It's Been the Worst Day Since Yesterday
I really like that song. It's by Flogging Molly -- "Worst Day Since Yesterday" or something like that. In this case, as is often the case, it fits.
Yesterday and today we have off from school. It's midterm evaluations, so while the teachers sit and discuss our progress or lack thereof, we get to do nothing. So how did my day go? First, I heard about certain nonsense going on at St. Thomas. Apparently, during an improv show, Skye was playing a cop and Darrin (who is black), was playing a clerk at a donut shop who wouldn't give her the right donut. Funny, right? She said, "I know that because you're black, you can't read..." or something to that extent. Also funny, right? Well, Darrin got so offended that he demanded an apology in person and then, before the next night of the show, he demanded ANOTHER apology, in public, humiliating Skye in front of everyone. He has since used this "grave insult to himself" as a springboard to launch some absurd Amandla! crusade. I am pissed. Because now he's setting a precedent to allow other people to get upset. Now no Merchant of Venice or anything by Pinter or anything that doesn't have retarded archetypes or no plot (a la Light up the Sky).
After calming myself down (slightly), I went and saw ANOTHER AADA play. This one wasn't bad at all. The writing was fantastic, but the main guy was miserable. He had these wonderful dismissive lines a la Mr. Bennet in Pride and Prejudice or Henry Higgins in My Fair Lady. He holds his daughter to impossible standards and is rather curt and cutting to everybody else in the play, but he's also brilliant. He's a fantastic doctor and is exceptionally respected by everyone. Imagine, then, such a character played somewhere between the archetypal prick father and an "Oh, please like me audience and forgive the mean things I say, please please please" mentality. And his American accent faded into his natural Australian accent by the end of the first act. He completely gave up on it for the second. The main girl was all right and this silly blonde girl (think Kitty or Lydia from P&P) was also good. Everyone else blew.
After this, we all went to the Blarney Stone for a drink. I, being a classy gentleman, did not drink Bud Lights with the heathens. Instead, I had my usual Tom Collins. I have Nelson to think for that. Gin is a very... defining drink. It takes a certain kind of person to like it. Anybody can drink vodka or rum or beer, but to truly enjoy gin... it takes the right person. But I digress.
I had not had enough alcohol for my nerves to be steel, but I had had enough to be honest and to make an idiot out of myself, so I proceeded to talk to Sarah-Kate. We talked about tragedies and death; the beauty and poetry in life. She told me that of all the people she had met in New York, I was the most interesting, by far. She was intrigued by my reclusive nature and my apparent brilliance (somehow, she insisted, she could tell that I was very good at what I do). She told me how she loved talking to me because I had such... I can't recall the word she used but it was a good one. So, idiot that I was, I explained to her that the only reason I came to the Blarney Stone, not being much of a drinker, was for a chance to talk to her again. At which point she explained that "She loved our conversations... but as a friend." She said something about my confidence and how I shouldn't let this shake me, for in five years I would unquestionably be at the top of the pyramid. She then started to say something about how surprised she was at the manner in which I had been treated by women when we were interrupted by a drunk girl wanted to talk to Sarah-Kate. I gave them their privacy.
So, there we are: she went the path that they all go down: fascination and admiration culminating in romantic disinterest.
I feel my nausea setting in once more as I write. It's interesting that she should say five years, which was my life prognosis only three years ago. While I have not decayed as much as they thought I would have by now, who knows? The doctors may yet be right. Or, perhaps, I shall beat them all.
Maybe I should become a priest. Is it not ironic... if I should become a priest then all the women I have had affection for would instantly be madly in love with me? Then, not only would I be interesting, talented, handsome, and a prick, but I'd also be out of limits... I mentioned my thoughts on the priesthood to Ben and CJ (two guys from my section) the other day. They both adamantly told me not to even consider it: how could I willingly seal myself off from women? How could I live without constant sexual gratification? Why, it would be little different from how I live normally: I'm already not doing too well with the ladies... except this way I would be closer to God. But I don't think that there's much room for a misanthropic priest with strong almost radical ideas about the faith.
Melissa told me over lunch the other day that I should become an English teacher, teaching at Harvard or some other prestigious university because I'd be so harsh on my students. Maybe I should. She meant it, of course, in an "if this doesn't work out for you, then you should..." way, not in a "Yeah... you should just leave now while your dignity is intact." I was already planning on trying some transfer papers in the spring: I might as well try Boston College again. Zadie was talking about how he has a contact now in the Yale theatre department and I should try to pursue it. Maybe I should. Yale... now there's a school. Hmmmm...
I sent Rose into a competition yesterday. And I'm about to send Scotch on the Rocks to another guy who's expressed interest in picking it up and turning it into a series. No reason to be upset, right? As long as the work flows, then what does anything else matter?
For once in my life, that argument feels hollow. Every time I've felt sorry for myself, I've always thought of Dante and chastised myself for caring about temporal things. What is love on Earth compared to love in Heaven? What matters the City of Man when you were built to serve the City of God? Why bother trying to seek joy in this Earthly prison when just beyond the bars lies the everlasting? But what, then, if I should be wrong? If there is nothing beyond the grave but emptiness? You die, you're buried, worms eat your flesh, the worm is used to bait a hook, the fish eats the worm, someone else eats the fish. And once that fish is devoured, there is nothing left of you to be remembered by but a stone in the ground, with your name chiseled onto it. And in 10 years, those who loved you will have moved on and your name shall be blotted out by high grass, so that not even the sky can recall who you are.
What then? What then?
I have to memorize these two scenes by tomorrow. I'm the only one who has two scenes, which means Jonas is putting a lot of trust in me. He told me so during class, that he has great faith in me. Who knows. I'm not in a happy mood anyway.
I'd go to the Met tonight because not only are there student tickets but Magdalena Kozena is singing, but it's Idomeneo which is a 4 hour long opera and I'd rather not just be leaving the theatre at 11:40.
Whatever. It's 2 in the afternoon and I just don't care anymore. Nihilism, here I come. Nihilism is always the last step in the tragedy, right before the hero's death.
Yesterday and today we have off from school. It's midterm evaluations, so while the teachers sit and discuss our progress or lack thereof, we get to do nothing. So how did my day go? First, I heard about certain nonsense going on at St. Thomas. Apparently, during an improv show, Skye was playing a cop and Darrin (who is black), was playing a clerk at a donut shop who wouldn't give her the right donut. Funny, right? She said, "I know that because you're black, you can't read..." or something to that extent. Also funny, right? Well, Darrin got so offended that he demanded an apology in person and then, before the next night of the show, he demanded ANOTHER apology, in public, humiliating Skye in front of everyone. He has since used this "grave insult to himself" as a springboard to launch some absurd Amandla! crusade. I am pissed. Because now he's setting a precedent to allow other people to get upset. Now no Merchant of Venice or anything by Pinter or anything that doesn't have retarded archetypes or no plot (a la Light up the Sky).
After calming myself down (slightly), I went and saw ANOTHER AADA play. This one wasn't bad at all. The writing was fantastic, but the main guy was miserable. He had these wonderful dismissive lines a la Mr. Bennet in Pride and Prejudice or Henry Higgins in My Fair Lady. He holds his daughter to impossible standards and is rather curt and cutting to everybody else in the play, but he's also brilliant. He's a fantastic doctor and is exceptionally respected by everyone. Imagine, then, such a character played somewhere between the archetypal prick father and an "Oh, please like me audience and forgive the mean things I say, please please please" mentality. And his American accent faded into his natural Australian accent by the end of the first act. He completely gave up on it for the second. The main girl was all right and this silly blonde girl (think Kitty or Lydia from P&P) was also good. Everyone else blew.
After this, we all went to the Blarney Stone for a drink. I, being a classy gentleman, did not drink Bud Lights with the heathens. Instead, I had my usual Tom Collins. I have Nelson to think for that. Gin is a very... defining drink. It takes a certain kind of person to like it. Anybody can drink vodka or rum or beer, but to truly enjoy gin... it takes the right person. But I digress.
I had not had enough alcohol for my nerves to be steel, but I had had enough to be honest and to make an idiot out of myself, so I proceeded to talk to Sarah-Kate. We talked about tragedies and death; the beauty and poetry in life. She told me that of all the people she had met in New York, I was the most interesting, by far. She was intrigued by my reclusive nature and my apparent brilliance (somehow, she insisted, she could tell that I was very good at what I do). She told me how she loved talking to me because I had such... I can't recall the word she used but it was a good one. So, idiot that I was, I explained to her that the only reason I came to the Blarney Stone, not being much of a drinker, was for a chance to talk to her again. At which point she explained that "She loved our conversations... but as a friend." She said something about my confidence and how I shouldn't let this shake me, for in five years I would unquestionably be at the top of the pyramid. She then started to say something about how surprised she was at the manner in which I had been treated by women when we were interrupted by a drunk girl wanted to talk to Sarah-Kate. I gave them their privacy.
So, there we are: she went the path that they all go down: fascination and admiration culminating in romantic disinterest.
I feel my nausea setting in once more as I write. It's interesting that she should say five years, which was my life prognosis only three years ago. While I have not decayed as much as they thought I would have by now, who knows? The doctors may yet be right. Or, perhaps, I shall beat them all.
Maybe I should become a priest. Is it not ironic... if I should become a priest then all the women I have had affection for would instantly be madly in love with me? Then, not only would I be interesting, talented, handsome, and a prick, but I'd also be out of limits... I mentioned my thoughts on the priesthood to Ben and CJ (two guys from my section) the other day. They both adamantly told me not to even consider it: how could I willingly seal myself off from women? How could I live without constant sexual gratification? Why, it would be little different from how I live normally: I'm already not doing too well with the ladies... except this way I would be closer to God. But I don't think that there's much room for a misanthropic priest with strong almost radical ideas about the faith.
Melissa told me over lunch the other day that I should become an English teacher, teaching at Harvard or some other prestigious university because I'd be so harsh on my students. Maybe I should. She meant it, of course, in an "if this doesn't work out for you, then you should..." way, not in a "Yeah... you should just leave now while your dignity is intact." I was already planning on trying some transfer papers in the spring: I might as well try Boston College again. Zadie was talking about how he has a contact now in the Yale theatre department and I should try to pursue it. Maybe I should. Yale... now there's a school. Hmmmm...
I sent Rose into a competition yesterday. And I'm about to send Scotch on the Rocks to another guy who's expressed interest in picking it up and turning it into a series. No reason to be upset, right? As long as the work flows, then what does anything else matter?
For once in my life, that argument feels hollow. Every time I've felt sorry for myself, I've always thought of Dante and chastised myself for caring about temporal things. What is love on Earth compared to love in Heaven? What matters the City of Man when you were built to serve the City of God? Why bother trying to seek joy in this Earthly prison when just beyond the bars lies the everlasting? But what, then, if I should be wrong? If there is nothing beyond the grave but emptiness? You die, you're buried, worms eat your flesh, the worm is used to bait a hook, the fish eats the worm, someone else eats the fish. And once that fish is devoured, there is nothing left of you to be remembered by but a stone in the ground, with your name chiseled onto it. And in 10 years, those who loved you will have moved on and your name shall be blotted out by high grass, so that not even the sky can recall who you are.
What then? What then?
I have to memorize these two scenes by tomorrow. I'm the only one who has two scenes, which means Jonas is putting a lot of trust in me. He told me so during class, that he has great faith in me. Who knows. I'm not in a happy mood anyway.
I'd go to the Met tonight because not only are there student tickets but Magdalena Kozena is singing, but it's Idomeneo which is a 4 hour long opera and I'd rather not just be leaving the theatre at 11:40.
Whatever. It's 2 in the afternoon and I just don't care anymore. Nihilism, here I come. Nihilism is always the last step in the tragedy, right before the hero's death.