0000: Work. Work. Band. Work. Band. Band. Band. Eat. Sleep. Work. Band. Work.
SEVENTEEN--
1239: Yesterday was a beautiful day and it ran smoothly and the
weather was wonderful and lots of people came to party with us the whole
day and into the night. But what is left?
EIGHTEEN--
0159: I once had this English teacher that I really adored, but the
guy must have thought I hated him because I was so harshly critical of him
at times. But I think he eventually discovered that it was precisely
because I thought he was so awesome that I became so incensed when he made
poor teaching decisions or acted like an asshole or whatever. It was this
sort of conflicting message he noted when he commented on my propensity
for sarcasm and irony; he told me that he never knew how I really felt
about anything because I was always saying two things, and to effectively
communicate, I was going to have to be more straightforward. But I find
that to this day I cannot resolve that conflict in message, for my
conflict in feeling remains strong. When the people I respect act like
assholes, even if that behavior is in no way directed towards me, it's
like a shot to my stomach. I can't even watch. I feel it like a personal
shame, when a good friend disgusts me and I want to wash myself of our
association. It hurts me. When I can't defend and honor a friend, that
is a very hollow and distanced feeling indeed. But how do I resolve my
dismay with the respect and adoration that propogates out of the person's
admirable behavior? I'm hurt all the more with the indignity of not being
able to hate or dismiss outright, of feeling tied by loyalty and love. So
grows my sarcasm, my bite, my edge-- a defense, a wall, a warning. My
words will say, you have done wrong, and I'm putting a space between your
wrongness and myself, to ease my pain.
2123: I'm procrastinating packing by working. Working isn't so bad
in a week when it's less busy. Maybe packing will reach that stage of
okayness too.
2250: Are some people trying to make amends?
NINETEEN--
2212: I resent a good woman who wastes her time on a bad man.
TWENTY--
1952: Sometime the ol' Pro asks the questions we all need to
consider.
TWENTY-ONE--
2243: When did everyone decide to try and get along? Maybe I'm a
cynic, but I smell apocalypse in the air. Big fuckin' smelly apolcalyspe
end-of-the-world destruction. Nothing comes from people pushing aside
dislike and bitterness. IT'S ALL ABOUT HOLDING ON TO YOUR BITTERNESS,
PEOPLE! Otherwise you start to like everything and everyone and nothing
and no one has true value anymore. It's the death of us all, I tell
you.
TWENTY-SIX--
1550: I have a cold and it's dreary outside, but I came to the
surprising thought this afternoon that I'm quite content at the moment.
Work finally stopped being such a bitch (despite the fun of the network
catastrophe yesterday), classes are pretty decent, and we have the week
off from band. But there's something more fundamental, perhaps. There
are elements in my life that deeply satisfy me, despite their distance
from my ideal state.
TWENTY-SEVEN--
1957: I will dwell the late night, drinking clouds from the stars
so they can shine and rest just before dawn. Darkness frightens, its
clarity chilling, but the clouds block clarity and light, restful night
and warming day. The dawn will warm you when it comes; the clouds and
then the darkness cannot be forever.
2251: You sit there, but nothing comes. Your fingers are
paralyzed. Your mind is numb with change. With potential good. With
probable bad or not good enough. You mumble about these things, but can't
say what you mean. You want to hear more, but the cars passing on the
street speak nothing, don't tell you a damn thing about what has
transpired. And maybe it's none of your business. You have to live with
what you know about yourself, and what you can guess about everything else
is all the rest that you have.
TWENTY-EIGHT--
0001: Say goodbye to the summer. Fare thee well, my friend.
2043: I slept most of today, which wasn't much god for
productivity, but maybe I'll finally battle off this cold. Damn band
germs... why do we all have to share the same illnesses all the time?
But she is sad. I wish I
had magic to wash that all away.
One. Little secret, and I
see some of you wonder.
During the rains
Tuesday, I noticed in two separate places fiery red leaves on the ground.
The rain makes everything grey, even the brick and grass. These leaves,
however, refused to be grey. One said, Look, I'm dying, but I won't go on
without a last showing, without a last fuck you to the cold and crippling
wetness. That little leaf fired up against the storm was enough for me
that day.
I feel this urgency to be
watchful. It's silly because watching doesn't mean I can *do* anything at
any given point, which drives me nuts, but I must be watchful nonetheless.
Maybe because I know nobody else will be sufficiently attentive.