Where has my mind gone?
I am so unfocused and spastic at the moment.
Yeah.
Lots of work. Feeling weird. Ack. Some bad news, some great news--I want closure. But no, that's not what this current malaise is about. To the fellow seniors out there in cyberland, have you felt recently that you're constantly reevaluating your priorities? And that what's been of the utmost importance may be falling--that your whole "list" is switching?
This is weird. Okay, back to work!
See--that's it--I have NO fucking interest in reading about Okonkwo and his fellow men. And I don't want to study for my Art History inclass.
What a depressing entry; I'm in a good mood--just confused.
Peace,
Scotty
P.S.: I've been listening to Tracy Chapman nonstop lately (I have these 3-6 month periods where I put away her music and then pick it up again and fall completely in love all over again and it's wonderful) and have concluded that, yes, "Fast Car" is probably my favorite song besides "Aja," the Steely Dan masterpiece (and I use the term completely seriously).
The memories it brings up are so weird. Every time I hear it I flash back to when I was seven and in this play in Jamaica Plain. It was a production of "The Grapes of Wrath" in this dustbowl and I played Winfield, the little boy. To get there, my mom would drive down the Riverway and I remember always thinking how unbelievably beautiful Jamaica Pond was. It was spring, if I remember correctly, and I'd always be in complete awe over how incredible this little "nook" in the middle of one of Olmstead's parks was. And at the same time, I sort of vaguely understood the profundity of the sadness of this story we were all telling. And, you know, it was the first time I recognized how wildly unglamorous acting is. I have the most vivid recollections of these older men and women putting on their makeup in port-a-potties, writing out monologues in falling-apart notebooks; and to me, they were never anything but the people of the dustbowl in the 30's. It's now I realize (when I can actually remember names and bits of information) that they were struggling bakers and buskers trying to make a way so that they could show up to this silly park and tell this story....
"...Maybe together we can get somewhere..."
ANYONE who reads my journal: Please comment with your favorite song and tell me the memories it brings up. I'm REALLY interested. For real.
Yeah.
Lots of work. Feeling weird. Ack. Some bad news, some great news--I want closure. But no, that's not what this current malaise is about. To the fellow seniors out there in cyberland, have you felt recently that you're constantly reevaluating your priorities? And that what's been of the utmost importance may be falling--that your whole "list" is switching?
This is weird. Okay, back to work!
See--that's it--I have NO fucking interest in reading about Okonkwo and his fellow men. And I don't want to study for my Art History inclass.
What a depressing entry; I'm in a good mood--just confused.
Peace,
Scotty
P.S.: I've been listening to Tracy Chapman nonstop lately (I have these 3-6 month periods where I put away her music and then pick it up again and fall completely in love all over again and it's wonderful) and have concluded that, yes, "Fast Car" is probably my favorite song besides "Aja," the Steely Dan masterpiece (and I use the term completely seriously).
The memories it brings up are so weird. Every time I hear it I flash back to when I was seven and in this play in Jamaica Plain. It was a production of "The Grapes of Wrath" in this dustbowl and I played Winfield, the little boy. To get there, my mom would drive down the Riverway and I remember always thinking how unbelievably beautiful Jamaica Pond was. It was spring, if I remember correctly, and I'd always be in complete awe over how incredible this little "nook" in the middle of one of Olmstead's parks was. And at the same time, I sort of vaguely understood the profundity of the sadness of this story we were all telling. And, you know, it was the first time I recognized how wildly unglamorous acting is. I have the most vivid recollections of these older men and women putting on their makeup in port-a-potties, writing out monologues in falling-apart notebooks; and to me, they were never anything but the people of the dustbowl in the 30's. It's now I realize (when I can actually remember names and bits of information) that they were struggling bakers and buskers trying to make a way so that they could show up to this silly park and tell this story....
"...Maybe together we can get somewhere..."
ANYONE who reads my journal: Please comment with your favorite song and tell me the memories it brings up. I'm REALLY interested. For real.