Damn Marcus! Damn him and his crappy little paragraph full of bullshit and KBr spectra with no reference! I'm getting screwed out of a portion of my grade and I can't even totally blame it for him, though everything since Friday has been his goddamned fault! Augh!
Where has all my lyricism gone? I realized, as I drove across the dark lake water, that my muse doesn't hit me in front of the computer very often anymore. It's much more likely that I'll feel the urge to say something when I'm walking around campus, or driving, or daydreaming on the bus. Result being a dreadful prosiac quality to anything that does get written down; I dislike this.
I always talk about this, but I do so because it's always on my mind. Music—it's amazing. I've been in a mood lately, a mood to cry a great deal. It's due to a number of reasons, which are not the point for saying anything. What I find interesting is the great capacity for music to start tears running down my face. The music doesn't have to be sad, nor even in a minor key—it just has to be associated with an event in my life, whether it be a discrete thing (Sting's Fields of Gold and driving in the Spanish countryside), or a time period (any CCR song and high school at Psycho Five). And sometimes, there's no association, but only inspiration; the thousands of soccer fans singing together in the background of a commercial for a Italy/Argentina match up and the music in the background of Ashitaka beginning his quest both have caused an involuntary gulp. What is it, this music, that makes it so different from other vibrations in the air? What is it that causes me to cry out at Peter Gabriel's voice that doesn't occur at the chattering of a jackhammer, or the peals of the bells at the hour on campus? I feel empty and alone when music isn't surrounding me, holding me upright, regardless of my physical company. I cannot drive without it, though my eyes may blur with it. To spend hours at class and work without it is agony, and it floats through my dreams just as any other piece of experience. To imagine a world where I was deprived of music is to imagine the worst possible state of existence. Music affects my mood more surely than any drug, causing my heart to soar or plummet on the change of a single note. And in most ultimate irony, I find myself incapable of participating in it beyond simple mimcry; nothing more surely cements my knowledge that in the end, I must depend on others to some small degree in life.
I had a very enjoyable date tonight... with my mother. I picked her up at five, we went to Uwajimaya and poked around, I took her to John's place and cooked her dinner and showed her Mononoke Hime in the original Japanese while she spoiled Ed and Webster terribly. It was more fun than I had thought it would be, and I was reminded why, even though I'm more like Dad and was closer to him in some twisted way through my younger years, it's really Mom that I like to spend time with much better. Funny that. The one woman in the world I don't bicker too much with... when she's not throwing me out of the house, that is.
Warukatta na. I forgot to say anything yesterday before I went to house-sit for John. And I don't really have much to say tonight, either. I mean, I suppose I always have stuff to say... but whether I feel like pounding it all out, clacketty clack... that's a different case. I've been thinking about people a lot lately. Certain people in particular, natch, but I suppose that's for me to know and all else to not care about.
Today was so blah that I'm going to bed at 8:30 just to get it over with.
Not much to say about today, other than my stuff dissolved in hexane, meaning I win!
My poor video card. It's gone to some place where it's in mourning, apparently... smearing ashes on its eyebrows and all that. I can still use it, but I don't have to be happy about it. I feel dreadful—it's an expensive one that Dad shelled out for as a present not barely over a year ago. I wouldn't mind so much if it were something I'd spent my own money on, though I'd still be angry. But, especially with the financial woes of my family the last few years, I feel dreadful about adding on to it in any small way—I want anything they pay for to be something that lasts, that I get their full money's worth out of... so that I'm not like Bryce, sucking money off them with no care as to the waste or return. I won't tell them that I'm having to replace it (just like I didn't tell them for four months after I'd put together my machine that I'd done it), but that doesn't mean that it won't nag at me... nag at me that perhaps if I'd asked for a different one, it would have been a higher quality one that wouldn't have crapped out in a year (I bet the warranty was for a year). I almost feel like giving him back money, but that'd just force the discussion. I could help by not having him pay for airfare to Japan this summer, but I don't think I could cover it myself. So once again, selfishness comes to the fore, throwing feelings to the wayside and trampling over them. It's like I can't help myself—I mean, obviously, I could, by just telling them that I'm withdrawing my application because I don't want them to waste their money on me and I don't have the funds to go, really. But I say that to myself and I dismiss it—just like how I tell myself when I'm walking home on a lonely night that I'm just setting myself up for a disappointment if I think that Jim will have come by and be waiting for me, and I say "it's not going to happen and you know it, and you're just going to be that much more sad when you get home and he's not there the way you daydream him to be," but I dismiss it, and come home to a cold and dark apartment and crawl unhappily into my room to take solace from a humming box, because that's all that was there or ever would be there, and I knew it and still tried to pretend that things were different. But I digress.
I don't want to go to work tomorrow. And I don't want to fail my test on Wednesday, or make up a lab on Tuesday. But some things in life just can't be escaped.
I miss having a confidant. It's difficult, having the only person that you can talk to about yourself, in depth, being your significant other. Because for good or for bad, sometimes you want to talk about them. Or perhaps it's just not something you want to bring up to them for one reason or another. Once upon a time I could talk to Richard about that sort of stuff... or sometimes Jeff. Or Chris, when he was around. God knows I haven't had a girl to spill my guts to for so very very long. Of course, I can look at the last time that situation was in effect... look at how that turned out. Girls aren't very good to talk to, I've discovered. Not that guys are really that much better—everyone other than yourself always has their own agendas after all. Sad situation, really.
Ugh. While there are benefits to scuzzing around all day playing video games, strained eyes are not among them. I really was going to go to bed about three hours ago... and then I started a really good city. Sigh.
Perhaps I should say something about the snow, or about why I didn't write anything last night, or about why I've been in a crummy mood all day. Or perhaps I shall go to bed.
I learned tonight that the fact that my ring finger is longer than my index finger may be connected to why I'm a tomboy—it results from a bigger surge of testosterone before birth. Men tend to have much longer ring fingers than index fingers—women are the opposite. So here I could have explained it all away by pointing at my hands?
I thought, really thought, about Egypt for the first time in a long while today. I was passingly upon it after watching TV Sunday night, but something about talking about returnees in socling reminded me so strongly... about how, when I got home, I couldn't talk to anyone about how it had felt, to be there. Only my family understood... it was my first trip abroad, to there and Kenya and the Czech Republic, and I learned very quickly after it that my peers at home, while interested in my travel, didn't want to hear much about it—I never understood exactly how to tell when a person had passed from being interested into thinking I was bragging, and I rather just gave up trying to express that trip; I never tried at all for the later ones.
It was cloudy, that morning, when I woke knowing that I was to go riding that day. I don't remember what else we did that morning... I recall that it was the day after we'd visited the plateau and crawled through the Great Pyramid and Bryce and I had chased each other through the crowds, laughing and kicking up sand to drift towards the Sphinx; but I suppose that nothing could quite have matched up in my memory to the afternoon of that cloudy day, and was perhaps just dropped in favor of enhancing the richness in memory of the feeling of the time that I rode the wind.
It was dark in the stables, the horses chuffing slightly now and then, murmurs of Arabic echoing from place to place, and I completely ignored the British-accented chatter of the owner as I walked down the center of the barn. My brother and mother, for some reason forever impenetrable to me, had chosen camels over the Arabs, and were outside being shown how to mount. I finally chose a pale mare with a grey mane and delicate eyes... I remember the owner complimenting me on my choice as he helped me find her tack. We both blinked as we came out of the stable—some time while we'd been among the horses, the sun had come out. I remember pitying Mom and Bryce as the four of us, the owner on a well muscled bay, headed out into the sands.
We'd come over a small rise to see the pyramids silhouetted against the sun and a reddening sky—Mom and Bryce stopped to take pictures, but I had a memory that would do well enough. The owner and I exchanged glances, threw one in unison towards the rest of my family, then headed down the hill together. We started off slowly, increasing pace as we made it out of the loose sands to the harder pack and rock of the plateau floor. As the wind started to blow my hair back and pull at my hat, I whipped it off and jammed it under my knee, just in time. I heard a laugh, something yelled in Arabic, and he had pulled ahead of me slightly, urging the bay faster, faster. The mare was pulling for her head, and suddenly I was racing a stranger into the setting desert sun, hunched down and cheeks stung by a whipping mane as only two voices screaming in delight were left in our wake.
That's one thing I just can't really convey the feeling of even to my family. But I will always remember.
My evening wasn't bad, I suppose. I guess the main problem was that I didn't spend it with who I would have liked. I'm not sure why I randomly decided to invite Patrick over to dinner, and I did have fun eating and watching TV and stuff... but, well, it's just not the same. And I lie when I say that I'm not sure why I did it—I was lonely, and knew I was going to get lonelier, so that's why, of course. But all it served to do, underneath the superficial niceness of spending time with a friend, was to make me glaringly aware of what I was missing. I don't know how I'm going to do this. Of course I can... that's not the question. But I so desperately don't want to, and I'm sorry for that, it is weak of me, but... well, I know when I've got a good thing. I'm just not sure how to hold on to it right, and I'm sorry for the problems that that causes.
1 cup lentils, 2 cups water, 1 cube chicken bouillon, liberal cumin and curry powder, small salt and cayenne pepper, brought to a boil, simmer 30+ min
1 chopped onion, two small tomatoes, diced, more curry powder and tad cumin, sauteed
Rice, actually cooked (as in the opposite of the previous day's dreadful mistake)
Equal portions of rice and lentils, topped with onion and tomato mixture, with plain yogurt to taste... all in all, it was a damn fine dinner, and I'm proud of myself (even if Patrick couldn't have the lentils cuz I'd already dropped in the bouillon before I invited him).
What gives? The one night that I really wanted to have a bum ask me for change because I had an extra sandwich that I wasn't going to eat to give away, there isn't nary a begging person on the Ave OR Brooklyn to be seen. I even knew exactly what I'd say... "I don't have any money, but if you want a sandwich I made this morning, you can have it, if you'd like." But no, no hungry people were to be found, and now the sandwich is sitting in my fridge where I'll likely forget it until it starts smelling really funny. It's rather interesting to look at how my attitudes towards giving money to homeless people have changed. I went through a six-month phase last year where I freely gave away all my change to anyone who asked it, or Altoids or gum if I didn't have any change. Then I went through a phase where I'd rather give my change to the baristas at the Roma who are benefitting me directly, and then the whole needing change for laundry thing cropped up. I wonder if I'm sliding slightly back towards my other position; I feel pretty bad about ignoring people asking me for money quietly (the obnoxious ones who get in my face get no pity), and something about that woman outside Safeway last night really struck me. I was embarrassed when Jim gave her something after I'd already walked by, however, so perhaps it's just my embarrassment kicking in. I hope not... I think I'd be rather disappointed in myself if that was all it was. Not that I'm not disappointed with myself on a daily basis anyway, but it's best not to add to these things.
Funny how even the usually unnoticed sound of the freeway becomes so much louder when one is abnormally aware of the lack of other, more wanted noises.
I feel as if a small part of me shrivelled up and died today. It had been working on it for the last few weeks, but it truly gave up today. I suppose that since all life is a process of dying, cells and ideas slowly giving up the ghost as time ticks on, I shouldn't be too upset about one particular piece... but I am. I am lonely. Harry Connick Jr. is making me cry, which I don't particularly want to do; it's not really worth it. The thought crossed my mind of taking the bus up to Northgate and crashing Jase's, or Monica's party, but I won't. I wasn't invited, after all, and isn't that what I'm most longing for these days? I want to feel like I'm wanted in life by other people, rather than forcing myself in of my own accord. I want the phone to ring.
But a little while later, at least I'm not cold anymore. Thank you.
I want to say something of import. I want to make a difference in someone's day. I want to mean something to someone, which I'm sure I do in some ways, but perhaps I don't in others. Not that this is any different from how every other person on this planet feels... but that doesn't mean I can't say it again, after having read through another week's worth of recognition of people I don't know, and always feeling like I don't get enough for myself from people I do.
Hack hack hack. Cough. Hack some more. I'm tired of sounding like I have consumption, of clients backing off from me in fear for their lives, and the plague jokes in lab. Grrr. I say that I wouldn't mind if I were actually sick, but that'd be a lie... as dear Sunnie pointed out, "at least you have your health, dear, even if you don't sound like it." Nothing like a comment like that from an old woman to make me appreciate my youth.
Me: I've remembered why I don't like much TV. It's completely vapid. Insipid. And other words that end in "id."
Jim: But not intrepid.
Amazing. I may not have really looked at my lab for tomorrow, but I managed to get everything else done for tomorrow that I needed to, and still have the luxury to find that I greatly enjoy playing cribbage on Yahoo. I had an urge to play Alchemy a bunch, but go figure, Zone doesn't work well in NS, 'specially in Linux. Couldn't have predicted that. I've discovered tonight that I'd rather missed chat—little tidbits here and there during crib games have me remembering with fondness the days that I always had IRC up, whether I was actually talking or not.
Jen_Idling, Jen_Shiken, Jen_TooMuchIRC
Rather surreal to turn and see a flame jumping in time to a techno version of Pachbel's Canon, dancing and bobbing with the beat, reflecting off four glass walls and my glasses. The meeting for the first six or so of us applying for Hokkaido is tomorrow. Please let me go please let me go please let me go.
I had a dream last night, where Captain Sisko was surrounded by blue-toned trees, and told me "Do you remember the day you were sitting at Amelia's kitchen table and you realized that the horses you drew looked funny because horses' knees on the back legs are backwards? That was an epiphany."
School life caught too much up with me over the last few days. That and no sleep (though hopefully my 14 hour long stint in bed last night will help) made for, well, an unhappy Jen. Not that I've been really continuously happy since this quarter started; it's been an acknowledgable number of happy points separated by long stretches of blah and depression. I'm just not feeling like myself, in any sense of the word—I feel like I can't write, talk, communicate in any fashion, or even make gestures like I expect myself to. I'm depressed about work and stressed about school (depessed about it too, as long as I'm on the subject), and extremely annoyed that I managed to papercut my lip while licking an envelope a few days ago. Argh.