Why of course I remember you!

It appears as though, for a time, I forgot my thorough adoration for classical music. Luckily, today I stumbled across Barber's Adagio for Strings by mere happenstance.

My mind flashed back to playing it in high school - sitting concertmaster in chamber orchestra (a position I really wasn't good enough to hold) and yelling at Trevor for not minding his decrescendos and for sliding his shifts.

I had good times with orchestra. Even at this point in my life, certain pieces of music can bring me close to tears. Vivaldi's Guitar Concerto in D Minor, Wieniawski's Legende, Mendelssohn's Violin Concerto No. 1 in G Minor, fuck even Smetana's Moldeau from seventh grade pulls at my heart when I hear it.














Music has and forever will be an integral part of my life. It is my escape, it is my creation, it is my delight. Holszt's The Planets can pull me away from existential crises and the aforementioned Barber piece will lusciously drag me down to the lowest of lows.

I wish I could understand the emotional, spiritual connection behind this music. All I know is that it actually has the ability to knock my legs out from under me. Impact, indeed.

So maybe I lied.

Fuck unpacking.

Boats. I really like boats.
I'm not quite sure what the intrigue is. It's not just any boats. Yachts: dumb. Big speedboats: only for tools. Massive ass cargo ships: cool but unrealistic.

I'm into the self-propelled type. Rowboats. Kayaks. Canoes. Sailboats (I realize these aren't self-propelled, get off my fucking case). Paddle boats would be awesome if they weren't so utterly useless. I used to really like paddle boats. When I was about eight. Eleven years later, I'm a bit too cool. Which is fine.

I wish I could circumnavigate the globe via kayak. (sidenote: I just put up wicked glow-in-the-dark planet stickers and they're for sure not staying stuck to the walls) I understand that this is probably an impossible endeavor. I cannot imagine how I would not die on this trip. However, that makes it something to consider if I'm ever diagnosed with a terminal illness. (fuck, there goes Saturn AGAIN) Well, maybe not. There would probably be a period of absolute terror before the actual death and it may be that the death itself would be quite unpleasant.

Possibly I'm foreseeing my own death. Not the cause of death itself, simply the mental departure from this world. I'm in a kayak. Maybe I'm wearing a wetsuit, maybe not. Maybe a life jacket, maybe not. It really doesn't matter because I am no longer living. I find myself in a body of water. Ocean? Lake? Who cares. All I can see is water and sky. There's a bit of a breeze, only marked by the gentle slap of waves against my bow. I pick up my paddle, dip it into the water, and begin gliding. I continue this way for a bit. It could be minutes, or hours I guess. There's no sense of time here; there's no need for it. Despite my continuous movement, I feel no strain in my muscles, no click of my wrist. There is only the sound of the water, of the breeze, of my heart beating. That beating gradually slows. It stops entirely when I take my paddle out of the water and lay it across my boat. Momentum guides me and I fade away into nothing.












I apologize for the hostility.

Blast from the Past

Oh
my
fucking
god.

Are we in middle school?

I'll post something with a bit more substance once I get all my shit unpacked. Two days into training and I'm still living out of boxes.

Melty chocolate all over my leg.

"Look, there's that truck with the mud vehicle."
"Mud vehicle. You mean ATV?"
"Yes."

With a whoosh it was gone.

See that photo up there? You cannot imagine the struggle behind that freaking photo. Gabby can attest to this. It was a bitch.

Long story short, I fucked up all of my lovely colors. Such is life.

I wish I had more to say here but I really don't. I'm kind of sleepy and I have to get up brutally early to say farewell to Andy and Carly. Then I have to drive to Duluth.

I hung out with Gabby last night and we discussed my tendency to peg people. Not judge, just peg.

There was a teenage girl sitting alone by the bandshell at Lake Harriet. She was taking photos in the general direction of the lake and as we walked by, I started talking. I pointed out how she is totally that girl who is kind of a nobody at school and has suddenly found something she loves: photography. Chances are good that she's far too shy to show anybody her photos and chances are good that they're probably somewhat amateur, but beautiful nonetheless. I voiced my feelings that she'll continue her photography, maturing her skill for a year or two. At that point, she will be known and loved as the incredible photographer that she has become. Hopefully.

I had another story about an old man I saw on a bus. That can be for another time.

Mmmmmmm

Such complete serenity I have rarely known. Calm water clear to the bottom. Just enough breeze to keep the few free wisps of hair out of my eyes. Resting with my paddle across the boat. The silence bounces off of rock, refracts like light against the surface of the lake. A sight I have seen countless times - perspective and accent make it breathtaking. I devour the arched colors. Rarely are they so bright, each color vivid and discernible. As my kayak gently lulls me, my perception changes, fading colors in and out. I dip my fingertips over the side of my kayak. They're so cold already that it hardly bothers me. I think about Nick - his instructions in case of rolling the boat. In another lake I might try it for fun, but not here. 42 degrees. You don't last long in water that cold. Sure a wetsuit would help. But in a lake famous for its sunken ships and volatility, I don't think I'll chance it. I want to stay suspended in time. I want every moment of every day to feel like this. Nick calls out, breaking my silence. I'm the last boat still lingering, basking in the perfection of my surroundings. Reluctantly, I pick up my paddle and begin to glide towards shore. This isn't goodbye.

Terrible music stuck in my head all friggin day.

I feel obligated to post because it's Sunday. For some reason, my general trend is posting on Wednesday and Sunday. Whatever.

My parents went camping last week (as previous posts suggested). As part of my effort to clean last Sunday, I did all of my laundry. A few hours after I had finished my two large loads (darks and colors) I found one lonely pair of jeans to wash and dry. Upon throwing them in the dryer and starting it up, an awful squeaking noise began to emanate from the dryer. I immediately stopped it and quickly glanced around for the source. Not finding anything, I tried the dryer again. The noise continued and I gave up my efforts. I figured that the dryer was pseudo-broken and that I should probably not touch it until the return of my parents for fear of ultra-breaking it.

A few minutes later, I found myself in the kitchen. I heard a scratchy squeaking noise, very similar to the sound of Misty clawing at the back door. Automatically, I went to let her in. No cat in sight. Again I heard the noise. This time I pegged it as coming from the basement. Nervous, I grabbed a giant knife and headed down the stairs. I followed the noise into the laundry room and stood facing my opponent: the dryer. I was rather concerned at this point - I figured if the dryer was making awful noises without even being on, I really fucked something up. I mentally inventoried my options for the situation and decided to simply abandon it.

I hadn't set foot in the laundry room since the dryer freaked out at me. When my parents returned on Thursday, they noted an awful smell coming from that general region of the basement. Long story short, an unfortunate chipmunk met an untimely demise in our dryer. It came through the vent (the flap not having closed properly), fell straight down to the bottom, and somehow dragged itself into the fan. Although the fan hadn't chopped the chipmunk as I expected, it had trapped it completely. When I turned on the dryer with my jeans inside, the chipmunk had been going around and around and around, unable to escape. There he died. Gross.

In other news, Andy came home again. We leave to go camping on Wednesday, so that post probably won't happen. However, I'll hopefully have more interesting things to write about after a few days on the north shore.