The Good ( Read more... )

Yes, invariably limp.

Sylvia Plath (in The Bell Jar) upon witnessing childbirth ( Read more... )

Today was intended to reduce me to a puddle of so much shit. Just because I play the fucking viola doesn't mean I don't have feelings. "You can't have your music in alto clef, you must transpose from treble clef in 12.2 seconds and sound wonderful. And don't expect me to give you the music before the rehearsal so that you have played through it ( Read more... )

Sunday afternoon. Spartanburg is a ghost town. I walk the streets enjoying the heat, admiring Flagstar Plaza, wearing my "think" face, looking like the vigilante bitch of the world. A smaller, long-haired and limping Clint Eastwood. Limping due to an unfortunate walking accident I had coming home last night. Ah, to be a totally uncoordinated ( Read more... )

There's been a sudden awakening in the Dorman Quintet. We have 5 tasks lined up for next fricking week out of fucking no where when we haven't played together since December. Saturday is Solo and Ensemble Festival, in which we will play one of our classics that we don't have to work on anyway. Next on Tuesday, we are getting fieldtripped from ( Read more... )

Things are not always as they appear. A wise (though hackneyed and uninspired) maxim, after all. Proven to me innumerable times over the course of . . . I don't know, forever. Especially lately. What a game it is to maintain appearances, to pretend to like people, to pretend you know what you're talking about. I don't suppose I really pretend ( Read more... )

It's fun to write "poetry." Poetry however is positively horrid to read. Especially that poem "To Autumn" by Keats (sorry vinny) Quite vomitous. He uses all of my least favorite words in the English language in the first few lines. I wrote a paragraph and called it a poem and turned it in to Mr. Smith for extra credit. Perhaps it is not P.C. ( ( Read more... )

I dreamed I could fly in a world of corpses. The dismal greys and blacks of the rooftops and allyways. Jaundiced yellow and green flesh of the decaying dead. Light shining through the purple clouds of an ominously descending sky, adopting the tint, bathing the industrial desolation in an eerily purple glow reminiscent of a Tim Burton production ( Read more... )

She had the desire to lyrically spew thoughts of beautifully unparalleled profundity, yet, floundering in the depths of her insecurity, found herself content to gasp out anything, anything at all greater than her infantile stuttering. Paralysis ( Read more... )

Sick, sick, sick. In more ways than one. Visions of lurid reds and pinks pervade my mind and further sicken my thought. Red and pink heart-shaped balloons. My heart isn't red or pink. Fake. Give me a balloon burnt black around the edges. Better yet, give me nothing at all. Let the couples celebrate. I enjoy this day regardless. Perhaps ( Read more... )