saturday evening and rain
I don't want to write this but if it isn't somewhere, then that means it's sitting in my head. And I can't have another uncomfortable sleep with him in my dreams. I actually prayed last night that he wouldn't be in my dreams, and instead Jon Peters was. That's lovely to wake up to. Am I sixteen? Sometimes I feel like it. I just want that happiness back. I don't care if it was unfounded, it comes and it goes now. Happiness seems to be getting harder every single day, if not by the hour.
I hate the dreams because they're typical of a classic combination of longing and regret bring to the subconscious. I'm usually driving in a car around Ohio. And someone makes a crack about how Ohio sucks. And he's there, in some form or another. In one dream I smacked him. I slapped him hard. I didn't mean to hit him so hard. In another dream he proposed, and I told him no because it was a dream and not real. And I went to great lengths to remind myself of that before I woke up. You go through everything in dreams. All the ironies, all the things you always believed in and forgot about, they all come back. I would love a decent night's sleep.
Despite the fact that French Alex told me I had nice breasts, I'm ready to give up on him. If I was ever really there in the first place. I think I may have actually had feelings for him. He was in my dreams too, but in different ways. I can't help but miss Louis. This is the worst thing to do before sleep, but ever since the beach with Shadron, the plane ride... he's on my mind. I sit in class, in a lesson, in the middle of a conversation, and I'll flash back to a year ago. To the highway, to driving in his car, with that music on. No wonder I hate John Mayer so much, or just now am getting back to Ben Folds. It's the sound of my dorm, of the streets of the places we used to be. Not this city. We were never in this city. He is one of those people that makes you feel like if you can make him smile, you have a life. And if you can make him laugh you've made it as far in this life as you're going to.
This is how you know I'm working on the Dubois. I look like I'm working on it; I'm tired, I'm overanalyzing, I look like hell, and I'm talking to myself in the practice rooms. Whole conversations are occurring between me and Pierre-Max Dubois and the man's been dead for ten years. I did figure out what the piece was about though. And I did figure out why he moves from F# minor to A major in the Sarabande. But that's probably just me injecting my personal life into the music.
I just bring up classical music so I look like I'm moving on intelligently. I'm neither intelligent or distractable, but I do have a willingness to humiliate myself that surpasses all greatnesses that I've come across in recent history. People really do touch each other. And you really can't take that back. I want to walk outside of my dorm and smoke a cigarette with "Rockin' the Suburbs" on, with mid-western wind, and a late spring, and Crystal upstairs. But at the same time I don't want those things. It's fucking hell. And all I can do is walk up and down Mass Ave hoping that my determination is as sound and solid as the concrete underneath my weight, and sometimes I think that I probably outweigh my entire life with the thoughts that circulate through my head.
I waited over a year to find out what I really thought about him, when he would finally cut me off from his world altogether. You gather someone's faults in all the time that you spend with them, whether you do it consciously or not. And at the end, when there was nothing to stop that gathering of faults and short-comings from spilling out into the wind, I still can't do it. I still don't understand how someone can walk into and out of his light and not realize that they just met the most genuine person they will ever meet. If I could physically be capable of it-and at one time I was- I would ache to be back in that light. I hope everyone who does get the chance does recognize how lucky they are. I knew then. And now I know even more.
"'You saved my life,' she said. 'You'd better make it up to me.'" -Jack Nicholson
I hate the dreams because they're typical of a classic combination of longing and regret bring to the subconscious. I'm usually driving in a car around Ohio. And someone makes a crack about how Ohio sucks. And he's there, in some form or another. In one dream I smacked him. I slapped him hard. I didn't mean to hit him so hard. In another dream he proposed, and I told him no because it was a dream and not real. And I went to great lengths to remind myself of that before I woke up. You go through everything in dreams. All the ironies, all the things you always believed in and forgot about, they all come back. I would love a decent night's sleep.
Despite the fact that French Alex told me I had nice breasts, I'm ready to give up on him. If I was ever really there in the first place. I think I may have actually had feelings for him. He was in my dreams too, but in different ways. I can't help but miss Louis. This is the worst thing to do before sleep, but ever since the beach with Shadron, the plane ride... he's on my mind. I sit in class, in a lesson, in the middle of a conversation, and I'll flash back to a year ago. To the highway, to driving in his car, with that music on. No wonder I hate John Mayer so much, or just now am getting back to Ben Folds. It's the sound of my dorm, of the streets of the places we used to be. Not this city. We were never in this city. He is one of those people that makes you feel like if you can make him smile, you have a life. And if you can make him laugh you've made it as far in this life as you're going to.
This is how you know I'm working on the Dubois. I look like I'm working on it; I'm tired, I'm overanalyzing, I look like hell, and I'm talking to myself in the practice rooms. Whole conversations are occurring between me and Pierre-Max Dubois and the man's been dead for ten years. I did figure out what the piece was about though. And I did figure out why he moves from F# minor to A major in the Sarabande. But that's probably just me injecting my personal life into the music.
I just bring up classical music so I look like I'm moving on intelligently. I'm neither intelligent or distractable, but I do have a willingness to humiliate myself that surpasses all greatnesses that I've come across in recent history. People really do touch each other. And you really can't take that back. I want to walk outside of my dorm and smoke a cigarette with "Rockin' the Suburbs" on, with mid-western wind, and a late spring, and Crystal upstairs. But at the same time I don't want those things. It's fucking hell. And all I can do is walk up and down Mass Ave hoping that my determination is as sound and solid as the concrete underneath my weight, and sometimes I think that I probably outweigh my entire life with the thoughts that circulate through my head.
I waited over a year to find out what I really thought about him, when he would finally cut me off from his world altogether. You gather someone's faults in all the time that you spend with them, whether you do it consciously or not. And at the end, when there was nothing to stop that gathering of faults and short-comings from spilling out into the wind, I still can't do it. I still don't understand how someone can walk into and out of his light and not realize that they just met the most genuine person they will ever meet. If I could physically be capable of it-and at one time I was- I would ache to be back in that light. I hope everyone who does get the chance does recognize how lucky they are. I knew then. And now I know even more.
"'You saved my life,' she said. 'You'd better make it up to me.'" -Jack Nicholson