Music Woes

Mmm mmm mmm Blog. I love me a good organ. I also love me a good keyboard. I'm sad I don't have one, and even if I did I'd have no where to put it. I'm so depressed that I've pretty much lost my ability to play any percussive instrument that resembles a piano. I'm going to be going home in a couple weeks. I have to have to have to find some time to brush up and at least try to plunk out a couple old tunes. I've got a few staples that I memorized back in high school and college that I can still get a strong start on. Whenever I come across a keyboard in a music store, I do my best to remember how it feels to play that one waltz by Beethoven or the pretty part of the Intermezzo by Brahams. But the most depressing part is that I foolishly left a stash of my favorite piano books on top of a bookshelf that is currently in Maple Grove, locked away in a house in which I am no longer welcome. What's worse is that I've burned the bridge I need to cross to get them back. I should really stop reminscing about the days when I actually had musical prowess in these now uncoordinated and stiff fingers of  mine. It just proves to be nothing but a way to make my heart sink.

How's that for depressing, Blog? Don't worry. I'll snap out of this soon.

What little the internet has to offer on my lost waltz.

Back to Blogging

Blog, I feel like I'm brain dead. Maybe I should start reading again. I've been so very bad at it for the past couple years, I just can't get into it. Maybe I should start exercising again; it clears my mind and allows me to think and focus. Maybe I should get into the habit of writing about things other than my love life and the inane feelings that overcome me when boys happen.

Maybe I'll get a cup of tea and take a moment during this slow work day to think about what it is I really want to write about in this, my first post in October.

This tea is not as hot as I'd like it to be. Sigh. No, that is not what I really want to write about.

It's actually been on my mind lately that it's coming up on a year since Ryan broke up with me. I'm pretty much over it outside of the realization I had the other day when I ran into him in the elevator lobby and ended up hiding behind a corner to avoid him. It's not the pain of no longer having him in my life that kept me so childishly behind the corner; that pain is long gone. What drives my avoidance is now the incredible awkwardness that would saturate any sort of interaction between us. I stood there peeking around the edge of the lobby, raking my brain for any sort of casual "how do you do" or "good morning" approach that would be appropriate if we were to end up in an elevator together. Absolutely nothing came to mind. With my cartridge completely depleted of any social ammunition combined with the buzzing feeling that had completely taken over my mind and body, I realized that Ryan is completely out of my life. There is absolutely nothing we have to talk about and there is no interest we have whatsoever in one another.

What difference a year can make. Last October we were still sharing a bed.

And thus Samantha chose to write about her feelings that boys conjure within her regardless of her laments over doing so an overwhelming amount in her blog. Christ I'm annoying.

What I really wanted to say was that I've lately been very aware of my typing habits. I think this is because I'm bored at work today and have become fascinated with watching my fingers hit the keys with the regular motions and strokes that I never think twice about. This is complex shit that's happening literally under my nose day in and day out and I never take note. Every bit of text I create whether it be in you Blog or in an email to a learner or to Kerin or chatting with friends on gmail is created so instantaneously with the the use of 26+ separate and tiny keys. It's really quite the feat when you think about the sounds that we've turned to symbols that we've learned to draw and write that we've translated onto a keyboard that in the end allows us to silently dictate our thoughts through what seems like random punching performed by our fingers. We can have silent conversations lead by our fingers. We can create thoughts and ideas as they form in our minds. It's almost as if you are a window into a piece of my brain, Blog. Lucky you. Keyboards and typing are amazing. That's all I really have to say about it.

Also, what I really wanted to say is that the longest academic paper I've ever written was 10 pages long. It was my senior thesis for my undergrad degree. Yes, I went to a state school. Yes, I feel incredibly inept at writing academic papers. No, I don't discredit my writing abilities due to the two previous facts I have just uncovered about myself. I'm going to be all charter school about it and let my writing style lead me to wherever it may instead of trying to box it up in an MLA format with quotes and commas and paranthetical citations. Gross. There is a time and a place for the, in my opinion "overuse", of punctuation (no punctual pun intended with the massive amount of said punctuation in this sentence, and yes, I'm completely aware it's probably incorrect).

I just re-read this whole thing and hate it. But it will do as far as getting back on track with my blogging goes.

The End of an Era

One post in September Blog. That's what this has come to. Well, I'll make this the second one so that odd and cryptic post from 10 days ago will have a friend for the month.

Speaking of that odd and cryptic post...

Speaking of (or perhaps not speaking of) my most recent trip to Europe...

Speaking of having both a broken heart and giddy smile...

I've come to the conclusion that I must no longer spill my heart out to you Blog. At least my romantic heart. I know this hurts to hear, but for as much relief and joy I get from blogging about my pining and hoping and love, I get just as much pain, remorse, and sadness from blogging about the end of it all.

I guess everything must come to an end sooner or later. What I've learned is that none of us have control over when that end decides to make its appearance.

What I've also learned is that the head and the heart are two different entities that coincide on most occasions, but only when they disagree with one another is it apparent that you really have to leave it to fate to decide your next step. You can't force something to happen that shouldn't be happening. And that Blog, is why after two weeks of witnessing an arguement between my head and my heart, I ended things with the sweet and dear Englishman who has somehow managed to change me from 4,000 miles away. My head wanted to stay, my heart felt otherwise and in the end won the debate.

So not only do I say goodbye to the Englishman. I say goodbye to spilling my romantic thoughts to you Blog. I one day want to make you public again and the only way I can do that is to censor my emotions so I don't end up hurting those whose gaze might fall on your lonely entries. Also, I think it might be time I leave a little bit of myself to the imagination.

Don't be too hurt, Blog. I know you can read my mind for the most part anyway.

This song blog. This song. It is the epitome of what it feels like to be in a new situation that is exciting and wonderful and full of anticipation.

Fuck it. I'm going to embed this shit:

I can't say any more. Not now, blog. I'm sorry. I know I pour my heart out to you on most occasions. But know that when I hold back, it's something that's especially serious and exciting that I will only spill to you in copious amounts after time has passed me by.

Yes, it's been nearly a month since I last wrote in you. I have good reason. I unfortunately can't elaborate at this point which breaks my heart. But one day I will continue the ridiculous story that is my personal life being thrown up on an internet forum; be it public or exclusive. We all reserve the right to write about our experiences, don't we.

For now, I'm off to bed to sleep. Perhance to dream.. No, I'm not Hamlet. My dad didn't die and my uncle didn't marry my mom. I'm not in love with a suicidal crazy named Ophelia. And the only Rosencrantz and Guildenstern I know are that of the Tom Stoppard variety and don't even think I'm getting that theatrically pretentious on this Monday night, the night of the Ivey awards. I'm better than that blog. Hell, I don't even dream. And if we're honest, everyone at the end of that play probably deserved to die anyway.

Hmmm. It's probably the wine talking at this point, but I could act in plays and be a great performer, but why pretend to feel that great emotion when you can feel it as yourself, firsthand for real and for the worth of actual consequence that it will have for you?

Well, I guess you don't get paid to feel your own emotion. Not in monetary amounts anyway. But it seems that there's this strange satisfaction about it that overshadows all of that anyway.

Yup. The wine hath taken over you, blog. It's time to turn in and be a resonsible adult for once in my life. Ha! Resonsible. It's my hybrid between responsibility and reasonable behavior. I can't lose with that, can I.

Depression Works for Me...

I just want to say Blog, that every day I become more and more convinced that literary greats were considered great not because of talent and practice, but because of mental unstability. I mean, would you want to read a novel, poem, short story or play written by someone of sound mind and lifestyle? I think not.

Or maybe you would Blog. I really don't know what sort of literature whets your intellectual appetite. But think about it. Sylvia Plath, Ernest Hemingway (tool), Oscar Wilde, Hunter S. Thompson... Think about it Blog...

I only say this because I feel most inspired when I am most depressed/confused/sad/upset/or generally emotional. I can only imagine the shit I'd come up with if I suffered from depression or bipolar disorder or OCD.

And then comes the question, would you rather be depressed all the time and come up with amazing literature or be happy and content with the only drawback in life being the writer's block you suffer because you have achieved mental stability?

Yes, it's possible to have both happiness and literary prowess I guess. You can be happy and write. But really, if that's the case, I'm sure your shit would be ten times better if you were depressed and writing. Or even better, if you were on drugs and writing. Think of one famous musician who's never smoked weed or done cocaine. Think, Blog, think.

That's what I thought. Creativity and brilliance comes from fucked up people.



Really? Is it that healthy to grieve your fiance's death by wearing white all the time? I think not.




Hey! I'm an alcoholic and married to a crazy...




I think we all know what happened here...




"Dearest, I feel certain that I am going mad again." Then she drowned herself. Perfect.




Drugs. Just... drugs.

Note that if they're not looking incredibly depressed, they're looking a little drunk. I rest my case.