Monday, March 30, 2009

Once I used to Ramble

I found a blog I kept from about 1999 to 2005. It chronicles only about half of that because in a fit of anger I took down a lot of it, so really it just chronicles the first few years of college, my anger at my parents (Before I got over it and moved on...) and a relationship that ended years ago and seems so far away (but was this anxious, contentious, beautiful part of my life for so long!)

It's interesting to read over these things, as if reading the past can help me predict the future.

I had forgotten how much I have done. I have gone around the world and back in terms of change.

And what luxury! (To be able to change who you are on a whim or a blink!)

But how real!! those experiences were. How beautiful and exciting and new everything was there! I lived and lived and lived, and my eyes were so bright they glistened like two bright stars in warm velvet skies. I was anxious for each next day because I knew it would be different, exciting.

So now I'm reading this journal of this cheeky, witty girl, who was entirely assured of herself (it comes through the writing) that never ate a thing (I talk about my weight and the food I eat SO MUCH...but again, I was a ballet dancer at the time...not that it's an excuse) and wore the most fabulous clothes. She fights with her boyfriend (every third post or so...) and publicly announces that sort of thing, brags about trips to Chicago to hang out with sort of famous people, and racks up scene points like no one else's business.

Who was that girl? Was that really me starving and running the show?



Here is an excerpt for you, a post entitled "I am a bad band girlfriend"

I don't know how I've come to almost hate everything I used to love. I hate music now, I hate movies, I hate riding my bicycle.

I don't know what I like anymore. I just sit in my apartment and read about other people's real or imagined lives and decide that I hate music and I suffer every time I listen to it, and that movies are pointless and make me fidget.

When I started this, I took great pride in filling out the "Music I listened to" section, placing lyrics here with gusto, and ranting and raving about my favorite artists. Now it is all meaningless. I never wanted to be a musician. It was enough for me that I could play one song from Amelie, the moonlight sonata, and make a few others. I never tried to find people to play in bands with me. But I loved everything about other peoples music. The blanket that encases you, the removal from your emotions, and even the ability to redefine and streamline what you feel. Give it words and wings.

And now when I listen to things, I feel and hear noise and never anything productive, soothing or charging. I don't want words anymore. I think I could dance just as well in silence as I could to music, and I do it often. Perfection of technique, and style, when you are dancing to a click. Who needs musicallity anyways?

I have been dating someone who has built their life around music. Recording it, playing it, listening to it, collecting it. All memories and thoughts tie to that in some way. I wonder if, when he is lying in bed next to me, he thinks "This reminds me of the first time I heard green day." I wouldn't be angry if it was, but simply curious because then there is absolutely no independence from music. I am to be measured in song, and not myself.

Perhaps I don't like it because the gratification of all things related to it will never measure up to the gratification he receives. In the first year I met him, I went to every show except two. I know. Because I counted. Now I don't go to any. I did everything I could to help him, schedule, encourage, become a sounding board, listen to things about band problems. I watched him smile and play and enjoy himself. I heard about every single piece of new equipment, ten thousand times over. I listened to him rant when his show went horrible, he couldn't fit practices with his one million bands in a week, or his studio was having problems. Wisely, someone gently told me to step out of that situation, exactly at the moment I was starting to burn out and other people were starting to bring me their problems problems with him in the bands, and I did. And I have hated music ever since. I don't care if it is shellac, or bright eyes, or fiona apple. Even tori amos brings no joy any more.

And now, I do listen to him talk about music, because that is what he knows. It brings him joy and in turn brings me joy, but I cannot participate. I can only go so far. Never far enough to make it fun, but far enough to exhaust myself, wear myself out, and that is exactly the problem with being a band girlfreind.

Maybe someday he'll at least put me in the liner notes. Or, since I do not listen to music now, he won't.

I am going to symphony tonight with a friend of mine. He and I have not known each other very long, but we wear hats and walk on the beach in the snow. I cannot imagine starving for music the way they did a hundred years ago. No records, no cds, nothing but live orchestra's. Perhaps that is now it should be for awhile. A starvation diet to make things right. That is my usual cure.

So tonight I will dress up, and leave the boyfreind behind. He will go to someones house and play risk, or maybe to the studio and have a band practice. I will watch violins and cellos, and drown. I will come home and he will say, like he did when I told him I was going, that he didn't think the symphony was a big deal. And I will tell him, for once, that I hate music and everything it entails and he will break up with me on the spot.

Or he will snatch back the records he has given me, his cds, and our conversation will end for good because he will have nothing to talk about.

or he will ignore it, and everything will keep on going. The same. For ever and ever and ever.

And I will have to put on a hat and walk on the beach. And all the noise will become music to me.

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