2001-05-09 - 11:48 p.m. - trivialis3

Ick. It's far too late and I have too many footnotes to add to my essay... but what the heck, I might as well keep writing. In for a penny, in for a pound. I'm becoming convinced that I made up a theory about Indian classical traditions to which I referred in my paper- no, it's real, I found it, what the heck is happening to me?

Ack. My brain is turning to mush and the world is falling apart. My prose doesn't sing and my poetry speaks of kitsch and dung.

For every error I find, ten more pop up. Why?

Please help me set the world right - or failing that, at least myself.

Why do I feel compelled to seek cause for unhappiness in myself, to seek perhaps unhappiness unadulterated, to demean myself and convince myself that I am not worthy of anything, least of all another person's respect and love? Why can't I focus on what I love? Can't I convince myself that I am... worthy?

I got a higher bridge for my cello and my fingerboard planed. That'll make it easier to play the Elgar... I also have a new bow now. That makes it easier to play the Shostakovich...

"In the midst of life we are in death." -Anglican Book of Common Prayer

And on that happy note- good-bye.