Flakiness

I am a flake. I cancel out of things at the last minute. When I can't bring myself to make excuses, sometimes I just don't show up.

On some days I have no commitments. I quit HRO so that I would have Tuesdays entirely free. When I get to the end of Monday--if I don't flake out of Monday--I heave a sigh of relief. A whole 36 hours before I have to face the world again.

Today I flaked out of all my classes. I flaked out of an appointment with my adviser. I flaked out of lunch and breakfast. I will probably flake out of dinner too. I would rather starve than venture out of my cocoon.

None of this was a good idea, and (being after all not a complete idiot) I would never choose to do it. I never consciously decided, "Today I am not going to show up for x, y, and z." I flaked out of making that decision too. Instead I told myself, "I will go in just one minute."

It seems like you always need that one extra minute. One extra minute to brace yourself. One extra minute to pull yourself together. One extra minute to hide from the world before it inevitably finds you. One extra minute not to think, not to feel, not to move. One extra minute to curl into a ball and pretend you don't exist.

Every few days, I can muster myself and replace "in just one minute" with "now." Every "now" is a personal triumph, but they don't come very often. My personal record is two "now" days in a row, but more often it lasts only through an afternoon. After that, and for the next few days, I have run out of energy/motivation/will/strength/hope/desire/emotion.

I know I need to do something about this: my life is falling apart, and I need to act now to assess the damage and now to salvage what's left. But I'm not very good at now. Instead I say, "Tomorrow will be better." I know damn well it won't.

Some way to live.

Radio Interview

Let us interrupt our regular programming for a special announcement:

Harvard's radio station, WHRB, interviewed me for a show they're doing on Sunday; apparently my reputation as a minor Harvard celebrity continues to make me interesting even now. I definitely had a fun time doing it--somebody actually encouraged me to yabber on--and all of you should listen in. I don't know how much of my interview they'll use in their show, or whether I'll come off sounding stupid, but have a listen and let me know.

The show into which my interview will allegedly be incorporated will air on Sunday at 12:30 PM. If you're in Boston, you can tune in at 95.3 FM. If you're not, you can listen online at whrb.org.

If afterwards you have anything to say on the topic, feel free to leave a comment or send me an email. I'm curious about other people's ideas and I very much like feedback.

Trampled and Gored

Imagine this: you're a toreador and things are getting bad. The bull butts its head into you, and with a slash of its horns you're down.

It rushes past you, its hooves crushing your legs, breaking your kneecaps. You can barely move. You sit up, boosting yourself up with your arms, trying to ignore the pain in your legs. You know you have to get out of the way. Your hands dig into the sod as you try to drag your dead weight backwards, away, anywhere else. But you know it's useless: you have nowhere to go, no safety, no shelter.

The bull is back now. It's not running anymore; it just wants to see its handiwork. Its nostrils loom over you as it blows hot snotty air over your face. Then, with a cruel swing of its head, it gets you in the gut. Its horn sinks into your vulnerable softness, your belly, your unprotected underside. You can feel it piercing into your stomach, gashing through your guts, getting you in your centre where it hurts you the most.

It ambles away now and does no more damage. You half wish it would crush your skull like it did your legs, but the universe doesn't want you to get off so easy. The crowd above is jeering and cheering as you bleed out, your intestines spilling over the ground; but you will yourself to be conscious, not to faint, to feel the searing pain that manifests your reeling shame. You look out at the world and you smile in glorious defeat.

My Brain Is Weird

Every time I sit down in Music Building Room 2 (where on Monday nights Music 180 is held) I feel like the world is going to end. I don't know what it is about the room that creeps me out so much. There is a lot of noise, to be sure: a rattling double door, a roaring radiator. The sounds of Mozart Society seep in from upstairs, while Professor Levin's resonant voice booms. Papers rustle, people fidget.

And my brain vanishes. I can't feel me anymore--only this sort of hollowness, absorbency. It is as if I were not a person but a sponge for sound. And everthing suddenly seems louder--ominously loud, Judgment-Day loud, earth-tears-asunder-to-reveal-bleak-depths-of-nothingness loud. I wouldn't be surprised one day if a shadowy figure appeared to take vengeance upon us.

And then I'll snap back to reality, and it'll all be okay. I've done this three weeks in a row now, and it's quite strange. I seriously think I dissociate for a few minutes. Sketchy?

Mission Statement

I have taken the plunge. I have started a blog.

I was a blogger for over four years, but a few months ago I gave it up. Most of what I wrote was tedious, inane, inconsequential; eventually I realised that I bored even myself. But this time it will be different. I have started anew--a new blog, a clean slate, and no lingering reminders of my high school idiocy. Here only my college idiocy will be on display.

I begin this blog with no noble pretensions. I will not capture the spirit of the times with salient prose, nor will I write about the important issues facing the world today. I have little to say about campus news and the world around me. With shameless self-absorption, I will write about myself. I am the only topic on which I claim any expertise.

I will not regale you with stories from my life. I have very little interest in retelling the events of the day; I was there when they happened and find it tiresome to catch you up. Nor will I provide about myself more than incidental background information. I assume that you all know who I am and what I am doing with my life. If you don't, you can ask.

Instead I will record my thoughts. To me the thrill of blogging comes when I struggle to pin my wriggling thoughts in place and separate them neatly into paragraphs. Writing is a form of taxidermy: the process is ugly and possibly malodorous, but in the end you are left with still ideas frozen mid-leap-of-thought, lifelike yet crystalline. This is why I have begun again to blog.

I will always welcome feedback. Please make liberal use of the comment function.