Motherfuck.
My first day off from school with no work, and what do I do? I spend the entire day on sg. Okay, well not the entire day. I went out and bought some pants since all my pants have holes in them. I also got a birthday present and got sucked into buying music.
Anyway, I took a hiatus from the site because I had to remove myself from the temptations of interesting interaction so that I could get work done.
So I will get work done. Balance can be achieved between school work, music, and internetting. It can be done. So tomorrow and Sunday will be SG free for me.
Birthday party for the son of the only other Jeff Buckley fan I know in town in the early afternoon, then birthday party for a good friend that night, and then on Sunday, more birthday action for another friend.
That's a lot of partying. But I swear to you that work will get done. I'll have a list of all the work I've gotten done, and I'll post it, and I'll have a deluded sense of accomplishment and you'll be impressed with all of the technical terms that I'll use for really simple things, and everyone will close this window with just a little more happy in their bodies.
Oop. Forgot that there was a journal entry that I wanted to post but forgot:
Today was only supposed to be half lazy, half school work. Things didn't turn out as planned. Although I put my brain through a crazy 8 hour seminar on power quality spanning friday and saturday, and my body is happy for not being abused as much as I used to abuse it, that old ingrained christian guilt eats away at my gut as I continue to procrastinate going to bed and getting up early and letting the abuse begin again.
But I wanted to get this down.
I hung out with a friend, let's call her Marcy, who I met downtown one night. She has a 4-years-old-this-Saturday son, who I'll call Ross. I finally got to meet him when I swung by to pick up a Jack Johnson cd and Jeff Buckley DVD. My plans for productivity were swept away with the temptations of a beer, pleasant conversation, and childplay watching.
Ross had the art of self-entertainment down to a science. Marcy treats him like a little adult, and while I don't totally know how I'll be with my kids, I want to have interaction along those lines. Coddling and euphemizing are not how I want to treat my kids. And I could go on, but the main thing I wanted to say was this:
Ross exhibited cursory shyness upon meeting me. I am familiar with this because all the boys who took my tkd master's class were initially scared of me, whereas most of the girls would try and run up and hang on me (I'm assuming it was because I was so short as to be like an oversized Filipino Ken doll). But that shyness soon went away, and before I knew it, we were talking (this boy is smart) and playing. At one point, Ross wanted to show me some of his bigger toys, like his mini-slide, and sandbox, and pool. All these things were at the side of the house, where the ground was rocky dirt. Ross started to step on the dirt, then turned around and gave me an eye-trembling look. "Carry me." I said ok, and he ran up to me and put his arms around my neck as I lifted him up. As I maneuvered between a small tree and a leafy bush, he took some of my shirt between his teeth and grinded a little. When I got to his play things, he told me what each of them were, and we talked a bit about the differences between turtles and bears.
This whole interaction affected me profoundly. Why, I won't say. Sorry. (I'm not sorry.)
For some reason, the phrase "I remember Clifford" popped into my head. And it had less to do with the big red dog, and more to do with the jazz standard written for bebop trumpet player Clifford Brown. What's funny is I never really heard a recorded version, I've just seen it in fakebooks whilst perusing for tunes to jam on. I pulled out my fakebook and sightread the melody. It was beautiful, lilting, and, to me, traverses, through music, a sequence of emotions a man in the 1950s would feel at the loss of a comrade in arts (that's a play off the phrase 'comrade in arms', implying that the relationship of a brotherhood forged in wartime has a partly analagous relationship with a brotherhood forged within an artistic community - I wanted to make that explicit since it just didn't look like my phrase mangling communicated that).
Anyway. I played that melody again. And after the silence filled the void the sound left, I realized that I've really come a long way since I got sick. I never thought I'd be able to have a day like this again. But I had this day. This day belonged to me. I did not make it up. I made it happen.
This picture says it all:
My first day off from school with no work, and what do I do? I spend the entire day on sg. Okay, well not the entire day. I went out and bought some pants since all my pants have holes in them. I also got a birthday present and got sucked into buying music.
Anyway, I took a hiatus from the site because I had to remove myself from the temptations of interesting interaction so that I could get work done.
So I will get work done. Balance can be achieved between school work, music, and internetting. It can be done. So tomorrow and Sunday will be SG free for me.
Birthday party for the son of the only other Jeff Buckley fan I know in town in the early afternoon, then birthday party for a good friend that night, and then on Sunday, more birthday action for another friend.
That's a lot of partying. But I swear to you that work will get done. I'll have a list of all the work I've gotten done, and I'll post it, and I'll have a deluded sense of accomplishment and you'll be impressed with all of the technical terms that I'll use for really simple things, and everyone will close this window with just a little more happy in their bodies.
Oop. Forgot that there was a journal entry that I wanted to post but forgot:
Today was only supposed to be half lazy, half school work. Things didn't turn out as planned. Although I put my brain through a crazy 8 hour seminar on power quality spanning friday and saturday, and my body is happy for not being abused as much as I used to abuse it, that old ingrained christian guilt eats away at my gut as I continue to procrastinate going to bed and getting up early and letting the abuse begin again.
But I wanted to get this down.
I hung out with a friend, let's call her Marcy, who I met downtown one night. She has a 4-years-old-this-Saturday son, who I'll call Ross. I finally got to meet him when I swung by to pick up a Jack Johnson cd and Jeff Buckley DVD. My plans for productivity were swept away with the temptations of a beer, pleasant conversation, and childplay watching.
Ross had the art of self-entertainment down to a science. Marcy treats him like a little adult, and while I don't totally know how I'll be with my kids, I want to have interaction along those lines. Coddling and euphemizing are not how I want to treat my kids. And I could go on, but the main thing I wanted to say was this:
Ross exhibited cursory shyness upon meeting me. I am familiar with this because all the boys who took my tkd master's class were initially scared of me, whereas most of the girls would try and run up and hang on me (I'm assuming it was because I was so short as to be like an oversized Filipino Ken doll). But that shyness soon went away, and before I knew it, we were talking (this boy is smart) and playing. At one point, Ross wanted to show me some of his bigger toys, like his mini-slide, and sandbox, and pool. All these things were at the side of the house, where the ground was rocky dirt. Ross started to step on the dirt, then turned around and gave me an eye-trembling look. "Carry me." I said ok, and he ran up to me and put his arms around my neck as I lifted him up. As I maneuvered between a small tree and a leafy bush, he took some of my shirt between his teeth and grinded a little. When I got to his play things, he told me what each of them were, and we talked a bit about the differences between turtles and bears.
This whole interaction affected me profoundly. Why, I won't say. Sorry. (I'm not sorry.)
For some reason, the phrase "I remember Clifford" popped into my head. And it had less to do with the big red dog, and more to do with the jazz standard written for bebop trumpet player Clifford Brown. What's funny is I never really heard a recorded version, I've just seen it in fakebooks whilst perusing for tunes to jam on. I pulled out my fakebook and sightread the melody. It was beautiful, lilting, and, to me, traverses, through music, a sequence of emotions a man in the 1950s would feel at the loss of a comrade in arts (that's a play off the phrase 'comrade in arms', implying that the relationship of a brotherhood forged in wartime has a partly analagous relationship with a brotherhood forged within an artistic community - I wanted to make that explicit since it just didn't look like my phrase mangling communicated that).
Anyway. I played that melody again. And after the silence filled the void the sound left, I realized that I've really come a long way since I got sick. I never thought I'd be able to have a day like this again. But I had this day. This day belonged to me. I did not make it up. I made it happen.
This picture says it all:
VIEW 8 of 8 COMMENTS
rouge44:
thanks!
trilobitten:
they did so disappear