Finally yellow

It’s been my favorite color since I was old enough to know my colors. It’s sunshine. It’s a dandelion. It’s my hair.

And it’s happiness, for me.

I wanted to put that happiness here, for anyone who reads my thoughts. The negativity some associate with yellow should vanish upon reaching this page, because, well, crap. I really dig “happy.”

It’s here. The big eighteen. I’m so old. And in some ways I still feel like I’m three again and sliding down brightly-tinted plastic with my hair static-ed all around my face.

Two years ago, I was going to get my learner’s permit with my mother.

One year ago, I was so insanely busy I don’t even remember what the heck I did. Oh wait, I think I went to musical and ate a giant cookie with purple frosting. Or that could have been the AIDA year. It might have been, because Kiener and Emma were there. Yeah, whatever.

This year, I’ll be in theory and in aural skills and traveling to get pizza with a completely different group of people in a still-new place. I’ll voyage to sing with ladies I respect and admire and return to be initiated in the ways of Student Association.

It’s so different. And I can’t help but think, it’s where I’ve wanted to be and worked to be for the past eighteen years without knowing it. I’m finally here.

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Life’s not ebbing away that quickly

I feel like I start off with “Well, this is it” really frequently.

So, I think I’ll mix it up.

Well, this isn’t it.

It’s my eighteenth birthday tomorrow. I’ve decided I just have to look forward to it. I won’t be sad or apprehensive. I just worry because birthdays only come once a year and I’m kind of a little kid about it. I like the little happy birthdays I get, I like the idea that for one day it’s like Christmas, just for me. It’s silly and childish (and selfish) but I adore the thought of a pink cake with rainbow sprinkles waiting at home where there’s popcorn and my sister and Nora Roberts and my mother’s cooking (and my mother, duh) and Criminal Minds on TV. That’s what coming home next weekend will be. So that’s kind of propelling me into birthday excitement from afar.

But you know, I’m getting pizza tomorrow, after all. It should be a good day. I’m not a hermit, so others are going with me, and we’ll hit up Cam’s for an hour or two and gorge ourselves on what I’ve heard is fantastic food.

But still. It’s my eighteenth birthday tomorrow, and although it could be “it,” I refuse to let it be. It’s not an end to an age (although literally, okay, it is). It’s a continuation of what seems to be a crazy-good time at an insanely interesting place. Seventeen was really cool, and I don’t like the number eight quite as much as seven, but that’s all right. I can deal. Instead of the fresh taste of adult existence just slipping closer, it’s right here and in front of my face. The hard brightness of independence is officially arriving and nothing I could do will stop it. It’s easiest just to let it wash over me, like the crash of the surf in Mexico. It is whether or not I’ll let it knock me on my ass and drag me around in the sand that’s the important thing.

It won’t knock me down. Change is eternal, and change is a balancing act. Just like the tides, it will ebb and flow and keep my world from running crookedly. Eighteen is just a single swift ripple that seems huge when it’s approaching, but by the time it’s crested I think I’ll have a better perspective on it. It might not be as intimidating as it first implies. Or, perhaps instead of looking imposing, if I run straight towards it, and dive through it, it could be a lot of fun.

I don’t know. I just hope tomorrow will be a really good time and a promising, exciting, vibrant start to another year. If it’s anything like this T-Rex I edited earlier today, it will be a freakin’ sicknasty-great year.

Yeah, I whitened his teeth. Jealousy accepted, since we all want that dashing grin.

There are more important things than aural skills

Well, it’s hit me.

Something useful to do. Some of the things Liz Shropshire said, some of the points she made and the clips she showed, had the impact I knew they would. There is incontrovertible power behind the simple verses sung by children who’ve suffered unspeakably.

I want to be involved with this foundation like it’s my job. I want, I want, when really I need to do this. For those kids, for their families, and for myself. It’s a necessary human function to want to give what I have. But for this, I would give what I am, and I hope that can make a difference.

A child with a Shropshire harmonica (photo taken from http://teachingchildrenpeace.org).

Should-be-sleeping but oh, too alive poem.

There comes a time when

walking in a backwards wrongfooted flip flop

with braids undone and a

rose-tickled sunburn

a-singing with a loud unpretentious laugh-tone

in a solemn judged room with none of

that make-up on

crying so hard but it’s just because of chuckling at the

absurd-sauce and the glasses that

were so out of style

we’re not out of style but the funny doesn’t leave it since the

stern and frowning brows drawn low

claim our audacity

for us

But there’s no time when

laughing in a wrong-footed flip flop sunburned grins

are out of place since we just

live inside the moment

no thanks to what happens

if. we. wait.

This is like the coast we visited late this afternoon (Lake Ontario)

Crescendo to a thought

As always, Brendan’s blog got me thinking.

I wish I could say it made me think about how great people are, and how humble I strive to be, or even how much like Jesus we should try to be.

Instead, it got me thinking about three separate things.

One: a behavioral pattern I see here at Eastman.
Two: ideas that have been swarming in my brain lately.
and Three: that Brendan needs to write a book.

Relating to one, which I think is the most trivial of the three…
I see a pattern between the “partiers” here and the “religious kids.” The religious ones either keep it to themselves or go to extremes to invite people to their well-behaved events. We have one group, called InterVarsity (it sounds like a sports group but it’s a Christian organization here) that holds all kinds of events. But somehow it kind of seems like they’re in their own little bubble. They’ve extended information to the non-affiliated kids (like they mentioned a gathering to me once, I think) but to me (the non-affiliated), they seem a little upper echelon. A little too good, if you know what I mean. This may or may not be true (I don’t know) but that’s the vibe I get.

In addition to these Christian sects here (and they do separate, we have more than one little club for each denomination), there are the party-goers. The weekend warriors, if you will. It does get incredibly intense here during the week and to me, an outing seems like recreation to release stress (even if it becomes an unhealthy behavior eventually). Now I don’t see any of the partiers in the Christian groups. I could be overlooking someone, but I don’t think I am. In fact, there almost seems to be some animosity between partiers and groups like InterVarsity. I do recall on Ke$ha night being asked in the car if I was a member of InterVarsity… if I was my new best friend (whom I was, uhh, like laying on) was going to kick me out of the car, regardless of our shared sports views.

Back on topic, though. So. My friend Katie here said the other evening to another friend, “When’s church in the morning? I think I’m going to try to go.” This surprised me, because A.) Katie and I were going to the River Campus that night with the intent to find somewhere to dance (to the uninformed it looked like we were going to get smashed), and B.) Katie had never seemed the “type” to go to church.

I realize this is silly thinking on my part (slap on the hand for stereotyping) but to be honest she hadn’t fit the mold for kids I know here that go to worship services. That got me thinking, why can’t I try to go to church? Granted I would love to sleep in on Sundays… but maybe I could even go to a youth group thing or something here. Who knows? But then again, I’ve been known to be out late on weekends. That doesn’t make me any less of a follower of Jesus, though, does it? Then I thought perhaps some of these groups needed a reminder that, first of all, drinking isn’t a sin (hello, wine in the Bible). And secondly, most importantly, Jesus loves the sinners, too. I’m not saying that I go around getting wasted, swearing and having wild monkey sex with everyone I know (because obviously that’s not really my game plan here). But someone who’s not to hip to the holiness thing (aka me, or anyone else, really) is just as loved by God and (if they’re doing it right) should hopefully be just as loved by the little clumps of Christians floating around here with their wooden cross necklaces and conservatively buttoned shirts.

That about rounds out topic number one for me.
Topic two? IDEAS.

Liz Shropshire will be the speaker at next Tuesday’s Colloquium. I. Am. So. Pumped. I really want to get involved with that. In case you haven’t heard of the Shropshire Music Foundation, the link to the site is here and I blogged pretty extensively on it here, because man, am I excited. It’s finally a window (dare I hope, a door?!) into using music to make a serious difference in peoples’ lives. Children’s lives, more specifically.

That brings me to ideas. I haven’t even heard Ms. Shropshire’s spiel yet, and I’m already planning what could be done back in my hometown to bring more revenue to the Foundation. Then (it’s ambitious) what about starting something similar of my own? Maybe a mix between School 17 here (it’s a huge string instrument program for younger kids, but in a city school, if you’ll believe it) and the Foundation. The ideas are still molding themselves, shaping like silver ore in the forge that is my mind, but it’s exciting. To think that the training I receive here won’t restrict me to performing for the elite (if I ever get that good)… it’s really cool. I could use my degree(s) to pour the salve of music into the bleeding gashes of the world.

That said, here’s a poor segue to topic three.

Brendan needs to write a book. Yeah buddy, if you’re reading this… I feel like now’s the time. Okay, maybe in a few more months. But soon. Use your blog and some other topics, get them edited (Jordan and I did offer, oh so long ago…). I’m not trying to flatter you, I’m being honest. Reading words from someone so young in the scheme of things, who’s really trying to connect to his faith and figure crap out is really inspiring. And it makes your audience think. Or at least it makes me think. It’s so real, too. Like God is giving you words with which you can poke at someone’s thoughts. Little nudges. And they show that you absolutely don’t have to be some godly snot in order to have a real relationship with Jesus.

So, whenever you’re ready sir…

On that note, this post is so done. I have theory homework to do. But those are just some thoughts before studio class that I feel needed to get put on a webpage.

Your mission for the day? Listen to the song 'Why do they shut me out of heaven?' It's a Copland tune with words by Emily Dickenson. The Barbara Bonney version is pretty decent.

Brevity

So I am actually in the process of trying to get some projects that are due in a few weeks out of the way right now. It might seem like overachieving, but honestly, I don’t know when else I might find time to do them. Even today, an “easy” day, so to speak, is going to be fairly active. I’m going to a Chopin piano concert at three later today.

That means I have roughly two hours to get homework completed and out of my “to do” pile, in addition to getting a little more spiffed up than is usual. Currently I’m in jeans and a thermal because it’s pretty chilly.

On a completely unrelated note (going atonal here), my nails are hot pink. Yeah, weird. I haven’t painted my nails in so long, but yesterday some nailpolish got on them by accident so obviously I had to finish the job. They don’t look too bad, but I think I’m going to have to do away with it for piano class. It’s tough for me to play with longer nails. But whatever.

Yeah. So other than being insanely busy and loving every second of it, I am pretty much finding myself chilling with whoever’s around. If I think about it, my schedule doesn’t seem that complicated or intense… to me. But taking a step back, and reflecting? Shows me that, holy crap, I’m running all the time.

It just doesn’t feel like that, because I love it.

And I have a feeling it will all be gone so quickly: already my first month here has nearly elapsed and I feel like I have been here forever (and yet, no time at all). It’s really strange.

But okay, I’m done rambling for today. I have to go work on my creative project for theory. Tatiana’s Letter Scene, here I come.

Hvorostovsky and Renee as Onegin and Tatiana at the Met (2006)

Disjointed, like my thoughts

No, I don’t
want to blog
right now.
No, I don’t
want to do
my work.
No, I don’t
want to sit
in here.
I would rather be at Sibley.
But, I can’t
leave this desk
please God
But, I can’t
slip or slack
dear God
But, I can’t
seem to stop
oh God
I would rather be at Java’s.
Why, I should
crack a book
Italian
Why, I should
look it up
that word
Why, I should
start on my
theory
I would rather be practicing.
Now, I guess
I will try
to try
Now, I guess
is the time
study?
Now, I guess
I’ll go to
sleep… or work
I would rather be making music.

Please, Bach... save me from the tedium

Apple cinnamon morning

I just got done recalling the events of yesterday evening to my roommate. I made sure to tell her before I left about my own feelings on partying. I won’t go into them now but you’ll probably be able to tell as this post continues.

It was beautiful, flying on impulse to get there. An Eastman party? You may be thinking.

Yeah, well, it was pretty rad, in many regards. Ke$ha Night was an evening to remember, and I’ll be one of the three who will actually remember all of it.

We got in a car, and I had to sprawl across the laps of three guys. Pretty cool, as I re-met a Sabres fan who was actually straight (surprise!). They’d all been pregaming but the driver, so the ride there was highly entertaining. It’s so much easier to just say what you’re thinking when you’re around tipsy people: they really don’t care if you end up sounding stupid.

We were supposed to pay three dollars upon arrival, and unbutton our pants “So you don’t get raped.” Okay, so comforting. It was really beer money, though, so I guess charging made sense if the host was the one willing to toss away X amount of money on booze for everyone. I was wearing leggings, so obviously I didn’t have anywhere to keep my money. As it was, my ID was tucked safely in my boot and my phone was in my hoodie pocket. I asked John to pay for me… I’d say I’ll pay him back but I think I may see if he recalls it first. (That’s a lie, I’ll probably slip him three bucks over dinner later, if he’s functioning enough to eat.)

Booooze.

Anyway. We met some sophomores in there, and I pretty much stuck close to them because one wasn’t drinking and I knew them. In a giant mob of random strangers, they understood and I tagged along with them. Ke$ha wasn’t even playing upstairs: they had four of her songs. Regardless, a dance party was beginning to stir up so enough people migrated up to either ignore or venture over to the porn playing on the TV in the upstairs corner, and eventually dance. Most of the kids I knew were dancing.

I kind of felt awkward without a cup in my hand, and if there had been pop downstairs I would’ve tried to snag some of that. As it was, kids kept asking me if I’d gotten anything to drink, and when I nodded and smiled vapidly they believed me… cool.

Half an hour (roughly) into the goings-on the cops showed up. This sounds alarming, but to the sober girl in the midst of raging drunkenness, it’s almost a level-headed situation. Walk out, walk away, the cop has better things to do than arrest you.

And that’s exactly how it played out. The DD picked a bunch of us up but this time the car was filled to double recommended capacity, so we walked after we reached a certain street. After reaching the living center we sat outside for quite a while making sure people were getting back, talking, and laughing at John the diva, who decided to have his own personal dance party with GaGa on his phone. Who knew alcohol brought out the sass in tenors?

At around a few of us went in. In retrospect, it was a good night to be sober, because A.) no one could tell anyway and B.) it’s easiest to feel comfortable in any situation when I’m completely in control of the situation. I feel like I’m not stupid enough to get trashed in front of people I barely know. I mostly just was along for the experience and the laughs. Call me what you want, but I like to think of it as responsible. I’m getting out and enjoying different elements of college as well, but I’m doing it in a way that won’t put me in danger or damage my recollection of things that happened.

And now, because of that, I can sit here this morning and put it all into words. I can sit and enjoy the fall chill seeping through the window and the simple pleasure of wearing warm penguin socks. I can drink my apple cinnamon tea with no headache and no sour, gross slime slicing through my system. I’m not saying I’m above getting drunk, or anything (not at all). I just think that for me, it was safer and more entertaining to stay aware of everything. And to be honest, even sober it was pretty fun.

So that’s my story. My tea’s getting cold.

Science that’s double sharped. Oh, and Cheddar Bunnies

There are some things we refuse to let ourselves see, because it hurts too much. Valid observations and clinically correct studies really just make us ache so we don’t focus on massive changes in our lives. For example, I’m sitting here procrastinating and eating Cheddar Bunnies for comfort instead of letting myself feel sad. Or, if I’m being astute, painfully aware of how alone I am and how much I miss the happy things I love about my home and family and friends.

Even the music has a comfort zone it misses. The vanilla chamomile tea with agave nectar during long frigid months in Heather’s classy little apartment are long gone. The summery newness of her little house has faded for me; I don’t see it. I won’t see it, for a good few weeks at the very least. The steadiness, the calm and balance that was my previous instruction has coalesced swiftly into a cacophony of sounds that I can’t quite make out. There are so many, and they’re so fast. I’m expected to teach myself, to some degree. The disciplining is all me.

That has to happen. My mind thinks it, pressures me, but inside I really just want to go home. To the safety of my backyard and living room where so many hours were spent just waiting for this time to be here. Now that it is, I realize everything is different.

And it hurts. The Cheddar Bunnies, while helpful, don’t do as much to smother the throbbing that’s double sharp, lodged right where I breathe and remember I’m alive. I’m alive and I’m in this place that’s unfamiliar. I’m brave. I’ve prayed to be strong. Not wise, not more talented, strong. I need to bend and grow and succeed, not break. I’ve found out that within that strength there’s growing pain. At least I can face it and analyze it and know it for what it is and admit it.

I’m sad.

As Lucy says, "They make you feel good about yourself because it's like you're a meat-eater... But they're organic."

Love/hate relationship with music

I hate
The sound of whispers
Hissing softly
In the street
I hate the lowest note
Coarse and brutal,
Lacks a beat
I hate
The lumber of footsteps
All outside my
Practice room door.
I hate that I’m too
Scared to
Look too closely
Anymore.

I love
The kiss of sunshine
Golden notes
Brush my face
I love the pure vibrato
Sweetest nectar
Swells through space
I love
The pause of intake
Just before they
Decide to applaud.
I love that there’s still
Time to
Love it all
Before I’m gone.

Color and notes.

* Just a poem I composed while on the bus to U of R one evening for Women’s Choir.

Corpses and your rigor mortis? float away

I had a nightmare the other night, and other last night. That’s two consecutive nightmares, and to tell you the truth, it’s pretty unusual for me. I do tend to have super weird dreams, but not in a row like that.

Let me tell you about them.

The first was of The Flood. This is the third dream I’ve ever had about it. The first took place at my house, the second can be foundhere. The most recent was at a school with many children and (for some reason) animals. All of the little ones and pets I cared about. We were teaching, and then– we saw this massive wave rise up and so we rushed into the main building, which stood in the middle of the hill that is my front lawn.

When the wave broke the windows shattered, the walls collapsed. I was left to search for the survivors among the corpses.

Scary, to me. Yes I know it's just a dream.

Last night I dreamed about death as well. It was hunting season. I think for turkeys. I’m not an expert, but I’m pretty sure bow hunting for turkeys is allowed, but this was, like, intense hunting. For pros or daredevils, and it was also a sort of male rite of passage ritual.

A bunch of youths went into the woods. Karen and I were in charge of monitoring them, of tracking them and their successes. They were marked in ranges on a blue map, as well as the beasts they’d be stalking. Each beast had a name, and was expected to combat the youth.

This is where I get confused, because in my mind’s eye I definitely see a dead turkey, but on the map they were labeled as monsters.

Moving on. Andrew’s path was marked with the Mauler’s. I feel like it should be Mahler.

Moving on again, my bad. So Andrew was supposed to face Mauler/Mahler. But Nickolas, the Nickolas that I miss and haven’t seen or talked to since he’s “grown up,” crossed into the wrong territory.

He was out way too long, and so Karen and I set out to look for him.

I my dream-thoughts I told myself it wouldn’t turn out this way. Everything would be fine. He would be okay. When we stumbled upon the embankment where Mauler/Mahler the Monster/Turkey lay sprawled beneath the slickly pounding rush of water, I told myself, think analytically, critically. While my guts churned in trepidation and nausea rose in my throat, I commanded myself to look at the lay of the land, to figure it out clinically. It wasn’t for Nick, it was my job.

So I pointed out the facts. The rock adjacent to Mauler/Mahler would be perfect if one was going to stand and kill the beast. But the angle of the water would have made it difficult to maintain balance. If fallen, an individual would flounder and make his way out at best, but against an angry beast… he might trip again, and hit his head– there. The boulder smeared with blood. Okay. From there, he would try to pull himself out of the stream if he was functional. If not, the current would carry him to the other side, to–

The sprawled body of a good friend faced downward in a shallow pool. Shallow enough for me to turn his head as I prayed for it to be a joke or a dream or just plain fake. Shallow enough for him to have maybe lived if he had just ended up with his face to the side.

I was the one to tell Karen. I was the one to pull his dead weight against me and wish it wasn’t cold and lifeless and stiff and dead.

I hate dreaming about corpses. I guess that’s why I needed to blog and get it out of my system before I sleep tonight. It’s just been a while so I’m not as used to it as I could be. I’m sure there are many psychological explanations behind these dreams but I won’t bother wording them all now. I’m tired and my mission of the evening is over. So, dead bodies. Take your rigored decomposing selves and float the hell away from me.

Blurb

I should not feel disoriented and dizzy this early in the morning. I’ve got a cinnamon pop tart in my system and am consuming searingly hot tea but I’m still groggy and I don’t like that. I also don’t like that there’s so much gap time between everything. I want to go, to get it done. I don’t want to disregard the importance of time and waiting and all that crap but come on, I’ve been waiting to reach this stage in my education (in my LIFE) since I was, like, four. Old enough to know what college was and that I wanted to go there and be smart and use it to do something worth it.

Granted, I never thought it would be opera, but here I am.

Still waiting.

Waiting for theory to start at nine thirty, waiting for the day to end so I can begin another monotonous cycle of homework, waiting for the next exciting thing to do that doesn’t involve food and hopefully does involve caffeine.

Waiting, ironically, for fall break to swing around a month from now so I can see my family. So we can laze around for once crisp fall weekend and enjoy the brief time we’re together. The stupid little pleasures of home no one thinks they will ever miss are the ones that turn and twist the tendons of your heart.

But I’ll wait; I’ll wait it out and I’ll work and drink my tea and burn my mouth and wait. It had better be worth it.

This scrawny-looking cat is in fact waiting for me... I'm the only one that likes him at my house :/

This is what happens after two weeks at Eastman

I’m not really sure where I’m going with this post, but if it doesn’t really flow or whatever, give me a break, I’m tired and I’m thinking in 2/4.

I’ve been hearing classical music in my head constantly. I find myself conducting to a piece in order to find its meter. Even if it’s Queen’s delicious “Somebody to Love” (simple duple, thank you very much, although it could be quadruple). I have had more spelling errors in my notetaking and writing within the past week than I’ve had in the past twelve months of my life. I daydream about living the Sibley Music Library, and I have a newfound fascination with the sound of a baritone range. I think I’m assimilating into what I like to call my musical Hogwarts.

And I love it.

Bach duet altered for marimba. I want to say it's in G Minor

A little bit of time

I’m taking a breather right now. I’m just sitting in the dorm relaxing (playing on my laptop) as the sky dims to a sheet of grey outside the window as a soothing breeze tries to creep in.

It’s just a nice pause in a week that’s been crammed with new sensations and the first spurt and rush of a new life. Fourteen weeks to go until this semester’s over.

I want to say that I will be prepared. I have a plan. I am ready for what may come my way, or I will make myself ready. I’m facing the future with less fear than I’ve ever felt. I haven’t wondered “what will happen if I die today” in almost two weeks. Well, to be truthful I thought it yesterday, but it was in passing over the fact that I haven’t really thought about it. In case you’re confused, after my cousin passed away at nineteen, I became fairly neurotic and theorized about death almost daily. If you could see my other blog… well, it wasn’t the most cheery read some days. I mused on life and its end a great deal.

But lately, I have thought about other things.

For example, how Eastman is like Hogwarts. We have a Chamber of Secrets (the Director’s Dining Center, off of the regular Dining Center), many (MANY) stairs that lead to hallways that look highly alike, and we make something from nothing. Whether we use wands or batons or horns or ourselves, we’re shaping ourselves and the world around us into (what is perpetually hoped to be) something better. Something that can make the world better.

That brings me to what I’ve been up to. Yesterday I went to the first SA meeting of the year. SA is the Student’s Association. Representatives from each class are chosen and it’s recommended they attend regularly; also reps from clubs and organizations on campus show up. It’s where student government leaders are decided. In addition, anyone who has something to complain about is urged to go.

So Mary and I went and were the only freshmen there. We’ve been (well, I’ve been) trying to kind of spread the word about the need for freshmen class council members. I’d like to do it, but I think I’d want to be secretary/treasurer, so the pressure of leading others to decisions doesn’t necessarily fall on me. I have to see if I get an ushering job first, though. And there might be more interest and someone with more drive will want that spot.

I’m not saying I’m not ambitious: quite the contrary. But I’d rather see someone who’s obsessed with class government get it, if they want it and will do a good job. I would be pretty good, I’m not going to lie, and I want to be involved, but Garrett Rubin’s organization seems like something I’m going to find a passion in.

It’s called Eastman for the Shropshire Music Foundation, and Garrett developed our little part of it. The Foundation itself was founded by Liz Shropshire, whose background and experience in music and music education led her to raise funds to purchase musical instruments for the children of Kosovo refugees. It now reaches children in Northern Ireland and Uganda as well. I won’t go in intimate detail here, but please visit this site for more information if you’re interested. If you’re not interested, check it out anyway (please). But my point is, I want to get involved. I don’t want to just “be a part of something” for the feeling of inclusion. I don’t want to commit my very limited time to an organization that isn’t doing something proactive, something useful and beneficial.

The Shropshire Foundation is worthwhile. It helps people. Moreover, it helps the children who will grow up to someday have their own impacts, however publicly realized, on the world. To be a medium through which people can learn to love music seems to me a truly influential and vital use of time. Especially since Eastman for the Shropshire Music Foundation is based here. It seems too coincidental that something I’d be crazy about doing would be one of two university-based campaigns for the foundation.

So in this little snippet of down time I’m snagging now, I’m considering the future, considering the options here to be a part of something that’s making a difference. And, I figure, it’s about time.

Refugees (picture taken from http://www.shropshirefoundation.org/mission)

This is probably why my theory is incomplete right now

So I’m sitting here with Lucy, chillin’ (if you will) with an unfinished theory worksheet on my chaotic black hole of a desk, and all I can think about is how much I want to go to bed. Also, there’s a saxophone quartet kind of breezing through my mind, but that’s irrelevant.

I don’t want to finish this theory. It’s not because I’m lazy. It’s not because I don’t want to put in the effort or am preoccupied.

It’s because I really truly just don’t get it.

I hope to God the grad student teaching intensive theory starts making sense soon, because my class is going to be seriously annoyed if I get really confused. Then I’ll start asking questions, and I can guarantee it’ll be Really Intensive if it comes to that.

This is about all I really DO get... and not from lack of trying