chain of events

got yelled by the mother by what i think is finally a decent reason.

i got up from bed, sat in bed for a good half hour, staring at the porcelain owl on my bookshelf. it had the oddest eyes, i realized this morning. they were this deep, deep green, but when i blinked and looked again, it seemed a dull black. but then it would turn to this dark turquoise shade... and i swear there was no change in reflection upon anything in my room. maybe it's my mind.

i went downstairs, groggy but decently awake, and rummaged around the fridge and shelves. i finally decided on orange juice. i took the Tropicana with Extra Vitamin C (it's good for colds) and set it down on the table. i took a nearby glass, and set it down next to it. i was trying to see if the glass was exactly half the size of the height of the orange juice container, and found that it was about 2/5. a bit disappointed, but i didn't really care that much. i think. i began to tilt the container over, and watched the orange juice flow from the opening. it came in uneven intervals, sometimes a bit more came through the opening because of the ebb and flow of the contents within. it wasn't until i covered 2/3 of the dinner table with orange liquid, and the container was empty, although my glass was quite full, did i realize, "Oh dear." it was a sticky mess to clean up. and i got yelled at for a good reason. i think my mother was half amused. but why would she be? maybe it's my mind.

trudging back upstairs, now smelling stickily sweet of oranges, i stepped into the shower. i came back out in thirty seconds, realized i was fully clothed and now semi-drenched, and went back in. i just sat on the bottom of the tub, and let the water wash over me. it was an odd feeling, having hot water run over you, letting it soak through your clothes. my sister finds me this time, and kindly points out that i 1. forgot to lock the door, 2. forgot to slide close the shower doors and 3. forgot to take off my socks. she said socks.

all this parallels my life. constant change of the owl's eyes when there is no outside force acting upon it...my emotions. the spilling of juice...my workload. forgetting to take off my clothes when showering...priceless.

maybe it's my mind.

maps

the last time i did this things were different. the last time i did this things things were exactly the same. the last time i did this i was different. sometimes i fight vader in the swamp and when i cut his head off and see who is under the mask i am not suprised at all. sometimes he cuts my head off. he always does in fact. if it was snowing and we were on the beach and we were happy i would make a movie about it. if they made a movie like that i would watch it. they make whatever movies they want to watch though. i remember when i was a guitarist and i played my fans' favorite songs and they cheered and i was smiling. once when i was on a bus i was next to a pretty girl and i wanted to talk to her and i never did. it was a strange day i think in february and i was bleeding. we went to see art in the city with the wind blowing and the waves crashing against the pier. it was a cold day and there was a ukulele but nobody knew how to play and everybody tried to play but i liked it anyway and so i bought one of my own. i want to buy a better one. i dislike the winter; it's awfully cold. of course it is cold, but there are other reasons, like the sun not being out and my soul sagging. sometimes i listen to sad music too much and i turn pathetic. somtimes i turn pathetic and i listen to sad music too much. i listen to sad music too much, so i'm pathetic. i'm pathetic, so i listen to sad music too much.

My Mamma Told Me I Could Be Whatever I Wanted When I Grow Up, But I never Really Listened to Her Advice Anyway

Baby I sold off my soul
So that my buoyant body would rise up
From the grave you’ve dug out for me
To rise like the sun
and face you in the morning
But like the moon I descend in silence
ready to drown you in the darkness
That you first bit me in
When you drained me dry

Dear, you drained me dry
And now I stalk the night
Seeking the blood of the innocent
Using the fangs I cursed in my dying breath
To bite a new hundred thousand
And indoctrinate them into a world of pain

Tonight it’s you I bite
To drain you of my blood dry
And with every ounce I avenge
I become one ounce more poisoned still

This is the story of a boy who triumphed over the devil
By becoming him

the conservatory

i went to jersey city college today for a strings symposium, where people worked with us on perfecting our audition pieces for regions and allstate orchestra. after the tutorials, the winners of some string competition performed for us, the students and teachers who attended the seminar, as well as a few judges who would pick the grand prize winner (there is no real 'grand prize' unless you choose to count the title). of the four people who performed, we only saw two, because the bus had come to take us back to phs. i only needed to see the first girl perform, to have her performance trigger some questions in me.

the first person who played was a ten-year-old asian girl. she performed on violin a concerto by saint-saens, which is a piece difficult in maturity. the first few chords she played stunned the audience; here was a tiny little girl who could play better than most of the people sitting in that room. we have a tendency of labeling a musician 'more' of a prodigy as the years go lower. had she been twice her age, the general reaction would have been a "whoo." she was almost flawless in mechanics, hitting the higher registers with speed and accuracy. however, she didn't stun me, like she did everyone else, it seems. not trying to sound all disdainful of her skills and whatnot, but maybe it's because i was once like that...again, not trying to brag...that makes me look at her performance twice and criticize. the piece she was performing was not suited for her at all. music is more than notes and rhythms and dynamics, it's the soul you put into the piece. saint-saens was mature, in his thirties when he wrote that particular concerto, unlike mozart, for example, who did most of his in his early teens. the difference could be discerned easily; mozart's pieces are bright and predictable, saint-saens is difficult..to understand. even more difficult to interpret with one's own signature. at the age of ten, few are truly mature enough in musical interpretation to pull off a piece like that. she did not capture the soul of the piece; everything was too mechanical, likely under strict direction from her private teacher and forceful practice set by her parents. in her i saw me when i was young, and it was not all too pleasing. but then again, i did mozart concertos at the age of ten. then again, it was written by mozart when he was in his teens.

watching her and sleep-thinking on the bus ride home back me think twice about myself at age sixteen. that maybe the stuff i do for myself is stuff i'm not ready to undertake. that maybe i want to grow up faster than nature intended.

Fighting the Man on a Daily Basis

So I got a bass, and I think I'm actually sticking to it this time, since I've given my sister my original black guitar. The bass is fun, because it's more like a woman than the guitar... you can slap it.

But in all seriousness, I think I'm just more in tune with the bass, it's deeper, bigger, and... has four strings.

The pink pills are for your sanity
We're buried in the earth because we can't beat gravity
You are still here and so made to figure
You are an important part of the computer

So I might try and pick up something on bass for the coffeehouse, but I don't know if I can learn anything fast enough or well enough in time, so I might just wait for the GSA one whenever that rolls around; hopefully by then I'll be ready.

Oh, and I forgot to mention the reason I haven't posted lately is because I'm becoming Darth Vader.