written monday night
I recently sat in biology class and a song drifted into my head. I knew it was River by Joni Mitchell but I pretended it was something of my own, and I started writing down lyrics. Instead of “I wish I had a river/ I could skate away on,” I wrote, “Everything I once loved/ You made me hate it.” This, of course, refers to someone very specific who is doing his best to inflame me with passion for his discipline but I won’t have anything of it; though I try, oh, I try. He sat me down and suddenly made some great discovery, got all excited, and told me it was off indefinitely. But he gave me some loose guidelines with which I could live while he waited to speak with the higher ups, and here I am having no idea what the fuck I’m doing, but listening to some good music, and effectively ignoring that huge paper I have to write for Castles.
Did you know that Ben Folds came out with a new album? Like, yesterday? I’m gonna go download the rest of his discography that I don’t have. I’ve been listening to a lot of him lately, specifically Whatever and Ever Amen; seem to connecting with the first semester of my freshman year (of high school, damnit, it’s been how many years?) And it’s only in that one way, but it’s a powerful one. Know that it’s only because of a little stumble that I am writing this at all. This fucktarded Fall Break just fucked up my routine and now I’m all downtrodden and gloomy, trying to cheer up, heading to B&N this evening after a good fish dinner. I should mention, and this is very important, that the last few times I listened to Brick, I felt images from third grade. And by images I mean wild flashbacks that stopped my heart, they were so strong. Such is the power of song. Next year one of the seminars is Psychology of Music; Dr. Strauman’s co-teaching it and if I don’t get in, I am going to die.
Well let me say. I was doing well, and hopefully this is no end to it, in fact, I am feeling quite great to be writing a livejournal entry after like, 2 months. Grounds me a bit, but not getting me too caught up, I’m rambling, aren’t I? Forget how to write, happens even though I wrote a nifty 500 word emo story for the litmag, hopefully it gets in, but I won’t be surprised if it doesn’t. That’s ok; by every other standard, compared to last year, I am not failing. I just wish we had a lounge like we did in Fournier, some place for me to write unfettered; but no matter, I don’t have time to write. I have Bioinformatics.
It’s a hot field, apparently. So says Lisa, bless her poor heart in a week, but maybe my “thinking of you” card will help. I guess it’s for scientists who epic-fail at lab but still want to work in science, and it helps to be good at math and computers. I guess Dr. K think I am good at math and computers. Because he really wants me to do this, even signed the last email “sincerely,” which is what I do, sometimes. Or maybe he just thinks I really want to do this, and is genuinely being nice. And I really do want to do it, I just doubt myself as much as one below average intelligence being can doubt herself, and it makes me turn away. At the same time, I am wicked curious, and I want to figure this all out, that’s what I tell him, I don’t tell him that I am crumbling on the inside because I feel so incompetent.
Well, I feel like I am going back tonight, and again for the first time in weeks I am caught up in that vicious limbo between desiring to return and clinging to staying home. Soon I am never wanting to return and around the same time as last I will be here for a week while I have to be caring for Lisa, GODDAMNIT!!! I can’t let this mess me up. I’ll be honest with my Castles profs, I’ll be ok in everything else, I hope, and maybe this paper will get written well and on time. Soon as I finish Cliges I will feel more confident in that. Fuck, why am I complaining, Sara has to read 200 pages of Greek history and I have to read 83 of French literature about Greeks. Well, I, also viciously, don’t want to be here for another day. And equally want to stay here and die here. wHy ThE fUcK aM i TaLkInG aBoUt DyInG when Raymond died a year ago next Thursday? Maybe there’s a rough road ahead for all of us, meaning me and Lisa. But maybe just this one instance of writing will strengthen me to help her and myself. But nothing seems so simple now. I hate Chretien de Troyes’ writing because everything is so beautiful and works out exquisitely, as if real life really worked that way. Some critic said that regarding romances, nothing has changes between Chretien and today. And maybe the themes are exactly the same, but at least modern literature tries to breathe a little life into the characters and plot. That’s wrong. Does not Soredamors feel the tension when he Queen reveals to Alexander from whence came the golden thread in his shirt? Why am I attacking 800 year old literature. Beyond me.
I hate feeling things strongly. That’s the exact opposite of what I said last year. But I am listening to Evaporated, and feeling very uncomfortable in my chest. Funny, I just realized this: I’d been avoiding listening to music for the past few weeks. On long car trips, when I usually do my listening, I’d just talk. It bothered me at a point, so I set the player one night when I was studying. In a minute it was silent. I’d been paying a little more attention to the world around me, not lost in the past or some otherworld. And I’d stabilized. Flat as a board of plywood. (But I don’t mind.) And then, when I started to write, by habit I put the music on. First River, then a deluge of Ben Folds. And it has me stirred. And breaking me. It feels terrible. But it feels good, in a way. Maybe only in its familiarity. Back to many times. I realized I am writing kind of stream of conscious-wise. I am aware of my bad grammar. I think I have something to do. I think it is dinner. Maybe I should stop this and go eat. This music is painful. I need to stop I need to