(no subject)
I really need to write, now more than ever. The mental relief that maintaining this journal regularly provided has not been coming from other cathartic sources. Really, a lot of it has to do with the struggle I still fight on a daily basis between my very happy present-day life and the old and damaging processes hard-wired into my brain by unfortunate circumstances (and, to be honest, some choices) in my past. However, talking this out in the present isn't something I can do in person without scaring people away. I'm fortunate to be around so many well balanced people, but I don't expect them to serve in the same capacity as the professional that I see a couple times a month.
This is why LJ has been nice. I get it out no matter what, and it's more or less irrelevant whether anyone reads or responds to it. The point is, what else would I do - talk to myself? For some reason, putting it on paper (or typing it out) feels more healthy, more like a release. And that is what I really need, because my other daily interactions aren't really built for this kind of output. Music, sure, but it's quite abstract. I was, for example, working on a transcription job for a friend - Edgar Meyer's "First Impressions" from the "Appalachia Waltz" album with Mark O'Connor and Yo-Yo Ma. On first listen, I was mostly thinking about form, tracking harmonic motion, sketching melody and bass. Not until I was finished engraving did I really listen to the entire track. And all I could do was lie down and cry for a little while.
Not that I particularly had a reason. But it has been a while, perhaps a long while, since I cried. The tears could have been happy because I feel that I have overcome so much lately. Or sad because I am impatient, but realize that it takes at least as long to repair damage done as it did taking the damage in the first place. Or because the playing is just lovely. The music is almost cheesy, but it stops short of full-blown schlock. Another example, I was driving to Seattle recently and listening to Paul Simon's "Graceland." And I feel like it is one of those songs that despite being loved by so many is still a unique, and personal, emotional experience for every listener.
And how the lyrics mean something different to everyone, even when they're quite specific or definitive. I'm thinking of "losing love is like a window in your heart, everybody sees you're blown apart, everybody feels the wind blow." And who hasn't had a moment in their lives where this wouldn't mean something to them? Well, I could be wrong. It wouldn't be the first time. But I suppose this is just how things seem to me now. And sometimes it is painful, but in a good way. Because closing wounds is somewhat painful, as if I've stitched up and now am eagerly awaiting healing. As the song suggests, it is perhaps no secret. And perhaps there is some shame and loneliness attached, and the solitude can be sobering at best. I suppose that what I mean to say is that even in tears should we feel progress, should we strain to locate paths leading to better times and places.
I suppose at this point it should be obvious that I am no longer bothered by the pervasive presence of cliches in my outlook.
This is why LJ has been nice. I get it out no matter what, and it's more or less irrelevant whether anyone reads or responds to it. The point is, what else would I do - talk to myself? For some reason, putting it on paper (or typing it out) feels more healthy, more like a release. And that is what I really need, because my other daily interactions aren't really built for this kind of output. Music, sure, but it's quite abstract. I was, for example, working on a transcription job for a friend - Edgar Meyer's "First Impressions" from the "Appalachia Waltz" album with Mark O'Connor and Yo-Yo Ma. On first listen, I was mostly thinking about form, tracking harmonic motion, sketching melody and bass. Not until I was finished engraving did I really listen to the entire track. And all I could do was lie down and cry for a little while.
Not that I particularly had a reason. But it has been a while, perhaps a long while, since I cried. The tears could have been happy because I feel that I have overcome so much lately. Or sad because I am impatient, but realize that it takes at least as long to repair damage done as it did taking the damage in the first place. Or because the playing is just lovely. The music is almost cheesy, but it stops short of full-blown schlock. Another example, I was driving to Seattle recently and listening to Paul Simon's "Graceland." And I feel like it is one of those songs that despite being loved by so many is still a unique, and personal, emotional experience for every listener.
And how the lyrics mean something different to everyone, even when they're quite specific or definitive. I'm thinking of "losing love is like a window in your heart, everybody sees you're blown apart, everybody feels the wind blow." And who hasn't had a moment in their lives where this wouldn't mean something to them? Well, I could be wrong. It wouldn't be the first time. But I suppose this is just how things seem to me now. And sometimes it is painful, but in a good way. Because closing wounds is somewhat painful, as if I've stitched up and now am eagerly awaiting healing. As the song suggests, it is perhaps no secret. And perhaps there is some shame and loneliness attached, and the solitude can be sobering at best. I suppose that what I mean to say is that even in tears should we feel progress, should we strain to locate paths leading to better times and places.
I suppose at this point it should be obvious that I am no longer bothered by the pervasive presence of cliches in my outlook.