I refuse to write about the obvious.
... [Yeah, I know: "Huh?" Oh well.]
I do, however, want to word vomit on a subject that is less than apparent... if only in my delusional naivety. I won't go so far as to think that I'm as easy to read as the Harry Potter books I'm going through (... again...), but I need a poker face.
Correction: I need sunglasses, a mask, a bandana, a sweet hat, and a few miscellaneous wigs.
There are two extremes of people, with a lot of gray in between: The first, who reveal nothing until threatened with interrogation and/or Chinese Water Torture, and even then, their facial expression doesn't go too far beyond a mild, inconvenienced grimace. On the other hand, you have the second - the "heart-on-sleeve-you'll-never-need-to-wonder-how-I-feel-because-I'm-going-to-tell-you-like-it-or-not". The trailing-puppy of people, they are not only completely aware of their emotions, but everyone else is, also.
... which leads us to the gray - or, it would, if I didn't see myself in a Billy Idol color setting. On one hand, my use of sarcasm, dorky humor, and endless supply of Bach jokes covers up uncertainty. With still or partial unknowns, the rule is that I try to keep the conversation going, and you laughing. Doesn't always work, but ultimately, with people I get friendlier with, this leads to more serious talk... or, at least, attempts at it. On the other hand, my good friends can tell you that they get calls twice a month or so starting with this line:
"________, can I run a hypothetical by you?"
... by now they've all come to the conclusion that my "hypothetical" will segue-way, seamlessly, into a confession that it's not hypothetical at all, but a reality - mine, ta da! - and that, once again, they're going to know a lot more about certain situations than they would under normal - or desired - conditions.
... I'm very lucky to have my friends - even though I'm sure, at points, they get exasperated with my attempts to make life "interesting" with my varying situations, or me trying to balance my emotions and my feeble attempts at covering them up.
You could argue that a poker face is all well and good - in certain situations - but that people who never give a clue as to how they feel, or function, will inevitably distance themselves or put others at a loss. You could also argue that emotions are healthy, that its beautiful to behold someone who isn't afraid to let others see what they feel, or believe.
.... my problem, at the moment, is that I have two conflicting emotional forces... and, to show them both, would be a contortionists' challenge and quite the grotesque facial expression. To hide either one would be wrong - to certain degrees. The first, as more people scope out facebook, is going to be apparent no matter how well I arrange my quizzical eyebrows. The second is healthy to realize but possibly harmful if entirely shown daylight, and while wreaking havoc always makes things more exciting, I've done enough damage for a bit. I don't have the skill - or the desire - to completely cover it up or squash it, but neither do I have the desire to run with it until I know if my hypothetical is a good thing or a foolish one.
Lady Gaga made this whole "poker face" thing seem much simpler.
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
Monday, June 8, 2009
What? Lies!! Treachery! False symphonic temptations!
... a few weeks ago, I found love.
I'm writing about it now because I can't seem to completely shake the feelings of withdrawal and strange loneliness that have cropped up, and also -
- because angst can be fun.
(Just by writing that, it becomes obvious that I don't understand "the point" of angst, but based off of my calculations, it seems to amount to, roughly, sounding like a whiny bi...nt.)
In any case - love. Angst. Harry Potter with Emo Facial Expressions = Mahler. All of these things are important because, together, they turn three fragmented sentences into a partial reason for my lustful cravings.
... I miss Cincinnati like a crazy person.
("Ah", you sigh - "here she goes. Buggering off as if she's some swooning teeny-bopper who doesn't know the difference between a viola section and a band of rusty musical saws.")
Well - I *do* know the difference. The viola section sounds better (they practiced), and, quite frankly, violas aren't the problem here.
I am *not* a teeny-bopper.
... I am a little swoony, though.
Situations like Cincinnati - where you aren't sure how people will treat you, how the music will come together, how you'll fit (if you dare assume as much) with the rest of the section... its kinda sorta quasi what I live for. My version of jumping out of planes - will the parachute open? Don't know, but it's too late to ask that now! Same idea. Will I mesh and feel comfortable, or will I get beaten to death with the score of Mahler 8?
(See? Even the mortality question is there.)
Combine that life/death parachute/score idea with the fact that I am, yes, a 21-year-old, swooning, awe-struck, green/naive small person, and it's a crack of sorts.
... Wide eyes, yes, jittery jaw, no.
IU Phil was brilliant but I let nerves overtake the first half of the year. My mistake. Things worked out, but it took a pint of Guinness (or two) to really, truly clean things up at the end of everything... Hindsight (and Guinness) is fantastic, but there was no way in all of my teeny-bopper themed hell that I was going to destroy Cincinnati.
... so I worked my tush off, survived my van's attempts to kill me (via heartattack and/or nervous breakdown), and now I'm slowly starting to ween it out of my system.
I miss the bass section: thus, goal for the day: try not to surf facebook more than 3 dozen times looking for new reasons to go back to Cincy.
I miss Mahler: blast other music until either, Mahler loosens his tentacle-like grip upon my mental juke-box, or lose hearing entirely.
I'm craving banter: go talk to the dog. She doesn't mind awful jokes - humanity generally does.
... I just want one last rehearsal, if only to hear Wayne Anderson start another diatribe post-coffee consumption.
... where's my sardonic yet lovable little sister when I need her at her crankiest?
It hasn't been easy, but so far it's gotten better. Anberlin - Alternative Christian Rock - has replaced... somewhat... Mahler (Alternative Christian Post-Romantic.) Georgia, packing, and cleaning around Grandmom's house has distracted me from facebook; the dog has hidden herself, which means either I banter with myself (not that far-fetched) or not at all... and Mary Frances returns tomorrow.
... Hoorah!
Things might just be okay, afterall.
I'm writing about it now because I can't seem to completely shake the feelings of withdrawal and strange loneliness that have cropped up, and also -
- because angst can be fun.
(Just by writing that, it becomes obvious that I don't understand "the point" of angst, but based off of my calculations, it seems to amount to, roughly, sounding like a whiny bi...nt.)
In any case - love. Angst. Harry Potter with Emo Facial Expressions = Mahler. All of these things are important because, together, they turn three fragmented sentences into a partial reason for my lustful cravings.
... I miss Cincinnati like a crazy person.
("Ah", you sigh - "here she goes. Buggering off as if she's some swooning teeny-bopper who doesn't know the difference between a viola section and a band of rusty musical saws.")
Well - I *do* know the difference. The viola section sounds better (they practiced), and, quite frankly, violas aren't the problem here.
I am *not* a teeny-bopper.
... I am a little swoony, though.
Situations like Cincinnati - where you aren't sure how people will treat you, how the music will come together, how you'll fit (if you dare assume as much) with the rest of the section... its kinda sorta quasi what I live for. My version of jumping out of planes - will the parachute open? Don't know, but it's too late to ask that now! Same idea. Will I mesh and feel comfortable, or will I get beaten to death with the score of Mahler 8?
(See? Even the mortality question is there.)
Combine that life/death parachute/score idea with the fact that I am, yes, a 21-year-old, swooning, awe-struck, green/naive small person, and it's a crack of sorts.
... Wide eyes, yes, jittery jaw, no.
IU Phil was brilliant but I let nerves overtake the first half of the year. My mistake. Things worked out, but it took a pint of Guinness (or two) to really, truly clean things up at the end of everything... Hindsight (and Guinness) is fantastic, but there was no way in all of my teeny-bopper themed hell that I was going to destroy Cincinnati.
... so I worked my tush off, survived my van's attempts to kill me (via heartattack and/or nervous breakdown), and now I'm slowly starting to ween it out of my system.
I miss the bass section: thus, goal for the day: try not to surf facebook more than 3 dozen times looking for new reasons to go back to Cincy.
I miss Mahler: blast other music until either, Mahler loosens his tentacle-like grip upon my mental juke-box, or lose hearing entirely.
I'm craving banter: go talk to the dog. She doesn't mind awful jokes - humanity generally does.
... I just want one last rehearsal, if only to hear Wayne Anderson start another diatribe post-coffee consumption.
... where's my sardonic yet lovable little sister when I need her at her crankiest?
It hasn't been easy, but so far it's gotten better. Anberlin - Alternative Christian Rock - has replaced... somewhat... Mahler (Alternative Christian Post-Romantic.) Georgia, packing, and cleaning around Grandmom's house has distracted me from facebook; the dog has hidden herself, which means either I banter with myself (not that far-fetched) or not at all... and Mary Frances returns tomorrow.
... Hoorah!
Things might just be okay, afterall.
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