After nearly a year of hemming and hawing, I finally deleted my Facebook account today. This means that by year's end, I'll have finished penning that novel, collection of short stories, book of cartoons, and learned a couple dozen concerti, right? Right?
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- Feb 5, 2018
I'm turning twenty-nine in a week and change, which would be terrifying except that, like joy or ecstasy or despair, fear is an emotion with which I no longer seem to identify. After all of last year's change and upheaval, the dust settled on 2018 and I find myself struggling to feel much of anything. I'm neither content nor discontent, not happy, not sad, just sort of a blank, numb automaton carrying out each day's tasks, forcing out productivity in a vacuum. With each passing day, my doubt grows about whether or not it all makes any difference. So far, the city of Atlanta has shown a staggering amount of disinterest in my presence. "It takes time," is the refrain I keep hearing from sympathetic ears probably sick to death of my kvetching, but the more I'm here the more I'm beginning to realize that there just isn't that much interest in classical music around here. This is the city of hip-hop, and, increasingly, film. Maybe it's time to diversify. If anyone knows any hip-hop artists who need to spice up their beats with some sick classical piano licks, hit me up. I'll be here, getting older and not feeling a thing.
- Jan 9, 2018
"So this is the new year
And I don't feel any different"
And I really don't. We are now a week and a half into this arbitrary new metric of time, and I'm here quoting a song that I've been listening to for half my life. I'm still blogging in fits and spurts like I've been doing since the good old days of Livejournal. I'm still idealistic and temperamental and confused as ever, and in many ways infinitely more so. I have reached new heights (depths?) of laziness and procrastination, my previous physical immobility spilling over into a psychological apathy that is equal parts ennui and curiosity at just how long I can put things off before it starts to feel dangerous. Like a sick game of truth or dare I'm always playing with myself. With all this time at my disposal and a dearth of impending deadlines, that constant fear that used to nip at my heels has subsided, but who knew fear was such a necessary motivator for me? Unhealthy, sure, but vital. Without fear egging me on, that emotional manifestation of the recurring nightmare where I'm about to play Rach 3 or Prok 3 or 'tok 3 (OK that one's a stretch) onstage but have no idea how it goes, I'm just stuck somewhere between the start and finish line, languishing in slow motion while everyone races by me in real time. I know I must be waiting for something, but the answers never come.
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