An open thought to someone in particular:

I suppose, stereotypically, one should feel angry, hurt, distraught, sad, depressed, emo, etc. and moreso, if one has/had no idea. Alas, I knew. And I have never prayed so hard for anything as I did about my knowledge. I pretty much begged every god I've ever encountered in text, on TV or in conversation.

I begged to be wrong, more wrong than I've ever been or will be about any topic.

I pleaded, bargained and demanded that I be corrected or, at the very least, not know the outcome either way. I cried for a swine's satisfaction.

A heathen's pleas often fail to inspire the divine. (The sacred version reads: God works in mysterious ways.)

Granted, even though I knew the outcome, the only end (to this particular situation), I was never ready to see it. I definitely cry more than a stereotypical male, and I already asked myself why I was crying. It's not as if I'm at an end. It's not as if someone died. Everyone is still here, the same. Everyone, for all practical purposes, still exists.

The "what now" aspect of this situation still makes me cringe. I suppose we could use that time machine and stop this situation from occurring. That would be the easiest method. We could stop knowing each other. We could continue living as if we're both unaffected. We could hit stuff with sticks. We could File>Load. We could do nothing. We could ask someone else for help. We could pretend it's August. We could arm wrestle. We could drink gallons of lemonade. We could dance in public. We could refuse to acknowledge whatever there is to acknowledge. We could fight in the snow. We could sit in a dark van. We could get two hours of sleep. We could write a musical. We could read White Noise. We could take a Mihm Seminar. We could know that "This is a G** damn bitch of an unsatisfactory situation." We could know that god, bog and the rest will help us/me/you get through it. We could simply live and learn. We could theorize for years about "coulds," "should haves" and "wishes." We could donate our bodies to science. We could ... infinity. We could ... infinity. We could ... infinity. We could ... infinity. We could ... infinity.

I am still semi-confused. You can help me with that later, when I have confidence again.


An open thought to everyone in particular:

I'm not sure what you are to me.
That's not entirely true.
I'm sure what you are to me.
But what am I to you?

(That rhymed in a very cheesy poem sort of way, but please do not mistake it for poetry.)

Problem: I'm upset with myself over a rational desire. Why? Because I have an underlying feeling that it makes you unhappy in some way, any way.

Free will is a semi-lie. I don't get a choice in my emotions. Why would I ever to choose to feel this tortured over a matter of "absolute joy" (thanks, sir)? I already know the answer to the question; I'm afraid of it. See "Problem."

I cried for a little while after I told you that I feel awkward. You shouldn't assume that my problems originate in anyone but me. You shouldn't assume that you have an obligation to fix me. Your help is appreciated. I'm not mad. I know you're not either. I want to believe it moreso than the existence of a god, moreso than infinitude of eternity.

I want to believe, I suppose, that what you are to me is what I am to you.

But I won't ask that question. I don't know why. I do know why. I don't want to know that I know why. I don't want you to know that I know why. Why don't I want to know that I know why? Haven't we already established that we're not going anywhere?

I suppose I'm ashamed because it's you that I'm speaking. Every other being pales in comparison. No one else matters more to me. But how do I qualify that if you don't qualify it in the same way? How can I qualify that if you don't qualify that in the same way?

I am certain what you are to me. And it gives me hope; makes me blind; fulfills me; destroys me; allows me to cry; allows me to sing; hates me; forever forgives me.

Mostly, though, it makes me.


from my second little black book:

1/13/05 - 10:13 a.m. (on tour)

Beach, again. Sucks, again.

When you finally want to talk to me...I have nothing to say.

We did sit together. We did(n't) get sick of each other(?). A one way street? Certainly not my way. For once I feel like a third wheel, even when we're riding a bike.

"I assume it's my fault..." You hate when I assume.


I tend to over-analyze ever action, word, expression. As a result, my self-confidence suffers at the (literal) blink of an eye.

(Avoid cliches like the plague.)

What does it mean when he/she/you smile(s), frown(s)? What is the purpose of his/her/your laughter, tears? Does every action serve a purpose? Consciously? Can I buy a guide? Map?

Or perhaps actions are merely a means from one point to another.
Being part of an ensemble that possesses and regularly uses talent such that, as a entity, we are an instrument of personal change and motivation surpassed by none other than divinity, is the most rewarding experience of my professional life second only to witnessing said instrumentation amidst tears of inexpressible joy.

Composer-based compositions and performances, any musical endeavors that strive to merely entertain the "enlightened" and educated, have no business with the name "music." Music, unadulterated and profound, can bring even the least educated man a glimpse of Einstein, the greatest sinner a breath of Eden. Music is not about an equation or a process; emotion far out weighs how intellectually superior the compositional technique might be.

Elitist music is a contradiction in terms.


rhetorical(?): does this constitute a bold move?

from my first little black book:

1/22/05 - 11:53 p.m. (on tour)

I really do miss her. I often find myself wondering how choir would be different if she were here. Would we sit together, get sick of each other, etc...stupid stuff like that. I can't help it.