I think there’s a beautiful story inside of me, waiting to be told. I have the inspiration, but when I start writing, the intensity begins to die down in favor of the technicalities. I wish those wouldn’t get in the way. Like, this guy is this way and does this – oh wait, we gotta set this up, the setting has to be described appropriately, this ain’t some hack work – oh, no, that’s too much description and not enough plot, sentences too short, sentences too long? Proper grammar but how to phrase slang – and what’s more interesting to my audience – but who’s my audience anyway, and what was my idea in the first place, and I’m getting really confused, and…
i kinda lost track of time. It’s been this week, and the feeling just won’t leave. So last Thursday, all was going quite well, besides the fact that I had a BBB exam the next day. So I did study group with Tracy, Rich and Rola, three different people from three different backgrounds who would never in a million years really hang out with each other (I don’t think – but life can prove me wrong) – and this is at the video store, so I conducted “business” while boss shouted at me to do stuff, or you’re wrong, the spinothalamic thigis like this, and poochie would go, wait, let’s clear this up and dopey would go: what? oh, I don’t know this part. All nighter, then study with Tracy at her place at 630 in the AM, when the sun was rising in her beauteous multitudes, the leaves, a wonderful brown turning to auburn, the grass a higher shade of green, the birds and chipmunks and squirrels and rats all rejoicing in the wet dewy morning when the rain has shut itself away for a little while so constancy can reign again… all this, and then study and breakfast (yay for cinnamon rolls) and then exam. Now the main word here was all-nighter, for then… until now, there’s been 3 all nighters (2 pulled for no reason), 3 sleeping-more-than-12-hour stretches and afternoon naps. And I hate afternoon naps. So what went wrong? Or rather, what changed?
Philosophical analysis could say I was lacking motivation for sleep in favor of the continual presence of others (could be, since I spent a lot of time online during those all nighters…but what about the sleeping binges? Unavoidable recovery, the experts would say.); to pack in the maximum into the minimum time. That sounds glorious, but sleep deprivation sucks. And so does oversleep. Way suck.
So my world gets smaller and smaller, for everyone I know knows someone else I know, and the webs get tighter and tighter around me. It’s amazing. Sourabh came home with a story about finally realizing that Sonalie’s piano man and Sourabh’s crazy roommate that happens to also play piano and sleeps all day after huge, um, consumption gatherings, were one and the same person. So – one friend knows another friend knows… there’s a lot more connections, but why state all of them? It’s the obvious, isn’t it.
Flashback to tonight: Finish playing solo; girl has bloody nose, so Brenna tells me to play another piece; why?; I don’t know; piano moved back; oh, bloody nose; ah!; piano moved back; second solo (fumbling for a piece there). And then the intros were funny. Chicago was great, though strangely the audience didn’t get all into it, but In the Mood was a hit. Definitely a good job, but could be tighter for the next couple days.
Reading Forster. Amazing, is he not? Margaret is so aware, yet accepting that she likes her decadence – but she knows that Helena and aunt Juley are spoiled rich craphounds who don’t work for their money and can deign to love, whereas the poor – the other class – must suffer for love or whatever their want. This is such a small slice – I love one side of Helen, who paints pictures for the music, whose streams burble to B-flat and whose andante movements reverberate with the sound of meadows and rustic settings and home, a wild sense of home. But she is blissfully unaware, that such a thing as an umbrella can mean so much in the way of social consciousness to young poetic firebrands stuck in marriages to doxies that they stay with because they can’t afford anyone else. And whose very poeticness in the midst of his situation forces him to bottle it up and release it in ways that can only suggest cheating on his wife – which he is very far from physically. Mentally, yes. And the old abused guy at the train station, who takes Charles’ abuse and still lives in awe of him. It is mentioned in passing, but is such a strikingly sad point, that it takes my full emotional concentration to read through what he has written. First Howards End, then Room with a View, then a Passage to India.
Advice from Lizz: Faulkner is good, just really hard to read. I started reading Sound and the Fury and ten pages through, all I heard was silence. I need to try again.
Life treats me good.