kind of savage, sweating like a horse and smiling madly. I love to dance, that’s all there is to it.
It took me fifteen years to learn how to do the mashed potato correctly. I’m not sure that the learning curve is so steep … i think instead i had to spend time learning all sorts of other little rhythmic pieces of the puzzle before i could put it all together. A decade and a half is a long time to have spent doing anything. I’ve been in school for fifteen years now… i’ve been out of my first house for fifteen years… i’ve had my Thundercats for fifteen years. it’s funny, i only have a decade on my closest cousin and he won’t ever know the same things i knew as a child. Thundercats, GI Joes, Madonna, George Michael, Casey Kasem’s countdown, Johnny Carson, Ronald Regan, the Gulf War … all of those things are vivid emotional and psychological building blocks of my life.
I’m the only one of my cousins that will remember my Grandmother. My nine-year-old cousin Dale wouldn’t have any memories of her active and laughing since he was five or younger, and all of my other cousins are only four. I’m the youngest person in the family to know her; we spent hours sitting at her kitchen table playing solitaire, lying on her living room floor watching Golden Girls every week, eating Golden Grahams before i got picked up by my carpool on the way to middle school. Last night i was on the phone to my mother and she reminded me how long my father’s mother had been in a managed care facility … time had shrunk it down to only a year, but she was out of her own home months before we left my home of sixteen years in SouthWest Philly (which she owned).
That was almost three years ago. It’s been a long time since i’ve sat and played solitaire with her, but to me it doesn’t really seem so expansive. She’d always get up and dance when she won… singing “Let the Good Times Roll” and dancing around the kitchen. I eventually learned to jitterbug so i could join her, but by then it was too late.
You never know how your first fight will end. You could be in the most idealic relationship ever, perfect and smiling and doting and happy, and a single fight could tear it all down. Maybe she cries too much or isn’t rational, or maybe you speak without thinking or are cold-hearted. I can’t imagine how you could predict that sort of thing; what the fight would be about, why, how it would end. Sure, you could be optimistic and just hope it’s trivial and that it leads to make-up sex, but how realistic is that, really?
So, maybe i picked a fight on Sunday. I think maybe we both did. The problem seems to be that we have nearly the exact same ambition, except i am all optimism with my assuming it’ll be alright, and she’s all pessimism and striving to make her goals come to her. Of course, pitting an optimist and a pessimist who both want to write for a living, act for fun, and be rock stars against each other is never too beautiful. Everything wound up fine, though, which was good, because after crying on the floor for an hour tonight i needed someone to talk to.
Got up. Went to class. Went to work. Got home. Listened to my messages. Laid in the middle of the floor and cried. Skinned my knuckle punching the wall. Cried. Put “1,000 Oceans” on infinite repeat. Clung to the stereo and sobbed like a child. Went to rehearsal. Love y’all, really i do.
A song about love, in 3/4. One strum per beat, one chord per measure, four measures per line. Dm, then C, then Dm again, and so on. It needs something more, though…
love finds a way and it winds its way into your heart that's where it starts burrows in to you funny how it chooses don't know how you fell in there's so many losers first sight that you got hit you like a shot there's simplicity in her beauty you try to hide it but we all know it's there don't disguise it lay your heart out bare
I had to sing in rehearsal today, without my guitar. Scary stuff. Another tuner popped off of it a few days ago in the middle of trying to record a Trio, so i finally gave in and sent the poor thing to the shop for a bit of maintenance. Afterwords, Gina and I went on a mad guitar shopping spree where nothing was actually bought but lots of things were touched and ‘ooohed’ at. But, i might not spend money on a new guitar, because i want to go here.
For those not in the know, the South by Southwest Conference is sortof a point of convergence for all sorts of hip folks in the realms of internet and music, and, as it turns out, ten or more SurvivorBloggers of past and present are planning on attending and throwing some wicked hotel parties. Yeah. So, aside from the fact that i’m gonna get hit on more than a 5-year old boy at a MAMBA convention, it seems like it’d be a nice break before finals. Of course… to go to the music & internet portions of the festival i’d have to stay straight through my finals week, which would be a little iffy to plan now seeing as i don’t know when my finals will be. But, either way, i might be going to Texas! Yee-haw!
So, yeah, theatre. First i bitched about it, and then i got sucked into it, and here i am bitching about it again. I don’t like to act. Maybe i’m good at it, and maybe i’m not, but i only really like the attention i get and being able to stand on a stage above everyone else. That’s it, though. And, yet, somehow i’ve managed to have rehearsal every night and a song i have to arrange and sing and now i’ve got to learn how to method-act my hand being crippled for half of the show. And i have to learn how to scream.
I’m thinking that last bit won’t be to hard. In the show i get struck hard with a hot curling iron, and it both breaks the bones in my hand and burns me badly. My director keeps trying to give me suggestions on how i could perfect this prolonged scream of anguish and despair, some of which were: “Haven’t you ever put your hand into a fire before?” “Go home and try pouring hot wax on yourself. I can give you some pointers on sensitive spots to try.” “Stick your head into an oven later! And make sure to vocalize through the pain.”
Good direction, isn’t it. It’s like in high school … i had to play these two brief minutes of being drunk, and i just didn’t know how to do it. I was straightedge, i was innocent, and i had no idea what alchohol did to human body. My director coaxed and fixed and pointed and when it came time for performance i still looked like some foolish kid who was a little bit dizzy. In retrospect, he should’ve just bought me a bottle of vodka and let me learn the easy way. So, i’m off to find some hot wax… yum.