Finishing a journal, Reading the first pages again.

June 20, 2002

I wonder what the difference is, what makes our heads swell and shrink and why we all want and dream, but all do it so differently. I wonder where I am in all of it, and is it bad to wonder? And, what is it that will make me truly content? Is it ever what I think it is, or is it some lost nothing--a floating wind that I'm hoping will drift in my direction.

Is it just love? Or more than that? And is it a self love or a love from someone else that I seem to so direly need?

My most recent revelation: I don't have to be the best flute player in the world. I don't have to be perfect. I really think that I can be content with a picket fence life. I don't need the superstar status. Why should I? I am not different.


June 21, 2002

I do everything to finish--drive to get there, eat to empty the plate, read to close the book for the last time. A never-ending anxiety that grows as I get closer to my noxious goal. I need to just enjoy the process more--all of this impeeds my progress as a musician, as a person--and nothing should.

Vermont to me is a little piece of a would-be heaven--a place where there are no watches and paved roads are the exception--a place where all of my dreams seem possible. Here, I have found my heart.

People ask if I'm lonesome, but I think I can honestly say I'm not. Lonesome is New York--when you feel you're cattle being herded to some unknown destination with the butcher block possibility being all too probable. No, I'm not lonesome--it's more of an open feeling. For once, my head stops being so loud and I can hear the music of the world.


June 22, 2002

It's interesting how when you're by yourself, words cease to be necessary. Inner dialogues are still very present, of course, but I find that the so-thought animalistic urges are not. An example: I hit my head on the roof of my little loft quite a few times. At first I would vocalise some sort of protest, but now I just rub my head maybe, or perhaps do nothing at all. Does this set us apart from the rest, or have we just misinterpreted nature?

I don't talk out loud to myself as much anymore (my inner thoughts seem to suffice) and when I do talk my voice seems unlike how I remember, or how I think.

I wonder why some people's lives change for the worse so drastically. I just saw someone who I always thought of as wonderfully, ecstatically happy...and now he is quite the opposite. Maybe it's the extremes that can curse you. But, who wants to live a life of stable mediocracy?


June 27, 2002

Every moment is two moments--the past and future colliding with the present. Opposite perceptions of the same event--and, if it didn't happen to you, did it happen at all?

When you come into contact with beauty, you want to prolong the moment--keep it forever, become beautiful. What you don't usually realize is that just by simply acknowledging it, you have soaked some of it up, and with each passing moment of appreciation you are becoming increasingly radiant. Ultimate satisfaction will come when you are able to abandon wistfullness and take each moment for what it is--a collection of memories of past beauty.

A storm passes overhead and although usually untroubled by such events, I find myself nervously pacing and looking outside at what the lightening will hit first--as though such thoughts will change the course of events.

It all happens so fast--one moment the sky is impossibly dark and who would dare to step outside? The next (it's as though I only looked down for second--maybe also took a sip of tea), the blue Vermont sky returns and the remaining rain is only that dropping from heavy laden trees overhead.

A field of grass--wind blowing across creating waves--ocean waves on land--breathtaking, mysitfying--makes you stop and stare at the beauty of the world.


June 28, 2002

Transition periods are always hard for me--the day before leaving, travelling, and even arriving. I like to feel settled--as though I have some kind of sense of permenency. The sense of loss is sometimes just too much for me. I want to soak it all in one last time, but even doing so is unsatisfactory--it's a hurried, forced last look, not something to remember and cherish--which makes leaving all the more difficult.

When exhaustion takes over, it is an all consuming fire plundering through the channels of my soul. My head pounds, and my chest aches--all wishing to be enveloped in the darkness of the land of sometimes dreams.

...

April 07, 2006

I want someone that will be there for me for the little things...the big things, well...those are pretty much taken care of. It's those little things that make the difference, that make you feel secure, whole, calm. And when you don't have someone for the little things (someone you can call five times in a row without feeling embarassed, someone to recount your dreams that don't include walking around naked, someone who always wants to hear from you no matter what, who wants to do things with you before anyone else), that's when you feel lonely and helpless.

The last page of a journal that lasted almost four years...it's hard to know how to close the book. I feel like I've come so far, but in a lot of ways those first few entries are still so valid to what I'm feeling now. I only hope that with the next chapter, the next journal, I'm able to continue along the same path. I like the path I'm on...I'm more afraid of dead ends than of forks in the road.

The peacefulness that I found that summer on my own in Vermont...I want to have that in my life. The sense of happiness and understanding that I can ressurect even by reading my past thoughts...that's what I want. Nothing less, and nothing more.


PS. My bike, garage, and bike rack are all fine, thanks to some awesome guys. My car got a little scratched in the unsticking process, but it's nothing a little touch-up paint can't fix. Thanks, everyone for your concern...it's been a rough patch with the bike fiasco being that breaking-back-straw, but I think/hope I'm reaching a turning point.