Music at my fingers (at not all hackneyed-sounding like on my piano, unfortunately because I lack skills and practice experience)

I found it! I finally found a way to download free music.. heh. Okay, yeah, obviously I have issues since I can't seem to find an actual method in obtaining music. I just basically google and hope for the best. Now, though, I found a blog! And not just any blog, it's one that talks about music that I completely don't understand!

Yeah. I'm not originally a listener of indie music. But I do get sick of the same stupid tunes recycled on the radio or the same songs on my computer (from back when I was very naively devoted to Limewire). This blog, Musical Humanity, is opening my eyes. And no, I'm not just downloading everything they introduce for no reason, I listen to the sampler first. If there is no sampler, I let their cover album wow me, then I download. Well, copy and paste the URL into my browser, but yeah. You get the picture.

Back then

my mother would drive us, my brother and me, past a superstore. In the field beside the parking lot, a fair was set up every year or so in the summer. My brother and I always wanted to go there and play, and my mother would see that. She said once that she'd take us there one day. She promised and we were satisfied that one day we'd get to play there and ride the merry-go-round and the ferris wheel and have cotton candy. We were happy. Years went by and one of us would mention the promise once every year or two.

Finally, four years ago, we moved elsewhere and I haven't seen that fair since. I still remember that promise and I still remember how badly I wanted to go.

I feel like crying

whenever I feel the distance between an actual pianist and me after watching someone play Nocturne in C# minor by Chopin.

I want to close that distance so badly, and I always feel a lump in my throat. The problem is that that inspiration I have is fleeting. I don't practice after that, or I forget that I ever wanted to play it so beautifully or I don't care anymore. I think my heart rots when I feel this way.

Raining

It's autumn so leaves fall, and land everywhere. On lawns, on sidewalks, the street, etc. It's all really pretty and vivid, but what's special about this autumn is that it rained a lot in the last few weeks. That sucks because I had to wait in the cold drizzle for the bus, but it's pretty damn awesome since I get to see leaves stamping the ground. They actually leave imprints and it made me think of the pleasefindthis blog. Yeah, I'm getting obsessed. What else is new?

I failed my Physics unit test. Which means I'm failing Physics. I can't seem to care about it that much though. If this happened, what, two years ago? I'd be close to tears. Now, I just feel nonchalant. It matters since my mother got pissed at me. I was disappointed in myself, too, just not as much as I thought I would be, or should be. Something is wrong with me. It's probably because I'm just so sick of comparing myself to what I should be like that I just don't care anymore. Sigh.

Yeah. Also, I get really annoying when I'm whiny, which is around ninety percent of the time. My voice gets really high-pitched and it's hard to tolerate even for me. Especially for me. As cliché as it sounds, I hate my life. But not for what's happening, more like for what I'm making it be.

Rational Expressions

Try to express yourself rationally. You can't. No one can. That's why when everyone realizes that in functions, it's so much easier than in real life, they're shocked.

Watch it fester

You're defending my best friend and I'm defending mine. But I can't help but wonder if who you're defending is actually you.

I also find it extremely suspicious that the day she says that you like me, you start acting like it . You were perfectly normal before. Now, you're not.

I don't know if you're unsure or what. I was sort of pouring my heart out to you though. You suck.

Lovely

I hate msn. It killed my homepage. I'm not particularly happy about that. Nor am I particularly happy about how little I understand and how far I can go without someone holding my hand through playing with exponents. I'm pathetic, but I'm proud of the stupidest things. I don't care if that's not a word, I think it is.

I'm the only one who cares about whatever I'm insecure about. I'm the only one who cares if I make a spelling mistake or if I do something incorrect in the world of grammar. I'm the only one who feels shame when I catch myself doing something stupid, like making a mistake. But I make so many mistakes, I almost feel ashamed of myself all the time. I don't though, because when it happens often enough, you get used to it. Basically, I care about unimportant things and frivolous junk rather than the bigger picture or the issues at hand. The little things prevent me from doing big things.

There's this trip to a museum to see a special exhibit for King Tut's sarcophagus and all the treasures in his tomb, other miscellaneous artifacts and such. For my World History to the Sixteenth Century course, I'd have to pay $23 to go. But I don't want to go if no one that's my friend is going. There are only a hundred spots for six classes of about thirty or so, so it's first come first serve. But still. I wouldn't be enjoying it if I was alone. That's how dependent I am.

I see people and they all seem more honest than me, more confident. A little more alive. They laugh hard and execute biting sarcasm as if they'd been doing it since birth. They're emotional and they experience life. I don't, not as much. I feel jealous because people are experiencing life at its highest and they're having the time of their lives. I'm just waiting for the clock to stop ticking, biding my time. I sound like I'm really detached and it's kind of true.

I don't friends that I'm not afraid of waking in the middle of the night to talk about some stupid dream. Maybe it's because of that fear, that fear of living life like I own it that's preventing me from living it wholly and truly. I'm not in love with life, but I want to be.

Incredible

how much I think I like someone after only nine days of actual human contact.
how much that sort-of like can fuel or evolve into some kind of stalker-like obsession.
how much more I exaggerate when I'm mocking myself.
how long it takes for someone to do two stupid things.
how long it takes for me to do six stupid things.
how irresponsible the two of us are.
how guilty I will feel for screwing over that sweet, kind boy in three of my classes that's very nice even to me.
how much I'm talking about a stupid lab report that isn't even worth anything. But still.
how irritated I can be.
how self-obsessed I am.
how much I want to play music or sing it, you know, well.
how much I like Gravity by Sara Bareilles.
how much I want to be reading American Gods by Neil Gaiman.
how stupid I feel.
how loved I want to feel.
how shallow I am.
how much I'm talking about myself.
how much I want someone to read this and comfort me.

Day Before

It's past 12:00 am where I am which means it's officially tuesday, August 25th 2009, also known as the day before I will leave for Miami. I'll be spending the next ten days there, on a cruise or sightseeing/melting in the heat.

I'm cold right now. I've been having a headache since I rode a few roller coasters at this famous amusement park.

I don't really want to pack. I don't really want to go. I'd much rather stay at home, wasting my hours on the internet. Or reading my library books ( which are due during the time when I'm gone). Or training myself to sleep and wake earlier to get prepped for school (at least think about it). But, you know, going somewhere for vacation is something expected for the summer. Staying home and doing nothing is a default, but no one sees that during those magnificent hours I spend reading other people's stories, I'm more alive than I ever will feel, puking up my guts from seasickness.

Just, you know, something to think about.

I'm A Materialistic Bitch

I don't fucking care. I'm a materialistic person who enjoys having her own things. I'm also immensely selfish and all I care about are the things I like and indulging myself. Things I think in my head are mine I resent anyone who tell me otherwise. I hate sharing and I hate being generous and kind. I don't help people even though they help me. I am a self-centered, egotistical bitch and I like living as one. I'm the kind of hypocrite that treats her things like crap until someone wants to cherish them. I don't like to change, so chances are I won't. I'm a hateful, spiteful creature who should never have kids. I'm childish, petty, and I secretly hold grudges. This is the moment where I truly, honestly believe that I shouldn't even be alive. It's too bad for the rest of the world. They have to deal with me. They have to cater to my every whim while I scoff at people. I'm not independent by any means, but I expect everyone around me to be because I'm useless and I like to keep it that way so I won't have to do anything. You could say I'm an attention whore.

I'm also the kind of person that cries when reading manga, or books. I'm the kind of person that could defend any side and actually conjure up emotion and empathy for it if I really tried to see honestly. I'm the kind of person who wants all or nothing. Not half. I'm the kind of person who could believe in anything. I might not be able to make things for myself (no faith) but I do believe for others. When I know something, it becomes so true to me, that nothing else exists. But it's never concrete.

I'm the kind of person who can't console anybody, who won't help others and who indulges herself way too much. But I also care a lot, in spite of everything.

Love is in the air (in various forms like an airborne contagious disease)

So yeah. Still a bit interested, but kind of bitter by the fact that he screwed me over. Oh well, it was just practice, right?

I'm not so sure about that.

He's particularly prickly with me. He sees I'm really trying to pass this course, but he's also not making things particularly easier for me. He's, you know, the kind of teacher that's sarcastic and tortures you with work and more practice until you die for your own damn good and that pisses me off. Why couldn't he just let us off easy? Because he's all about tough love. You can pretty much see it in the way he handles some other kids in our class. Granted, I'm the oldest one and probably the most disciplined one (read: submissive), so obviously the other younger, more class-clown types get more interaction. But as I said before, I'm very obviously trying and I'm ignored. I've never really stuck out in general, but teachers notice me.

I'm being really self-centered here, but it's true. I'm the one that asks good questions, the one who's surprisingly good at rescuing people (despite popular belief, including my own) and yet I'm brushed aside like yesterday's expired meat loaf. I guess a big part of this rant is coming from the part that wants special attention, the one that's kind of infatuated with him. That's probably the worst thing that could happen, to be honest.

I think out of all the composers we've done so far, Berlioz is my favourite. Not for his music, mind you. For his life. I can't be bothered to remember his first or middle names, his date or place of birth, whether he's a romantic composer or not. What I can be bothered to remember is that one of his most famous pieces, Symphonie fantastique, was inspired by his delusional love and hatred for this woman he stalked for several years.

Interesting? You have no idea. This woman ended up being his wife after a decade or so. Very emotional, actually, he's got a pretty shitty love life if you think about it. Be spurned by the woman you love because she's scared of you and runs off to America to be a famous actress. Write a symphony telling the story of a guy who kills his beloved because she was a witch (and yet he gets prosecuted and dies for committing murder) and on the opening night of that symphony, the woman you love/hate comes to see it and says hi. Then you marry her, her acting company flops, you begin to hate each other, she dies. Lovely, ain't it?

And so on. Sigh. If I was honest with myself, I'd have to admit that I was thinking of asking this guy out. I've been talking to him a lot and I've actually always talked to him a bit. We both kind of have mixed feelings, I can tell, but I don't know if he likes me. I don't even know if I like him, but it seems like we're kind of already going out. It's weird. Okay, let me rephrase that. The time we spend together is like we're going out. We're not. I think I've read too much romance or something. I'm boycrazy and I hate it.

Let's hope I snap out of this self-delusion and magically pass History III, Harmony III, Bronze Cross, and my G1 in the month of August, as well as score a summer job that gets me great benefits with a minimal amount of work before I have to start filling in fifty thousand diagnostic student get-to-know-you-better papers in September. I swear, the teachers either just lose them after the first week or recycle them, there's really no point in them.

Despair

When you hear the word 'despair', what comes to mind? Some might answer war, child soldiers, famine, corruption in government, ceaseless killing and death. Others might think of falling into a deep pit of debt, alcoholism, addiction to drugs, the long climb upward. Even more would probably think of love unrequited, hurt, heartbreak, unrealized desire.

For me, it'd be unrealized desire. I can read music and name certain intervals. I can play fragments of pieces I've practiced so much I've memorized them through repetition. I can feel emotions in music. I can want to immerse myself so wholly and completely in fantasy that I dream of glitter and sparkle and music and dancing and all those shiny, beautiful things like balls and gowns.

But that's not enough.

I want to actually be able to play an instrument well enough that I could lose myself in its melodies. I want to have a talent for poetry and writing so I could convey my thoughts and emotions in the most piercing way. I want to conjure up clothes that I've thought up so I could wear them. I want so much to be in that world of glitter and sparkle and whatnot, but I'm not.

I'm stuck in reality, where I'll probably fail my English exam tomorrow or I won't get the nineties I want so bad, but know I won't get. I can't escape from this place, where I don't have someone to tell all this to and understand.

The only way I can get some reprieve from this at all, is through books. Fortunately, I've got a library card at my disposal. Unfortunately, my mother has forbidden me from using it until the end of exams.

Somewhere along the way, I almost wish my thoughts could just be imprinted onto my blog without me having to pick which of them I want to say. Then again, if that actually happened, I probably wouldn't have friends.

The moment in which Callie Torres joined Derek Shepherd in his wallowing (sort of different)

She didn't know what to say. She couldn't think of any words that could be said out loud that didn't sound in a way patronising or cheesy or trite.

He asked her how she woke up in the morning, knowing that what she did was so essential in everyday life and that she was regarded by each patient as a god, expecting to know how to save his or her life and in no way thinking that maybe she couldn't. He asked her how she could look herself in the mirror knowing that she killed far more patients than saved their lives, because he couldn't and truly wanted to know. He asked her how she could show up at work to start a brand new day and rework the cycle of killing or saving people, never stopping to grieve for the ones she didn't save because of a mistake.

She had no way of answering him. Her mind drew a blank because she didn't know how she got out of bed in the morning or looked herself in the mirror or showed up at work to try again. She just knew she did and that she couldn't for the life of her figure out why.

So she asked him for a beer to join him in his self-loathing because she sure as hell started drowning in her own. Besides, it was his fault she was in the first place. A beer was the least he could do.

Fleeting Leisure

And so, another week of doing nearly absolutely nothing passes by and, like I said, absolutely nothing can be shown for it.

I've still got a whole shitload of ISP research to do, a video plotline somehow related to Fanny by Marcel Pagnol to think about, a Drama Portfolio entry to complete (and start), a PowerPoint Presentation of the arrest of Rosa Parks to finish, to learn the other two pages of Nocturne by Chopin hands together not to mention the rest of Dreams by Kabalevsky and the freaking whole of Le Coucou by some french composer. Then there are the Studies (which are of no help with my perpetual trek across the lands of lack-o'-practice) and other components of piano that I don't want to think about. There are upcoming projects too, as well as the returning of my Chemistry Unit Test, on which I have a sneaking suspicion I didn't do well and the horrendous mark update for Drama. It ain't gonna be pretty.

On another note, since I've been so bored procrastinating, I've started writing again (aside from the whining and the complaining on this blog) and I'm thinking of perhaps posting it on fictionpress. If I posted it here, no one would read it. I kind of want to despite that. Hmm. It's probably just the glam of a new blog.