Talk about thankful

So I have a friend right now who is severely injured right now and stranded in Zoar Valley. He has rescue workers with him, but he’s too badly hurt and they can’t move him until tomorrow. Everyone who knows him has been offering prayers and support, thoughts and well wishes.

What a horrifying situation. He was hunting, and must have fallen over a hundred feet down into a gorge. They found him in the water, and got him to a safer spot. But it turns out they just couldn’t move him. I obviously can’t do anything helpful from here except think of him, fret a little for him and his family, and pray.

On that note. It boggles my mind when people make a big deal about praying. If you don’t, that’s cool. But when the situation calls for strength of faith and well wishes, don’t make a statement about how you’re the different one, and you don’t pray, and how you hope that does the same thing.

Sure and it might. But to be brutally honest, when someone takes a tumble down a fucking cliff and is in serious condition in freezing weather… forgive me if I strongly feel that that deserves all of the attention and the focus. Not whether you’re God-fearing or whatever.

Honestly my whole heart goes to Drew and his family tonight. I can’t imagine how terrifying and stressful today must have been for them and you can bet I’ll be praying he makes a full, swift recovery.

Only two more nights

Starbucks again. This time with both Alexes, Aden, and Aaron.

Eeww. I am the only K name. I’m not sure how I feel about it.

I don’t think I have any homework left to do. If I do, it’s small and irrelevant. I can practice like crazy tomorrow if my voice is feeling better (pleasepleaseGodletitfeelbetter). I have the piece for the Messiah audition in my bag and I’ll look at it in just a little bit. Diction tomorrow won’t be fun but I’ll live through it. Theory will be awkward again unless I make it otherwise– but no surprise there. Freshman writing will be early and ugly but I’ll get through that, too. Italian will take forever and then after Diction I have my audition. Then Rep Singers. Then I’m done for the day.

Tuesday will be very similar. Ninethirty theory, followed by Colloquium and Aural skills. No piano thank goodness, so I can get ready for singing in studio.


There. I just went through the next two days in my head and hopefully they’ll fly by with the same brutally swift efficiency as I just summarized with.

Brief list of wishing

It’s late. Or early. Pick one.

I wish I was sleeping. But if I sleep, that means I have to get up. That means my mind will have to start to function all over again. So instead of winding through the same putridly stagnant thoughts, like I am right now, I’ll get a new and fresh slam of them in the morning.

I wish I was rested. But if I rest, then I’ll have energy. That means I’ll feel everything as clear and sharp as sleet. So instead of breathing in and taking time, like I should be, I’ll keep skittering along on coffee, strong and black, and hope that I can just hold out until Tuesday night.

I wish I was dull. But if I pretend I’m stupid it might actually happen. That means that the gurgle of pathetic trickling through my system might simply take charge, and that would be horrifying. So instead of falling back on hapless self-pity, like I have before, I’ll press on with a sturdy support of resilient crankiness for a while.

All my loving

I see my family in three days.

Technically I see them next Tuesday, but I have to get through Friday, Monday and Tuesday for that to happen. I’m leaving straight from studio class at 730 in the evening to load up the car and get the heck out of here.

I can’t say I’m unhappy here, because I really enjoy myself, normally. But I am so ready to go home, to breathe real air. To see stars. The one Sunday we went to the beach at night? Yeah. Amazing. Just that little teasing glimpse hooked itself into my heart and still tugs, tugs, until the breath comes short in my chest and I can almost picture the sky from my house. I can’t wait to see the horses, to run around with Molley and Grizz and maybe go for a run. Okay, so I don’t actually run, but a leisurely jog with the dogs or a wander in the woods is certainly an exciting possibility.

I can chill out with my sister when the parents are at work. We’ll play Sims and eat Real Food and insult each other. Probably fold some laundry and do the dishes and laze around and drink hot chocolate.

Then, Thanksgiving. Oh my God. My mouth is watering just thinking about it. Grandma’s house in Forestville jammed full of the Luders and maybe/hopefully Uncle Norm and Aunt Lena. Bursting with sounds and smells of football and Really Real Food. I’ll probably be chopping vegetables or making gravy or whatever while Uncle Dave struts around like the proud grandfather he is (regardless of the fact that baby Evan will be with Maria at Scott’s parents’) and Grandma runs around trying to make sure everything is amazing. She needn’t bother– it always is. There will be turkey and holy sweet baby Jesus mashed potatoes. And salad, and some weird casseroles that I probably won’t eat, but then. But then. Dessert. Pies and holy crap it doesn’t even matter what other goodness there is because there will be homemade freaking pie. More than one kind.

I’m going to faint just thinking about the phenomenal week that awaits me.

I just have to get through three days. And a weekend. I cannot wait to be home.

The view of the back of my house from a little ways into the backyard

Four days

I feel so old.

I’m sitting in Starbucks right now at the River Campus. I just finished my theory and diction assignments and am kind of not doing anything productive. But that’s okay, because I haven’t been on facebook yet since I’ve gotten here and the caramel thing I got is amazing.

I just read a few really old blog entries of mine. This is my second wordpress blog, so I could have gone back to the old one and checked out some really ancient things, but I was curious about myself as I was this past summer. It must be the psycho-analytical obsession leaking back, because recent events have led me to wonder whether or not I instigate a pattern with people. This might seem a little unclear.

In plain speaking, I think I intimidate boys and then they think they can either A.) take advantage of me because I like them and I’m scary but now they’re in control or B.) totally ignore me and pretend they don’t know me because they don’t want to get involved but don’t have enough balls to say so to my face.

So I was looking back (there are some entries where I thought I mentioned my summer and the boys that happened then) and wondering what it is that I do that seems to negate the possibility of anything taking shape in that direction.

I think I’ve come to the decision to stop thinking about it. After cruising through the bummed-out words of my July-self, then sifting over the stress of August days, I think it’s just not worth it.

Some days I think, I should shut up. Today is not one of those days

I don’t want to do my diction homework. I don’t want to learn IPA right now.

Okay, I mean, I do, but not the way that we’re learning it and not in a stuffy room crammed full of singers and open e’s and o’s and headaches.

I don’t want to wait for my laundry. In fact, I didn’t want to laundry at all today because I just don’t want to. But no, I shoved two dollars and fifty cents worth of quarters into that machine and by God I will have clean clothes. They just might not be all the way dry by the time I go to get them out of the dryer. I have class at three thirty and I don’t want anyone else touching them while I pretend to enjoy Rep Singers.

I don’t want to do my theory. I don’t even want to go to theory any more. I can’t believe how awkward I made it for myself.

Um, but please. My recently vocal sassy side shakes her head and does the Z-finger-snap thing because hey buddy. If you don’t want me, say so and don’t mix your signals. In my experience, drunken behavior is the most telling because you are at your most relaxed and uninhibited in an intoxicated state. Therefore, it leads me logically to the conclusion that you’d want me if I’d say so.

Don’t lie to me now that you’re sober. Don’t ignore me now that you’re sober. I don’t appreciate it and it makes me lean toward the notion that oh my, you can be a jackass. It’s not my fault I’m mysteriously attracted to you. In all honesty, I cannot think of a solid reason why I am. Okay, you have some really pretty eyes and you’re not a tenor.

Those aren’t even Good Reasons. Like, what the hell. What’s wrong with me?

Or better, what’s wrong with you? Since apparently you can flirt with everyone else and not with me? Unless you’re drunk? I’m so confused. Don’t lead me on. I don’t have time.

I do have a significant amount of stubbornness and crankiness though. I can be kind of a pain in the ass if things don’t work out my way here. But I’ve taken steps and now I’ll wait for you to make yours and if they’re in a direction I don’t like I’ll do something else and pretend it doesn’t affect me at all.

I mean I probably will care but it will look like No Big. But just so you know, I’d have an open ear or arms for you if you ever wanted them.

Used to it by now

So, I think I’m just no fun. That’s the clear conclusion. It doesn’t matter, and doesn’t bother me overmuch, but it’s what I believe my problem is. I’m a serious person… usually. And when I’m not, I guess I’ve got a dirty and sarcastic sense of humor that is generally fun-loving and chill, but there’s really only so much I can do to make myself into someone others want to spend time with. And to be honest I don’t believe I should have to do that much to transform myself. I shouldn’t have to change to please those who don’t care.

If I’m not entertaining enough, or sociable enough, or flirtatious/charming/shallow enough? Well, I hate to say this, but I’ve made my peace with that a long time ago. I am who I am. I wouldn’t change it. I thought about it, yesterday for a little while. I could play those games, I could cake on layers of fake and gooey glamor that’d strike a bombshell chord in whoever talked to me. I could wear the right clothes, say the right things, climb a social ladder of sickly sweet smiles and “hey, honeys.” For some people, that works. That’s who they are. I could do it, too. If I chose.

Just the thought of it makes my stomach roll. I don’t think I’d be able to stand it. I’d rather take the no fun and the semi-lonely melancholy that accompanies than adopt a slick glaze of false.

Poem with no form, but some eighth notes

Hearing notes in my head
Soaring, soaring
Audiation of
Brilliant white, gold

Hearing chords in my mind
Running, running
Pigmentation of
Blooming pure sound

I hear those triplets
Calling, cycling
Down a brick road
Of sevenths

I hear a leading tone
Aching, yearning
To meet up with its
Love next door

Just a whirling line
All of it mine
Keeping time
In my mind

From early this morning

I feel as though I talk about love a lot. I mean, that’s not necessarily a bad thing, but since I don’t plan to experience the concept in relation to a boy any time soon, it’s kind of irrelevant for me. And the fact that I’m discussing hypothetical situations and feelings that I’ve never had in that capacity? Yeah. Makes me feel like a desperate loser.

But, I suppose, isn’t it better to discuss things? If in twenty years I revisit this blog, I might be amused. Or writing it all out could help me actually do some deep thinking without getting really upset.

The only reason I got upset in the first place was because I’m a wimp. Okay, so I can pretty much handle anything. But really deep down, I’m scared of everything. The most you can do is live anyway, and be strong and vibrant regardless of the fear. To put it aside and in the back of your mind because it’s certainly the least important.

But there’s an undercurrent of quick, freezing terror sometimes. Just a swift jolt to remind me. If anything happened to my family or friends, I’d be nothing. I’m nothing without them. In the same breath, if anything happened to prevent me from living out the dreams I’ve laid for myself, it would be similarly devastating. There’s always so much to lose.

On the other hand there’s so much to gain. And that’s what that little streak of romantic in my heart keeps telling me. That’s why I’m not, say, a psychopath or something. Because there’s always that brave streak of “hey, dude, look at this, this is life and you are here. Live.”


After a lot of thinking and a constant headache I think I should be a little ashamed of myself. Honestly, so much stress, and for what?

Only my perspective has changed. Nothing else. I don’t know what’s going on anywhere else but here, right now. I know what I think, and what I feel, and I have to be certain of it because otherwise I’m thrown off-kilter and can’t work or focus. But no one else has to know, or guess. I can keep my observations and intuitions private if I need to. My thoughts can stay my own, adrift in a mind of fantasy and silliness that doesn’t need to shared with anyone.

Another late night


If I said I think too much, would that be surprising? In any way, shape or form?

Probably not.

But here is what I think anyway.

I think that my really weird and awful and revolting dream set the stage for an equally weird and awful day. I think that I may be getting sick and will be taking every precaution against it.

I think that this dream makes me scared to sleep again. But I mean, I have to. My eyes are just so tired. I want to snuggle up somewhere and just drop off the face of the planet for a few hours.

That sickening, heavy leaden feeling in my stomach won’t go away. I don’t want it to remanifest itself if I nod off. Who knows what it might be tonight? God. I don’t want to dream.


I think I have unraveled a tiny portion of my churning unpleasant mood.

I don’t think the boy thing is directly related to the baby dream. Which is good.

But I do think that A.) I am disgusted with myself for thinking about boys/a boy, and in turn being distracted and B.) Letting that distraction keep me from being goal-oriented. Right now I’m of the mindset that I should just trust myself to do the best thing and not make myself sick thinking about the potentially negative results. But this is college. Everything here is bigger and badder than high school, and that’s great, but… that means that every mistake I make is bigger and badder, too.

I also think that the baby dream was partially correctly analyzed by the dream interpretation website. I just had a quick discussion about it. It was proposed that, due to the setting (here) and the instant and huge fear it gave me, that something here is developing, being born, and I’m scared of it. Whether it is for the best is yet to be seen. It was part of the newness and the unknown prospect of the baby that made up a large part of my terror. That same newness and unseen features could apply to whatever it is that’s growing. It could be my potential, or the prospect of a relationship, or my future. Or even something as simple as my voice.

The flat-out worst dream I think I’ve ever had

The dream interpreter website says that I am trying to achieve inner growth and development. It says that I may be headed in the direction of a new idea, direction, project or goal.

It obviously does not realize that dreaming I was pregnant with a dead baby at school is probably the most disgusting fucking thing I could dream. I didn’t know who the father was. I didn’t know if the baby lived. I only knew that it was a boy, no one would help me, and I was alone. Except for those who scalded me with looks for shook their heads in pity.

I’m so scared. I feel like I’m sick. I feel like I’m alive and sick and like the dream is true. I know it’s not– how could it be!?– but I feel the way I did in the dream. From the thick band of weird all around my stomach to the horrified sadness. That dream represented everything that could go wrong. Everything. And I lived it. I lived the terror and the shame of it, felt the life inside me and then the death touch it. The rank touch of failure swiped nasty claws across my heart last night.

But, according to the dream website, apparently some aspect of my personal life is trying to grow or develop?

It’s going to stop. I know what my inner romantic thinks is going to happen in my “personal life,” and I won’t let it. I’m not ready for or craving a relationship. And that’s what I want when I decide to get close to a boy again. Although something in me tells me I should go for whatever opportunities present themselves, my actual brain, that has my future in mind, is adamantly screaming, no fucking way. Just stop. You’re so stupid.

I’ve never full-out denied myself something and meant it. So it’s strange when another side of me is straight up rebelling at what my logical mind is telling it.

I’m pegging it down as the fact that I’m just really pathetic and feel wrung out and sour and down and will leave it at that. With any luck this sickening feeling will be gone by the end of the day.

Hope it’s just a bug

It’s like nausea rising in my throat,

accompanied by that same sickening staccato of


like, oh shit

a punch in the belly

the giddiness kicks right up

up and out and forward

It’s making me ill, I

feel so so sick to my stomach

this is not how I’m supposed to feel, I’m

supposed to be productive

Just like this poem was

supposed to make sense

But instead I’m just kind of chopping

up phrases since I

can’t think

in a straight line

Crap, man

I didn’t ask for this.

Regarding the password

It’s silly, but I figure once something’s on the internet anyone can see it, so. My last post? I needed to vent out some things. If you’re interested in reading my come-to-Jesus rant to myself, just drop me a line somehow (see “Contact” up at the top of the screen) and give me your name. I’ll be more than happy to send you the password, no questions asked. Have a splendid night (even though, well, I won’t be. lolz.).

* EDIT: Or, this is probably simpler.



It’s really weird, isn’t it, to think that in fifty or sixty years, if I make it that far, my world will be so unfathomably different than it is right now.

I am sitting on my bed, in my dorm. A freshman in college with polka-dotted sheets and pink and orange, vibrant decor. A book on one side of me, my computer and phone on the other. So new to the world of real things. So new to living on her own, as her own.

In sixty years, where will I be? A stout little grandmother making my life with love and horses and big scary dogs in Wyoming or Montana? With a big, open house and plenty of kids around. And space to run and ride and work and learn.

Or will I be in the city somewhere, teaching master classes? Speaking and reading and developing new ways to think of music and education. Probably alone since that work is intense. I might have a decent apartment with plenty of books and a red coffeemaker.

Maybe I’ll be huddled near my sister in some suburb somewhere. A well-to-do, all-is-well, everything’s-the-same neighborhood. I can sit trapped in the house that’s identical to everyone else’s and write away while my sister’s grandchildren play nearby.

I don’t know. But I was just sitting here thinking, in fifty years, will I remember this exact moment? Will I recall that day when I sat and breathed and looked around, wondering if I’d remember? What will I think of my eighteen-year-old self? What would I tell her? What will I know then that is still a mystery to me right now?

What people will I have come across? What other lives that are strangers to me now will have brushed against mine? What lives will my family and I have lived?

Who will I be when I am old?