Stuff that belongs in the Daily Grind but that I am reporting here because I never have anything really interesting to say and because it's sorta long
Preface
Nostalgia has been overwhelming me since the end of spring break, and always I want to write about the year... however, the beauty is too strong right now to debase with such presumptuous pomp. Instead, I'll just babble on about my day, because it was just so... good.
Today, tiredness was threatening to consume me. My teacher and friend have been celebrating their birthdays... and optimism and weather may be involved in both. I'm your typical emo internet addict... and this is one of the best days of my life.
The Frame Narrative
More and more, complacency erodes any incentive I have to do anything that requires effort.The sun rose two afternoons ago and has only added to my remarkable desire to do absolutely nothing. Languishing outside, pencil to paper, with 1984 in my lap, I enjoy superficially a peace with the likes of which only eighth grade springtime can even compare. At 6:57p.m., the sun has barely begun to set... I stand nine feet from the wall, six feet tall, and cast upon the wall a four-foot shadow.
By my calculations, that puts the angle of elevation "A" of the sun at just under pi/12 radians (or 15 degrees, for the weak). At this hour, dA/dt will certainly decrease as t increases - the angle of the sun will decline more and more quickly - but the fragile, temporary quality of the moment is one of its most endearing.
Body
Sleep. C'est un cadeau de la nuit dont je voudrais bien avoir plus. Nonetheless, to wake up at 6:15a.m. feels good.
Bill and Jiang both had their birthdays today, and sixth period, during the fallout that is now BC Calculus, the Class of 2006 - Greatest Class of All Time - treated all attendees with ice cream, cake, and several shows between math teachers: battles of wits - or lack thereof. I still love the class, and that is something I will never, never forget. Today was the last "full" class ever... It hurts.
Fate, in the form of Robby Donaldson, treated me to free seventh and eighth. During the former, I ate outside, blissfully free of Gaughan. Enthused discussion of 24 - blissful 24 - serenaded by my Asian meal. Said discussion continued to surround me as I dueled Jiang in Tetris, duels that became progressively more intense, beautifully paralleling the light and heat of Sol. eighth period ordained poetically inattentive games of Spades.
Driver's Ed was not only bearable but short. The Class of 2008 was unprecedentedly tolerable in the face of a sub, and I was able to savor a twenty-minute break, a definitively '90's video, and half an hour of uninterrupted sleep. Certainly a worthwhile pursuit.
I came home, as I tend to do. Depleted of Monster for the time being, I subjected myself to a remarkably unremarkable episode of House, M.D. A good show to be sure, but incomparable in captivating my interest to, for example, the three ears of corn I consumed during those forty minutes.
I then made a genuine effort to practice piano. It's been a week and a competition since last I had a lesson, however, so I entered music with uncertain resolve. I played "for fun" mainly, including "To Zanarkand", distractions that I really "felt" - lighthearted frivolity. Then I set myself to play my greatest, the Ballade. Technically, it was an astounding show to myself; arppegiated notes and solid chords embraced, kissed my fingertips. But one minute into the piece, I began to feel a curious sense of futility. Despite the alacrity with which my fingers danced, these same fingers lacked true exuberance, spirit. The performance or playthrough, as the case may be, was not at all "flat" - the fortes and pianos were certainly there... but they lacked the spirit and soul, the sincerity that I had taken for granted but five days ere.
I finished the piece, and defeat rang in my ears, despite the major-key excitement of the conclusion. The reason, of course, was simple. Not only did I fail to give the piece my all, there was precious little of me to give. Desensitized from MMTA, I lacked the emotional depth required to bring the piece to its glowing potential, the one I had striven to bring out Saturday afternoon. Today was my first revisit of the ambitious Ballade since that insignificant trauma, and what I produced shocked me with its... shallowness.
I stopped playing after that, vowing to enjoy the day. For have an hour, I wrestled with Solid, Liquid, and Solidus, muttering four-letter word that lifted the eyebrows of my grade-school sister. And then it happened.
The sense of accomplishment I felt at this feat vastly outstripped any feeling of success I countered this year, exuberant or tacit alike. I siad that I would focus on today alone, but damn... I am my own hero.
Epilogue
I sit outside with pencil and paper, dinner gently resisting the hydrochloric acid and perostalsis of my digestive tract. Unusually supple rice, reheated vegetables, scrambled eggs, sausage, one of the eight cups of water I'm supposed to drink daily. There is minimal audible friction inside between my father and sister, and the sun has set. There will soon be insufficient light to remain writing outside... the planks of my porach take on a damp consistency beneath my feet, though I hardly expect rain till tomorrow - and certainly not now at 8:12.
But of course... I know, from painful experience, that this skin-deep euphoria is far from invulnerable. Thus am I obliged to write it - not only to fuel and fulfill my self-pleasuring desire to talk about myself, but to preserve those potent moments, any of which might be the last.
SD
May 18, '06
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