10 XI 2001 - 22:39 - vita8

In the background: some Chinese actor yelling something I can't understand at the top of his lungs which I can't understand because the microphone is just that lousy.

You'll forgive me if I'm a little distracted as I write this entry.

Today was SFSYO's open rehearsal; it was - interesting. Either our conductor is lying to us or he has no idea of where an orchestra should be in terms of playing quality a week before the concert. I know that this is not going to help when I pimp subscriptions for mwarren, but it doesn't really matter now as we've both sold ten subscriptions. But we're awful. And my stand partner and the little pixie who sits in front of her are driving me up the wall. (Yeah, this is my good year for stand partners, what with school orchestra already going for me and everything.) Today, my stand partner "forgot" to turn a page and I had to read third stand's music (well, a combination of read/rely on memory; my distance vision is awful) while she tried to figure out where we were on a page (here's a hint: if you can't find yourself on the page, turn the bloody thing and see if you're supposed to be there! we'd gotten to the facing page by the time she figured it out. grr.) And we sounded bad, and our conductor still hasn't figured out that if the third movement of the Lutoslawski stinks, rehearsing the first and second movements won't help, and I think I am going mad because everything seems worse than it did last year. (And in a lot of ways it is: our section isn't even a quarter of what last year's section; our conductor is, if you esteem him generously, maybe a little more than half the man we used to have.) And when we got out of rehearsal, it was raining, and I got soaked, which was sort of my fault because I was looking for Al because I had told her mother that I'd walk her to dinner. Except I couldn't find her, so I went to where she said she was going to have dinner, and it was open, but she wasn't there, so I ran back to Davies to pick up the person we give rides to blah blah blagh and so that's how I got soaked through and if I catch pneumonia and die, you know when and why it happened.

You know those moods when you feel as if you have absolutely nothing to give to the world? Or even anyone else? Yeah. That's me, right now. And if you don't know those moods, you're lucky.

And I just realized that I was about to type something about the good mood I was in, but that got fouled up, didn't it? I wrote a variation on the Taiwanese national anthem today for my music theory class; it went over not too badly considering that I wrote it in thirty minutes as I sat up in my bed. Other things that contribute to what used to be a good mood: B. warming up, although with faulty detection systems I still don't know if he's one of our (royal we, unless I include Raych) batters (how likely is it, with a Bush/Cheney sign? but: knows how to dress himself -*stereotypes madly*-) He's nice. Friendly. I can live with friendly. (Yeah, right.) Maybe I should just tell him, which will have one of three outcomes: a) he laughs b) he runs away c)things get uncomfortable, then he runs away. Hmm. Attractive choices. Maybe I'll just keep my mouth shut, then. Touched me today in a non-"please, you're by my cello case" way upon hearing about the death march I put Al through (just keeping you in shape, hon!) but that means nothing. Just. Urgh. (What vitamin am I lacking that makes me act like this?) And I figured out how to hook up the record player that I brought up from the basement which means that instead of buying $60 new CDs or $40 used CDs, I can buy $5 used LPs which are usually in better condition than the CDs. This is wonderful...

So sort of in an in-between mood, yes? And more thoughts: |do-rageh, two-veined, two-blooded, that doesn't cut it these days: balance? what's that? and so I spin freely, without a center: you've heard this all before, you smile - but there's the difference, because I've heard it before too, from many other voices faces lives and yet I am still living it, still haven't broken the cycle, still haven't found my place: teenage angst, yes, with a good deal of self-hatred mixed in: and others' pain is well and good but this is mine and it is therefore sharper than anything else and inspires (if it should do any good) prolific writings, fragments of poems which are later crossed out and entries on diaryland and emails, the leavings of my life, notes in the margins of the notes i'm supposed to be taking in all my classes: this is the trail i leave behind me, this will serve as my legacy when I die - not my music, not my brain, not my hands (only part of me that goes unhated at first contemplation) but the words floating in my wake - words left online, in notebooks, in class notes: and Rachel, have I got a headline for you, it reads "Mediocre Gay Poet Kicks The Bucket" with the subheading no one particularly cares to decipher his chickenscratch ah - all the writing, it's a product of my fear of oblivion, that I might vanish without a trace as I want my body to - as long as it's going, why not have it burnt to ashes and scattered?|

I'll give up trying to classify my mood. I feel suddenly tired, ancient, and cripplingly young. As bor. told me, I'm entitled to have an opinion: yes, but it doesn't mean anyone else has to listen. (Yes, I know it never does - but you will admit that the older you are, the likelier it is people will listen? Up to a point, I mean.) Often youth means to me that no one else does listen. And if I am only fifteen, why the hell am I not just like everyone else in my grade, so preoccupied with... whatever it is they're preoccupied with, with sports, with television, with popularity and with their ephemeral couplings... (yes, argument could be made that I'm rather preoccupied with the last two, but I think it's a matter of extent there. we'll ignore the fact that there are clear analogues, too, because it makes me feel better. and please. that last statement was a cry for someone to contradict me. *laughs weakly* don't, because i know i'm rather normal as teenagers go.)

What the hell died in my mind and why is it rotting and how do I either resurrect it or extract it?

It would be easier, I think, if I didn't know to rage against things I can not change; if I couldn't see them, if I could for once turn off the critical self-analysis, the analysis of situations that I've gotten a little too adept at using without any real intent to understand or change anything: yes, it would be easier, but I think I'd be less for it, less of a man, person... sed... if I could stop, just for a moment, give myself some respite... |who am I fooling? perhaps I like it this way-|

Raych, you need to start coming on at around 10, 11 PST. Just because.

aequor, aequoris n. plain, level field, sea

unda, undae f. wave