Oh instincts are misleading. You shouldn't think what you're feeling

sometimes I think I want to sleep indefinitely. or to sleep for an indefinite period of time. and then I realize that that is basically the same thing as dying. yet I'm terrified of dying. so I might just be a hypocrite... I think what I want, more accurately, is just to sleep for the next 15 years. and then awake with a brand new, beautiful perspective.

today I ate half a bag of Lays and took an hour nap.
I need to stop being so anxious, because it just makes me exhausted.


in positive news, I've been songwriting like crazy since this semester started. I have around 10 videos on my camera of various songs I've been working on, (I use my camera because I have no other reliable means to record) and tons of other snippets of songs, verses, or refrains floating around in my brain. I always freak out about my relative creative output. I always think that I'm not doing enough, or not doing anything substantial, but I've realized that it just sort of happens. and I end up not even thinking about it too much.
but I just have tons and tons of ideas about songs. I record videos all the time, of just some silly little riff or refrain in my head. and then I start inventing harmonies while I'm listening. and I think about all the different layering I could do, if only I had the right equipment...

sigh, I don't know.

ah, and since I have Death Cab lyrics as my title, I might add a little tidbit I read about Ben Gibbard here.
I remember reading some interview where Ben was asked what he would be doing if he wasn't doing music. He didn't answer with any pretense. He was completely straightforward. He just said, "I'd wonder what went wrong."
that clear-eyed determination is beautiful. in a way, I envy artists who express themselves with only one medium. it makes things simpler. it clarifies things.
I think I'm approaching this sort of certainty. maybe. At the very least, I'm starting to realize where I do NOT belong.

My Neck, My Back... My Future and My Goals?

I feel like "My Neck, My Back" by Khia is permanently stuck in my head. Obviously it's a wonderful song--that goes without saying. But I just don't understand why IT'S ALWAYS IN MY HEAD. I go to bed at night and I hear "All you ladiez pop yo p***y like this." I walk onto the elevator and I hear "Right now, lick it good, suck this p***y just like you should." As I walk around on campus, it still echoes in my head.

I have no idea why.

Oh well.

At any rate, I decided to post a different sort of blog. Upon reviewing some of my more recent ones, I've noticed a slowly-evolving trend. Each blog seems to deal with confusion about the future, fear, and disillusionment. A sort of "woe-is-me-what-am-I-doing-with-my-life?!?!" tone. and I suppose that if the point of journaling is to document one's thoughts, then I have accomplished something. in that sense, they're accurate, since my fear of the future is something I think of an AWFUL LOT.
The other day, however, I sat down in my dorm room with a nice hot chai, and I had the most philosophical and enlightening conversation... with myself... you might call me pathetic or neurotic, but it actually helped a lot. (plus, I've read somewhere that talking to oneself is the highest form of intelligence... hmmmmm ;] ) ANYWAY, I sort of came to the conclusion that I expend ENTIRELY too much mental energy stressing out about the future. and yes, it is a very important thing to think about. I don't think I should completely disregard it. but it's just come to the point where it's not even fruitful anymore. it's just pointless and self-pitying and self-centered.
The little metaphor I came up with to help myself understand the situation was this:

stressing out about what my major will be is like wishing to change the content of a letter after it's already been mailed... "oh, if only I would have changed this word or that!"
"I wish I could have it back, just to erase that mark..."
Basically, I realized that at this point in time, it's unrealistic to drop classes or add any, so I might as well stick with the ones I've got and let it be. I realized that I have not been not committing to my classes as much as I should have. Regardless of whether or not the classes I'm taking now will lead to my major or career, I still need to work hard in them. I'll never know if I'm truly passionate about something until I give it my 100%.


Additionally, I have decided to apply to be a Resident Assistant (RA) in the dorms here at UW-Milwaukee! I'm very excited... and stressed. right now I'm working on assembling my Reference Forms. I need to have all the necessary materials in by Monday, and I'm kinda stressin'. I'm really hoping my two references are able to pull through for me. If not, I'll be legitimately screwed. I actually contacted three different people, when only two are required.

I think that I shouldn't stress about it too much. My friends here tell me that Milwaukee Housing is pretty desperate for RA's, so in the terrible, terrible event that I'd have to turn in a reference form late, I might still get picked. but I don't know. that's not guaranteed. and I really don't want to risk that...

Oh well, it should all hopefully fall into place.

I'm excited. I think being an RA would be awesome, albeit stressful. and yes, it would probably take a significant chunk out of my social life, but that's fine. I have entirely too much free time now.
Plus, it'll be a resume builder.


Arrivederci, blog.

"the inner-machinations of my mind are an enigma"

I don't think Architecture is for me. At least not yet. I'm not completely deciding yet. I'm waiting til the end of semester at least.
It isn't something that completely consumes me... that manipulates my thoughts and words at all levels of consciousness. When reading Kath's blog about how film consumed her, I couldn't quite point to a similar feeling in myself for Architecture. Now, granted I haven't gotten into the nitty-gritty of it yet, so it's hard to judge. but she hasn't gotten into the nitty-gritty of film either. (I hope it's okay that I referenced you, Kath. lol ;) )

Before falling asleep, sometimes I conjugate verbs in French. Or in Latin, if I still remember them. when I wake up, in the dullest and most obscure moments of consciousness, I still continue to do so. it's as if the language is becoming an indelible part of me... latching onto every fiber, mingling with my blood and tissue. I used to do the same thing for chord progressions. While lying in bed, I used to map out a simple series of chords in my head, repeatedly. I, IV, V, and V7 resolves to I... or I'd think of songs that I had memorized and then I'd try to analyze them theoretically. and it, too, was one of those things that continued even when I awoke. and, occasionally, continued on into my sleep.

To me, I think this is passion. Not entirely of course: true passion manifests itself in action. but I believe that these half-conscious thought processes are simple manifestations of passion. something that consumes you at all hours... even when you're not completely capable of understanding.
but then again, what do I know of passion or of art? I've become complacent and satisfied. when is the last time I've struggled for something?

leave the novelist in his daydream tomb.

So, things have become complicated yet again. Coming to Milwaukee, everything was so simple:
I was going to become a wonderful architect. I was going to satisfy both my artistic and intellectual needs. I was going to design lots of sweet buildings, and aid in the construction and beautification of cities. Maybe I'd form a band in my (limited) spare time. or just continue to write.
because I needed that added qualification (the architect) attached to my name to be a worthwhile writer. to be a worthwhile human being.

My "Intro to Architectural Drawing" Class is insane. It isn't properly named, in my opinion. Perhaps this would be a more suitable title:
"Intro to Architectural Drawing: Drawing/Sketching Amazing Things in Short Periods of Time with Limited Instruction"
yep. sounds about right.
Don't get me wrong, I was excited for this class. when the Prof got up there and started spitting out this wonderful philosophy about our pencils being "wands;" and when he yelled us for sitting on our computers and cell phones too much; and when he told us that we were living in a world designed by other people, and that now WE must take over; WE must become the designers; We would not simply cop out in AutoCad; We would not use rulers or protractors; No, it would be just us. Just us with our pencils and sketchbook--when he said all these wonderful things, I was so excited. I was excited to become a "legit" designer.
It sounded so beautiful and lovely.
I was so incredibly excited... Until I remembered that my experience with observational drawing has been limited to sketching the shape of my hand during religion class.
I have never sat on a street corner and legitimately tried to sketch what I saw. The only drawing class I took never emphasized this. (but it was a high school-level class, so maybe that's understandable)
much of that class focused on technique, on copying other artists' preconceived ideas.

and so, now, there is me, sitting at random places throughout the UWM campus, slowly realizing that I am pretty bad at observational drawing!

My sketchbook probably has about eh... 8 pages or so filled. I am proud of only two or three sketches.
The only sketches that I am proud of are not even pictures of buildings. One's of my chair in my dorm room. Another is of two different shapes of my left hand.
Oops.

By Monday, I am required to have 6 sketches of various buildings throughout Milwaukee. I have completed about... 1.5.
Neither of which I am particularly proud of... in the least.

I was seriously considering dropping this class yesterday. Which is terrible. which is totally pussying-out. which is totally the opposite of everything I stand for.

but I was just so frustrated. There are some incredibly talented young artists in that class. I will be competing against these people for jobs later on. If they already show such promise, I would be doomed.
and I know, such thoughts were a bit over-dramatic and fatalistic. but there's definitely some truth in them.

I am continually bopping back and forth:
do I tough it out, continue on with Architectural courses? that was one of my primary reasons for coming to Milwaukee; it seems foolish to give up so quickly...
but sometimes when you know, you know.
I started looking at the admissions process for the Music program here at UWM. ah yes, back to music...
I am so capricious. I feel so fickle. and I know, a lot of college students ARE very indecisive. I mean, this is the REST of my life we're talking about here. I'd like to know that I made a good decision.

I guess, my main purpose for writing here today was to express some doubts I have about my once-perfect solution of studying Architecture.
I don't regret coming here or signing up for this class. It was all a learning experience. and as I've said once before, I barely scratched the surface of visual art in high school, so I guess I'm trying to find a final consensus on it. I think it is too early to tell, despite the fact that I've been absolutely panic-stricken about these fucking drawings, and that I almost dropped the class yesterday.
It's worth a try, as cliche as that sounds.
My observational drawing skills will have to improve over this semester, if I put in the time and effort.

the question will not be CAN I do this, but do I WANT to do this.
(ah, I am so pithy tonight. maybe I should write some cheap little self-help book...)

if this doesn't work out, I will return to music. and there I'll stay. I've talked about studying music SO much, and I've written extensively about my feelings toward it.
I want to, very greatly. I've just had so many doubts about it. and I've had doubts about finding a career with a degree in music.

but, as I've said, only time will tell. maybe I'm just off to a rough start in my Architectural studies. who knows.

tomorrow holds lots and lots and lots of drawing. and freezing. freezing all my appendages.
wonderful.

our Prof wants us to be drawing drawing drawing all the time. it's just going to take time to form a habit of it.
he told us, explicitly, that he wants to "eat up all our free time" with drawing.

which means I should really focus on trying to spend less time on this damn computer.



ah well. I think my scatter-brained post is finished. glad I ended on a halfway positive note

goodnight,
:)

O, my Genius-lover, what fills thy dreams? (thought-flow of bizarre proportions)

Sometimes human beings rehash incidents in their heads over and over again for the express purpose of making themselves feel worse.
Is it something I do as an artist? Am I just seeking inspiration? Am I just avoiding the plague of my own mediocrity, or am I acknowledging it fully?



I was almost in love once.
But, “in love” is such a vague term. It could mean lots of things.
It could mean having sex with a modelesque young man, and listening to his snoring intently. And listening for the patterns in his breath. And then remembering my own place. And the ensuing horribleness that followed… that flooded through my veins like caffeine. And lying there with eyes wide… listening to the music.
“so I take one of them home, to see how I feel…”

And, o, my Genius-lover, what fills thy dreams?
What doth send the quiver through your spine,
And the trembling breath through your nose?

What ancient philosophy are you carrying
In that old weathered bag?
Is it Plato, or Aristotle, or Socrates?
And what will you say to me,
When I confuse the syllables?
I’m joining the soccer team.
Talent…



“Write me a haiku.”
“I don’t know how; I’ve never written one before.”
“Look it up. I’m sure it tells you how online.”
“I don’t want to. What’s the point? Why do you want a haiku?”
“Because they are beautiful and I like them.”
“I’ll read you The Tempest.”
“I want a haiku.”
“…but it’s Shakespeare.”
“But I want a haiku.”



And, o, my Genius-lover, what fills thy dreams?
What doth send the blue-green waves through the brine,
And the coral-shaped water bubbles in the hose?



I wanted to love you.
Is that legitimate enough?
You were reading Oscar Wilde to me. And trying to teach me about art. You said you put nothing of yourself into your art--for that is “selling out.”
But I don’t understand what you’re saying.
I can’t make art anyway.
What is art but a series of instances, or colors, or words? A pair of bodies on a stage, an empty chest inside a cage?
(ensuring emptiness)


And everything you ever did is bundled up inside a little packet of nerves inside your brain. And everything you ever said is bundled up inside a little packet of nerves inside your brain. And who you loved and who you fucked and who you spilled your guts out for… it’s all stored inside little packets of nerves inside your brain.
And then you’ll die. And they’ll remember his name. and they’ll forget yours.
(they can’t. they can’t… it isn’t fair. He didn’t follow any of the rules. I did. I tried to… more or less… but how I smiled at myself when I broke them. But he broke them all the time. And how I was impressed. And the smell of cologne and sweat on his chest. And how he’d deny the crime. And how it was really all my fault.)


And all the rhyming teenage poetry about “hills and pills and merry-old chills” was ringing in my head as I walked into your apartment. And I’d seen it before, in some distant and long-forgotten dream. And the breathe you breathed, drenched with tobacco (and genius).
(but o, genius-lover, what is genius?)
And my obsession with greatness. But I didn’t know it then. Because I knew no one would be great. And if they were I would just beat them. But then you beat me. You beat me and I stood there with your stench on my skin and your tobacco smoke in my hair.
The diner at night. The patrons… cigarettes on their lips. The crude mustaches. The ill-trimmed goatees. And the careless dresses. And the waitress. How sweet was she. And writing “have a good night!” on the Styrofoam box we didn’t use. And you cringing as I carved the words with my fork. (and later how I cringed as you drew the “broken hallelujah” from my lips. And later how you cringed to Stravinsky) but I jump too far ahead. And the reader, he must certainly be confused. But no one can ever read this. These are words of desperation and fear. Not of art. (or are they art?)
I am no Woolf or Joyce. Their words must have been carefully and ingeniously plotted. (or were they?)
… I can’t quite tell. They were ingeniously plotted, no doubt. But carefully?
But I am no Woolf or Joyce.

And then Cheryl’s apartment. And how we quizzed her on all the appetizers at TGIF. And the feeling of my leg against your leg, your chest against my chest. And the moment on the veranda, overlooking the courtyard of apartments. And how you adjusted my tie and smiled. And brought me forward. And implanted the first kiss.

And the euphoria. And how we talked of Bach and Beethoven. And how you detested Bach. And how I thought you must have been a farce if you hated Bach. But I didn’t care; you were an artist of some unknown degree. You had your reasons, somewhere, I’m sure.
And I loved Bach. Even if I didn’t always understand him. And even if I wasn’t always able to play his music. I could appreciate his genius and his perfection. And you couldn’t. only Stravinsky with his horrifying chords and snake-like melodies. Only Bartok with his atonal dances.
(but what is tonality, really, but a mere human conception? Sounds exist at random pitches. There is no “B-Flat Major” scale in the wind blowing across the trees. There is no “Fully diminished seventh” in a car crash. There is noise. And there is pitch. But tonality? A mere human invention. Perhaps the atonalists were the greatest artists of all. …or at least, that’s what you thought)

But I digress, I digress, I digress. I need to remember the shape of your chest and the feel of your hands. The open-mouthed kisses we shared on Cheryl’s floor. And the tone in Cheryl’s voice as she whispered “Can you guys please… be quiet?”
I need to remember the elated feeling in my bones. I need to remember how you said you were enamored with me. Yes, I remember the vocabulary. I remember it full well. You weren’t merely crushing on me, or infatuated with me. No, you had to be enamored with me.
I’m sure you’re no linguistic expert, and I’m certain you didn’t fully think through the etymology of your words as you texted me. (who really does, anyway?)
No one is really careful of his or her words. We just say what we think sounds right. But sometimes I think it’s necessary to be careful. To monitor what falls out of our mouth so blatantly. Especially when another’s feelings are involved.
(but I’m sure I’m just being over-dramatic… though it’s not everyday a person says he’s “enamored” with me… hm, in retrospect, it never happened before then. And it still hasn’t happened since.)
But then again, maybe I really am being over-dramatic. Or just jealous. Jealous that the genius fucked me and left me. But what is genius, really? What is creativity? What is art but a series of instances, or colors, or words? (or sounds?)
But I am not like other people. It’s terrifying to think that the genius fucked me and left me. It makes me terrified. (but why, you vain fool! You vain, cowardly fool! Get your head out of your ass!)


But yes, I am back on track now. No more musical digressions. What do I know of music anyway? I speak as a learned person of that art form; but as of right now, I’m a mere amateur. I must have degrees and doctorates attached to my name before I can produce a true opinion. (at least, an opinion that will be valued by society. Society seems to forget the flawed nature of education.)

And, o, dear Genius-lover, what fills thy dreams?
Is it wealth or fame, sand or land, reveries or revelations?
Health and happiness, joy and peace?
a brand new California home, at frightful elevations?

Nicorette patches and new perspectives

I'm on hiatus from Facebook. I've realized that it's somewhat dominating my life. Not dramatically... not to the extent that it's spoiling any real-life relationships.
but it is spoiling my perspective on life and my productivity.
Our Drawing prof asked us on the first day to list how many hours we spent on the computer each day. he then asked us to list how many hours we spent drawing a day. the difference was disparaging.
imagine, if all those hours I spent of Facebook, I was instead reading or writing or drawing or merely thinking. imagine how much greater my creative output could be!
so, reasoning thus, I decided to take a break from Facebook. ... which, I guess is kind of why I'm on Blogspot right now.
In reality, I should be taking a break from the internet in general. However, I think this website is not nearly as addicting or harmful as Facebook. Plus, I'm doing something productive: I'm writing, even if it's about the most mundane events. It's still writing.

I guess, for this moment, Blogspot is sort of like my Nicorette patch. :)
haha, how pathetic.

a demain! there is much to be done. life is short.