Life's Tease

It had been over a year since I'd met anyone new whom I felt attracted to. It had been over a year since I met Isabelle, since I met Grace. I only met Rachel through Neale in mid March last year, and well... she's Rachel.

It has been a very long year. It has been a year without love, without tenderness, and without companionship. I genuinely don't remember how it feels, to be with someone. Perhaps it was me, all this time. I don't know exactly how, or why, but maybe I'd changed. Grown distant, cold. Or maybe I hadn't, maybe that's it. Stuck at seventeen, with my heart on my sleeve and my thoughts booming out loud. Maybe it wasn't me at all, maybe it's been circumstance fucking with me.

And then, for the first time in a long while, I felt again. In the company of a total stranger, a girl four years my elder, I felt. I was attracted to her. At first, I wasn't really sure whether or not I was feeling something, or whether I was simply playing along, going for the ride, as it were. But as we talked and walked until the crack of dawn, more and more that strange stirring welled within me. I liked this girl. I found her interesting, I wanted to get to know her. Find. Want.

We parted on great terms. She texted me not long afterwards. And then, nothing. My phone, silent.

It's been three days since my year was broken, and now I find myself facing the prospect that this was all just an anomaly, and that my sentiments, newly dusted off, will go back into storage, waiting for another year.

It's not fair.

Man, I hate Saturday nights...

Saturday nights are when your friends drunkenly sign onto MSN at 2 in the morning, their time, telling you about the people the partied with, or telling you about the threesome that they were just involved in, or how they got five different numbers, or how they went and sat on the beach with their signifigant other, or how they ran into your mutual friend and walked home with them.

Saturday nights are when you've sat by your phone all night, and all these people tell you what an awesome friend you are.

-----------------------------------------

Part Two:

You know how long it's been since I've been with someone? You know how FRIGGIN' long it's been? You know how long it's been since I've been able to look into someone's eyes and say "You know what, I love being with you". You know how long I've been watching everyone... EVERYONE... find someone to hold? Not even to love... just to hold. I look at John. The arrogant son-of-a-bitch has Nora, not to mention every other woman in the music department, wrapped to him so tight it's ridiculous. I look at Shithead. Her boy may be a moron, and he may be an engineer, but at least she has someone. I look at Isabelle. She saw someone she wanted and presto change-o. I look at Alleah. Yeah... real lonely there. She doesn't have to spit before she hits three guys of her choice. I look at Neale. The bugger has women crawling all over him. I look at Barbara. She's had boy after boy fall for her, and rightly so.

On the plus side, I had someone hit on me for the first time in well over... hmm... HALF A YEAR. Yeah. Boss' daughter. Oh yeah. 22. Oh yeah. Downs Syndrome. Oh yeah.

There really is no-one in music. And since I spend all my time there...

I'm tired of holding a pillow. I'm alone.

The Punjab Chemist -or- The Downward Spiral of Schooling

After last night's post-symphonic cavortings, I hired a cab to take me home. The driver, in his mid-fifties, had the most beautiful indian accent I have ever heard. After the initial "How was your evening, sir?", or the "half-assedly trying to make a tip" section of the ride, I asked how he enjoyed driving a cab. His response was "Not really, I would much rather be doing my research"

"Oh."

The man was... IS a chemist. A doctoral student, screwed over by academic laws that don't recognize his work of over a decade. The sadness in his voice. The bitterness towards life, towards being reduced to driving a cab, to taking drunken students home from parties... He mentioned that when he's on a university campus, he feels 'empty, hollow', and so just doesn't drive there.

Is this my fate? What is to be gained from a music degree? When I graduate, and hold that piece of paper in my hand... What's next?

Do I want to play in a symphony? Judging by all the politics that go on already... not really.
Do I want to be a soloist? Of course... But I know I don't have what it takes.
Do I want to teach? No.

I want to play jazz in sleazy dives. I want to travel. I want to sail. I want to be able to pay for my own meals, to pay my own rent, to drive my OWN car.

I think I speak with an indian accent.

After Orchestra

The night bus home with beers in me

Orchestra ended early. I thought it would last until forever or ten o'clock whichever came first. Spelling is difficult right now. No food and beer is an unwise combination when fatigued. But I will do my best. Orchestra ended early. We're playing four pieces. At first I hated them, but now I like them. I play in the second violins at the back. All we are is punctuation. I hate punctuation. Except for endings or periods. I like that kind of punctuation. I decided to attack this new year with vigor with zest with determination. I'm dumb. I'm so far behind everyone else in the school it's ridiculous. You know what I think I'll quit just for fun. See what would happen. Because at the end of the day I wouldn't be talked out of it I wouldn't be treated as some prodigy. Because I'm not, you know that? I'm insignifigint. Spelling is hard right now. Beers and no food. I'm looking out the window on the bus and I wish I could jump out just to see what would happen. A friend lent me some music. I quite like it. So today in orchestra. Ah what to tell. I suppose I could tell you about the people there yes that's a good plan the people there. Some of them are nice but some from before is gone. Is gone? Punctuation. I remember that. Now. Watching two lovers on the bus oh to be a lover. I would love to be a lover. I saw a nice girl again she's quite nice. Strange. I like strange I don't know why. Orchestra. Focus, douchebag. Orchestra is difficult. I can't read fast, you know. It's very difficult. They play so fast, the conductor says things and I can't understand so I play what I think I should play but it ends up as a mess because I don't know the music. I should listen to the music but I'd rather walk and talk about movies with the nice girl I saw today. Strange isn't it. It's a love but a hate. Why. I don't know. I walked to the bus loop and on the way I saw my friends the quartet. Or what will be the quartet I'm not sure. They said hey so I walked with them then they said why are you walking with us don't you need to take the bus so I said goodnight as I wasn't wanted they called out but I decided to say goodnight three more times at each response. I don't like the girl he was with John. I don't. She's cocky. Can't I be better than someone just once. No I can't. Stupid. So I decided to stop and drink beer instead of catching a bus. I think I drank past two buses but I'm not sure. There weren't many people in the bar. I saw a bouncer holidng a chain and snapping it and I hoped he would kick people out so I wouldn't have to concentrate on the music in the room. Bars always always always always play horrible music didn't you know. I spilt canadian on my violin case that I had with me from orchestra with the violin inside too so I had to ask the bartender for a cloth to wipe it off. I think he thought I was strange. I can't blame him so does everyone in the orchestra. Why am I out of it them. I walked to the bus. There were some people by the BeeLine but I didn't say hi to them even though I knew them because they were from the orchestra and I didnt' want to talk to them. I'm tired of being thought of as stupid you know. Almost wrote a question mark there it's tempting. Conventions are tempting. I should conform shouldn't I?

Awkwardly leaning one's jawbone against a crumpled pillow at one thirty in the morning isn't exactly a habit of the healthy. Then again, neither is staying up until all hours yet not managing to even leave the house. What is wrong with me? Have my social skills really crashed that hard? What happened to the depraved hooliganry that I'd be getting up to at this late hour? Has the scene left me behind, or was I just never on board?

What station am I at, if my train has left? Clearly, the crowd is elsewhere, and not in my luxurious swimming pool equipped villa. I'd hypothesize Tuscany. Or Robson.

This is an overt worry. To say that one lived in a time, one must at least experience the time. I have, up until now, failed to do just that. "Embrace anachronisms" has been my battle cry for most of my life, but why? Goosestep with my parents' sensibilities? A rejection of the popular culture of my peers, those who severely tarnished my childhood? Perhaps my contemporaries are ot, by and large, my peers, maybe that title belongs to an older generation, the one I grew up with.

North Korean Nouveau-Riche

I disembarked in Pyongyang, and was ushered into a hotel of extreme extravagance. A group of four awaited; a guide, and the other three visitors with whom I had flown in from Beijing with. The same number of armchairs, arranged in a semicircle, sat at one end of the room. We sat, and were informed of the rules and procedures that we were to follow while touring the country. No photographs without permission, no talking to people without permission/unless they speak to you first, follow local customs when you can, don't try to liberate the minds of those whom you see.

Touring the squares, touring the streets came to an abrupt end. The warm smiles vanished when I was brought into a room and asked why a friend had blogged about my trip. Who had I told that I was coming? I didn't think. For the safety of the public, I was locked in the hotel while the group carried on.

It was late evening on the same day that a knock came at the door, followed by the entrance of 6. They spoke English with an international accent. A Scandinavian couple, a single American, a Swiss woman, and two Austrians, all immaculately and stylishly dressed, all under twenty-five.

They took me on a stroll through an industrial park about a half a mile from the hotel. We stopped, and several of them smoked under the shadow of a large electrical substation. There were no guards. They told me how this was their land, this was their retreat. They did as they wished, and with impugnity. They were not guarded.

--------------------------

I think ferrying folks from Yaletown is beginning to get to me. Fucked up dream, no?

This is really, really stupid.

I don't know what I did, I don't know how I did it, I don't know when I did it, I don't know for what reasons I did it, I don't even know IF I did it.

Arresting someone for robbery but not providing the details of when, where, what, who etc. is called unlawful confinement. I remember that from school.