This post is a personal entry—more like a journal entry than a blogging. I don’t have a personal journal, but I keep backups of this blog so I figure it would be a good place to put it. Of course anyone is welcome to read it, but my regular readers (it seems I do have a few, which pleases me) might not find it that interesting or relevant.
I am lying in bed as I’m writing this. As I was lying here a few minutes ago, I noticed that I was frowning.
Thanksgiving break is coming to a close, and I start school again on Monday. I have to write a stupid “concert report” for my voice class, write a rough draft of my physics education project, and do a project for my applied math class with a team that I am having trouble contacting. All of this has to be done within the next few days. I am not excited in the least about any of it. The only thing I enjoy about school nowadays is my model theory class, because it is generally spooky and exciting, and because it is helping me get closer to two of my three mathematical goals (understand Gödel’s incompleteness theorem, understand the independence of CH from ZFC; the one that it is not getting my closer to is to understand the Riemann hypothesis (or rather, what it has to do with anything)).
Every time I think about my classes I get a little contraction of my stomach muscles and a little pain in my solar plexus, like one beat of crying. It is not because I am not enjoying them, it is because I know I am not doing very well. I respect all my professors (except my voice class professor), and letting them down makes me feel bad about myself. I used to spend hours per week on mathworld and the math forum (home of “dr. math”) reading and learning whatever I found interesting. I still do that, mostly on Wikipedia nowadays, but now I feel bad about it because I know this is time that I “should” be spending on my fucking concert report. What the fuck? Going to school as a mathematics major is teaching me to feel bad about learning mathematics.
I am looking forward to next semester. I am taking 0 hours. Yes, it does mean that I have to work, but my living expenses are low enough that even 10 hours a week should suffice. I plan to focus intensely on music for that time period. I plan to become a well-known musician in Boulder, and I plan to improve at greater rates than ever before. I plan to be guilt-free about learning.
My mom’s friend Eric’s son Ryan (parse that, biatch) is a jazz keyboardist from Durango. He came back to Boulder for thanksgiving, and contacted me to see if we should jam together. He came down to one of The Moment’s jams with Nolan, Josh, Willow, Leor, and me. As we played that night, a few spaces arose where it would be prudent for me to solo. So I put on my wurly with distortion and a B3 and started in. It was some of the most awkward lead I have heard. My rhythm is not very good, and I can only hit single notes (or octaves) on the one beats with my left hand while my right hand is moving, and forget about soloing with my left hand! I can’t do solos which are straight runs, they all sound the same: hold a note, do some fancy stuff in between, hold another note. I just feel bad about my keyboard ability because, for a pianist of 11 years, I can barely coordinate my two hands. I know I’m pretty good, but I am just not satisfied with what I am capable of right now. The worst part is that I don’t want to practice piano or voice, because I know I “should” be writing a concert report. What the fuck? Taking a music class is teaching me to feel bad about practicing music in lieu of writing some bullshit about a concert I didn’t enjoy.
I am looking forward to next semester, when I am practicing for hours a day and jamming as often as possible. I am happy that I’m okay with failure; it gives me the opportunity to grow. I plan to be able to pull out a great line and comp it with funky syncopation.
My dad’s dog Taz is staying with us this week. I find myself constantly lying down next to him and cuddling him. I feel generally empty and devoid of affection. I am lonely. I feel it most just before I go to sleep; I don’t think I have recently felt content or satisfied when I am about to sleep. I want someone to cuddle as I sleep, or as I watch a movie. There is exactly one such person who I want, in fact. And this may be the root of my unhappiness (I’m guessing so, because as I wrote that sentence tears formed in my eyes). I love her, and I know that she loves me. Karlin and I are closer friends than anyone could hope for; it’s a wonderful relationship. While she is referring to enjoying “casual sex” with me and talking about the disparity between the boys who like her and the boys she likes, I am thinking about spending the rest of my life with her. I am completely in love with her, and she hardly feels the same way. This realization came to me about a month ago, and perhaps it has taken that long to conciously sink in. I don’t fear that we will drift apart; that will never happen. But I do fear what will happen when the aforementioned disparity lessens and she does find somebody for a serious relationship. She is not the kind of person who will suddenly stop talking to me, but I am the kind of person who might suddenly stop talking to anyone.
I am looking forward to Christmas, when she comes back from Washington and I get to see her. I always look forward to that. Whenever I have pain, whether or not she is involved, being with her makes it all go away. I have been upset with her only once, and that lasted only from the night I recieved the email that upset me to the next time I saw her. I plan not to feel lonely for those three weeks.
There will be changes in the coming months. That’s really all I know about them.