RPM

Sat down with the cello today. I almost cried. What was I afraid of?

Thunder rumbles over the horizon--yet it's still sunny.

Try this--turn off all the lights in the house, pop a good CD in the surround-sound system, lay out on the floor in front of the speakers--and just lose reality for a moment. Forget who you are, what your troubles are, where you are, where you're going, what you have to do...

After a zen moment like that, anything seems possible. Even an hour or two of practice. And boy, is it weird. It's like I never played before and somehow magically and unconsciously learned how to play the cello. Like gaining superpowers overnight. (Well, I wish it sounded super. It sounds like super crap, maybe. Flaming purple crap with corn chunks in it.)

Hm. I'm contemplating pink hair again.

Gas Leak

I've been plagued by these little black spiders that like to viciously shake their abdomens at me as I reach for the Raid. They seem to clone themselves during the daylight hours, though I swear to god they're growing.

Today, I spent probably three hours curled up on window sills with a dirty sponge trying to cleanse the wooden blinds of 13 years of dust. I used this stuff that takes the tarnish off brass--'bout damn near disintegrated the rag... Somehow, I got the little pieces of dusty, sopping wet spent sponge in my mouth every once in a while. I got to listen to the entire Jekyll and Hyde show and sing in relative peace, so I'm happy.

I had a dream--other than the one about smuggling alien alligators or something--that we all broke out in song simultaneously, the same key--everything. It was pretty neat. I had a pretty singing voice. Only in my dreams, right? lol

Freon

Anthony Warlow never ceases to amuse me on my car trips. I've been in a listening mood lately, and every time he eases into that perfect vibrato, it's like submerging neck-deep into a spa shimmering with bubbles. Oh, I have to shut the windows now when a particular song comes on. I know I must look funny when I'm having one of my eargasims.

Went to Webster today--a little town out in the middle of absolute no where, though I guess I've seen worse. I've seen Bushnell, too--and spent a few summers in Pawnee. I saw a few girls who looked about my age--all very pretty and blonde, usually with a guy or group of similarly dressed people. It made me wonder what I looked like to them--or I even registered at all--but the stands and stands of video games distracted me too greatly to really do a lot of people watching. I also bought a lot of books.

Talking with Steph got me to wanting to write again, to get some of these ideas out of my head on play with them on paper. I keep thinking--ah man, if Steph can get over her writer's block, so can I! I want to read something out loud, too! So I'm doing a lot of reading, since that seems to be the most reliable method to remove this obstruction in my brain. I see pages of a novel in my head when I'm daydreaming, like it's already written down and I'm just reading. Sometimes I'll play with the text--oh, that paragraph would stand out more and be more effective if...

Oh, man, I got this weird urge to practice scales... I just spotted my metronome underneath my gamecube controller.

Defrost

After spending too much time too soon in a recently bug-bombed room, I sympathized with the various creatures I was trying to kill. The moment I set that fog off, I went from simple college student to mass murderer by gas chamber. I've also taken to recreating images from various graphic novels, pictures, images from video games--now I commit plagiarism on a daily basis.

Boredom has made me into a criminal.

Re-beating an old video game for the fourth time should also be a crime--or at least a sign to get a new one. It's--well, I'm picky.

But what greater capital offense can I commit than neglecting my cello duties. Oh, tomorrow, I'll do it--I'll wake up earlier, get a good start...

I'm just waiting for the executioner to get called in--nevermind the jury or the court. I know I'm guilty. God knows I'm guilty. We can skip the unnecessary ceremony and get right to the head chopping.

Among my scattered daydreams, there's one I revisit a lot involving winning the lottery and traveling around the world. It's my favorite one, besides getting dropped with supernatural abilities or suddenly find myself in my favorite show or book. I noticed a trend, though--in all of my musings, I'm in control and independent, two factors I obviously crave and lack in real life. It's the same as the cello--oh, give a few years, I'll be on my feet by then... I can't even say I've always been like this--wishy-washy, indecisive, hesitant, whiny--because I've shown to be very impulsive--and sometimes, reliable and forward. Strong, even. Smart.

Holy cow crap, I'm analyzing daydreams. Come to think of it, I put more thought into Pokemon the papers I wrote in college. (What move gets a STAB bonus and how is that affected by their special attack? When will they ever make a good TV console game? If they're allowing kids to leave home at ten to pursue a vague dream of renown and fortune, who the hell actually gets a job?)

It's no wonder I can't sleep at night.

Call of the Road

'Twer I more musical, I'd compose a song about now. As it is, I can't maneuver around a piano or a guitar. Sort of scared of the cello, currently--yeah, Joannie, it's going to bitecha!--and my whistling is terrible. I guess I'd sing about wanting a million dollars so I can drive around all the time with the biggest iPod out there maxed out with everything from Bach to Drowning Pool.

I guess I'd comment about watching life passively. Or complain about stuff. Yeah. That's always safe.

I'm bored for the first time in a while. (Hence the monotone) I almost envy my brother for being a social creature--never was one for going out a lot.

Did you ever notice that the nozzle gun thing of the pressure washer looks like something from Star Wars? I can't wait to clean the front of the house tomorrow. If my hair were longer, I'd put it up two buns on the side of my head and wear all white. I'll make do with pigtails, I guess.

Atlas

One potential disaster after another--averted with grace today. I could have run out of gas out in the middle of nowhere. I could have gotten lost out in the Lakeland Highland Scrub on foot. Or could have brought John into a pretty hairy situation. Thankfully, none of that happened. I'm rather tired now.

abundant white sand
heat waves lolling like stove gas

feet sinking in warmth

Steel

Watching Warren play the guitar today was inspiring--and yet agonizing. He can't play all that much anymore because of Parkinson's--he shakes--but it hasn't let go of music. The heat he put into his voice, the way he rocked back and forth, and all around, thumping his foot for the beat--he broke the pick--it tore at my heart every time he missed a string or fumbled with a note. I can't begin to describe the hold his effort had on my heart, seeing him reach for his past, his dreams, his music... I watched a dying man play today.

Mom sat in the doorway, smiling and crying--a bit drunk, but harmless enough today--and Coltin made finger shadows on my lap using the sun filtering in from the window. Granny sat beside Warren on the bed with a glass of wine in her hand, peering at everything through narrowed eyes--she didn't have her glasses on--and Conan leaned against the dresser on the carpet, staring off into the sky in his eyes, probably pretending not to be there. I forgot to ask him about it.