Amadeus Amadeus

I've been sitting in Starbucks with Kate for the last 3 hours (yummy white chocolate mocha) during which time I've attempted my Symmetry homework which I've since abandoned after two problems because I definitely need to go into the review section before I can go any further (it's also possible that she has yet to cover the material the question asks and will do so at Friday's class, but the fact that I can't discern whether she's covered this stuff or not probably speaks volumes as to how above water my head is. The vocabulary the question is using is familiar, but there are unfamiliar variables and references to figures and diagrams I haven't learned to read yet. All this is only exacerbated by the fact that the directions to each of these isometries (translation, rotation, reflection, and glide reflection) are represented with greek symbols (Tau, Rho, Mu, and Gamma respectively) so on the page what's being asked of me (or even the way that I'm answering) doesn't translate immediately. It's like having to answer a trig question that's being posed to you in Gaelic and having to translate it so you can answer it, and then translate your answer back into Gaelic. My potential for error is tremendous when I'm working in English. This is leaving me flailing a little bit.
After giving up on the homework I've been poking around looking for jobs, teaching jobs mostly, but the kind of jobs where I wouldn't be responsible for a lesson plan or a group right off the bat. I emailed a bunch of private schools with the same warm, bold, yet appropriately humble email introducing myself and explaining my credentials (or those I'll have in June), explaining what I'm looking for, and then signing off that I'd be happy to send along a resume "if you feel there might be a place for me in the [name of school] family." I thought playing into the communityness thing might make me more appealing. Or something.

Alright, I'm going to a yoga class now, tonight I think the plan is to watch Singing in the Rain at Kate's, and then I'm home early to do laundry for work tomorrow so I'll look presentable for the lunch shift. Although nothing I wear is ever ironed. Or starched.

One nice thing: after avowing at that monday night meeting that I was lonely, and a little isolating, I got three phone calls yesterday from people just calling to say hi. Two of whom ended up really needing to talk to somebody, and I think I had things to say that were helpful. I forget that I have experiences that are applicable, with food, with early recovery relationships, with shame. I have great words of wisdom sometimes, and I fully intend to act upon them myself, slowly by slowly.
Still in the 7th step prayer, kind of wishing I were 10 years old and sitting on the balcony at dads house wrapped in blankets eating cereal and watching the morning glories and the people walking dogs and the sun come up. Pretty safe place to be. Guess the prayer is too.

for letting you Live Out The String a little longer

You took the wind out of my socks!






Well this is odd to watch. Dad is so pretty and charming and well-spoken (and talks over the host a lot) and Mum is a total babe, jittery and awkward and adorable (and far too self deprecating). And I want to know what my shirt said that Dad mentioned! And the windmill that's mentioned, that's the beach where Peter and I ate all that sand, right? I liked seeing Dad make classic Dad gestures like at 5:22 in the clip, or mom's sweet laughter. It's SO strange to realize there was a time when you guys loved each other. Or could enjoy each other's company. Or had nice things to say about the other. It makes me uncomfortable, as though I'm waiting for it to erupt. This clip is telling though, each of you have moments in which what's going on at home shines right through (mom's look at 6:11 makes me so sad).
I'm glad they got divorced.

***

I went to a meeting tonight and got my one year coin, and outed myself about some intense loneliness that I've been wallowing in without reaching out. So now people have my phone number and it's my job to pick up the phone when they call. Harumph.

I spent the weekend plowing through steps 6, 7 and 8, and am now teetering on the edge of 9. It's been extremely productive, and an arduous, painful process that's taken up many pages of writing and many hours on the phone with Terri. And I've absorbed reading that I've only skimmed before. I wrote in my literature, I underlined, I responded, I made it applicable to me and I asked myself questions in the margins. I made it mine. It's the first time that I've felt that I'm not static and whining about how desperate and unhappy I feel, but am making this program mine by owning how deperate and unhappy I've felt, and my part in it. This year is not something that's happened to me. I wrestled through a full Sunday of completing, avowing to another human being, and turning over my inventory and character defects, an experience that lasted from about 1pm into the night. I took breaks to pray, to read recommended selections from the OA 12&12 and the big book that were applicable, and to eat a peanut butter and apple wrap on lavash bread. I woke up this morning feeling unrested and melancholy, but not in the dramatic sense that I usually make melancholy into. I felt it in the "things are going to be okay but they're just in transition now" sense. It wasn't total weightlessness, but it wasn't the bogged feeling of being rotten at my center that I've felt lately.
Last night the thought kept returning to me that this admission of character defects was an odd process; I feel like I've spent my entire life in the process of learning the right vocabulary to talk about them. They're things I've been aware of since I was very, very little, and I've always known exactly what my rap was on them; my vanity, my need for attention, selfishness (which takes the form of gluttony when it's with food, and neediness when it's with people), my affection for drama whether it's seeking it out in a situation or magnifying a feeling (good or bad) when I'm by myself by listening to the appropriate music. I've always had a kind of fixed speech on all of these things, and writing about them without spin or psychobabble, and with more honesty than I was used has been extremely difficult.
One of the things I really pulled apart last night was how I use music to feel. I think it's supposed to be the other way around, that music is supposed to be the catalyst, is supposed to inspire in you an organic emotion or a response, but more often than not I'm listening music as a method of intensifying an already existing emotion within me. I've essentially used music to enrich my emotions, whether I'm feeling lonely (Ray LaMontagne, Patty Griffin, Alison Krauss, Nickel Creek, James Taylor), detached (Marc Cohn, Chopin, selective Paul Simon, Liturgical Chant), empowered (Nikki Costa, SR71, Pat Benetar, Handel), or just like myself, comfortable with me (Barenaked Ladies, Bonnie Raitt, Des'ree, Mike Doughty, Bach). I've used it to solidify feelings for people, to indulge in my feelings for them more deeply, or to help detach from them by listening to music that belongs to someone else. And it WORKS- it actively changes the things that I'm feeling and how I behave as a result, or can move me deeper into the ones I'm feeling. The problem with this is that as this music intensifies whatever emotion I'm riding, I'm less and less in control of myself- I'm entirely owned by my feelings, which means I'm even more likely to shoot from the hip in responding to what I'm feeling. If I'm lonely this means I'll more anxiously seek out an instant cure for the loneliness, numbing with eating or another quick fix. If I'm feeling joyful the music I choose will further propel me into that joy, making it bigger, grander, brighter, higher than it would otherwise have been, which means that joy isn't as organic, and it also means that when it begins to melt, I have an unnaturally far distance to fall. If I'm feeling rejected or bitter or depressive, the music I have to hear dramatizes those feelings, puts me into a music video where I'm watching myself cry, makes my outlook even bleaker than it was without the music. It allows me an unnaturally large spectrum of emotion where everything I feel, even apathy, is more consuming. Every emotion is better with the music, there's a high that comes from feeling that deeply, even if it's a negative feeling. It's like emotional masturbation. I react to every feeling in an immediate way (that's usually selfish), and this is how using music like I do can get me in trouble. The feelings become so big that I'm actually owned by them and, they to act for me. I'm sure music isn't supposed to be used like this (yeah yeah there's no 'supposed to' with music, but for me there are definitely contexts in which it can be destructive to me. Seeing that sentence in print makes me sad.) Wow that was quite a rant. Perhaps it didn't make sense at all, but that's the best I can do. That's just an example of the kind of unraveling of my behavior and my defects that I've done this weekend. And there was so much more, I just chose this one to explain because it's one I have less shame about and feel I can talk about publicly like this.
It was neat to recognize that my defects serve one of two purposes. Either their about increasing or maintaining my self-esteem (which I consider to be the same thing as my comfort level with myself), or their about seeking an emotional thrill...a high. I'm quite head-first in the 7th step prayer. The fact that it begins with "My Creator" moves me very much. It's more humbling than "God", and also more affectionate.

***

I worked lunch today, a longish shift, made solid tips and was exhausted by the end because my ACL knee is in a whole lot of pain- not the ACL itself or the muscles around it, but the part of my shin bone that's near my knee that they had to drill through to actually get to the inside of my knee is swollen and very, very painful to the touch. Not like the skin is infected or anything, but it's something inside; there's a large mass on the bone, and it's looking very strange. So that's worrying me, and I'm gonna make an appointment with my orthopedic guy to take a look at it. Tonight when I got home from the meeting I did laundry, I finished my Symmetry homework, and I brushed my teeth. And now I'm going to fish my work laundry out of the washer to put in the dryer (yes, I often leave non work laundry wet in the laundry machine for longer than I should). Tomorrow I have symmetry, then I'm going rock climbing with some people from Upstairs, and then I'm going in to work the dinner shift. Go fish!

I hear the bells

I'm 1 today. One year out of bulimia. I have really mixed feelings about it, some shame, some relief, but pride comes through once I stop over analyzing.

That said, here's my latest romance: http://ricetoriches.com/
Feel free to skip the intro. Do notice, however, that they ship. Anywhere in the country. Like 221 Boston Ave for example.


I have much more to say on all this, both the rice pudding and my one year, but I'm running out the door to yoga and it's slushy out so...anon!

CNN

Mum, Kate and I have just returned from a faaabulous David Mamet play called November featuring Nathan Lane who, thankfully, didn't play Nathan Lane. It was terribly funny and topical and cutting, and we all agreed on the walk home that it was one Grandpa Allan had to get himself to as soon as possible.
The three of us caught an early flight this morning, landing around 11, we suffered the hour and twenty minute taxi ride to the Hotel London where we dropped our bags and went out in search of a deli to grab a bite. Our big plan was Afternoon tea, so we only had to stave off hungar till 4 or so. Then we walked. I usually have a pretty decent sense of direction, notice landmarks, have enough of an internal compass to orient myself with where we are respective to where we began...I must have left this compass at home because I was totally turned around. Which doesn't make a whole lot of sense because New York is a pretty straight-forward grid, but I spent so much time people-watching or billboard gawking and navigating throught the people around me (who constantly bump into eachother and don't apologize...I got weird looks when I did) that by the time we got to Central Park the only thing I could remember was how far we were from the nearest establishment that boasted their "famous cheesecake". It was across the street. We strolled through the park briskly, we did some shopping in Esprit (I now own another pair of work pants), Kate and I gave eachother agreeing judgemental looks when we saw any woman with extremely high heels, animal fur, and massive sun glasses (or any combination thereof), and Mum fondled every colorful pashmina within a three mile radius of us.
Then we got to tea; we'd originally planned to go to the Pierre, where we'd gone with Michael when we were last here, however it turned out to be closed for rennovation for the next sixteen months, so we settled for the St. Regis. Delicate and very satisfying little tea sandwiches, decent scones that came with an array of jams and lemon curd and of course clotted cream of which we had to order more, and pasterie, each bite of which Kate and I disected with critical tongues. I love how often we both choose the same adjective to describe a flavor, orange zest as 'rounder' than grapefruit zest, or half-joking about how one would make a line graph of a flavor from the moment it hit your tongue till the moment it died. We fantasized about starting our own bakery, what we'd specialize in, how to keep out the riff-raff who only came in for coffee and muffins and had no explorative taste buds. Its funny to hear her talk about it, because it's something we joke about alot, and Kate's introduction of the subject is never serious and is often apologized for, but we end up discussing it in such detail and excitement that I can't help but feel it's something she'd really be happy doing but feels guilty about her educational investments and doesn't want to squander them without at first trying to land a job in academia. I think I could be happy running a bakery as long as I could do it in addition to conducting or singing...the thought doesn't satisfy me entirely- no thought really does- unless it includes the music somehow. I'm excited at the prospect of searching for a more solid job once I'm out of Tufts, poking around the Los Angeles Children's Choir, asking Anthony what his experience has been like, reading the job descriptions for any music job anywhere. It feels strange to say this, but I'm a little afraid to look for a teaching job; I don't really feel qualified to teach due to my entire lack of experience, and I also feel like a bit of a fake. As though I'm not a real musician, as though I don't know enough to actually teach beyond a certain level. I was sitting in a RAP session with the premier choir (BCC's highest level group, all high school students) and helping them with a worksheet one of the other TF's had assigned them, and realized that I was unable to answer their questions as easily as I should be. The worksheet had intervals notated on it, and you were simply asked to identify the interval, Perfect Fifth, Diminished 7th, Augmented 3rd, etc. And of course my response to each of those questions is to say "listen to it in your head - what does it sound like?" which is not so helpful to them because this group isn't particularly strong with their ear training. So they do it using theory, either counting half steps, or simply identifying how the note is spelled on the staff, for example E to A# (Augmented Fourth) and recognize if it was major, minor, augmented or diminished. Simple, right?. I realized as I was answering these questions that my method of doing it by ear alone wasn't always useful...because I was answering what it sounded like as opposed to how it was written. Doing it my way meant that it was often right, but not always. For example, the interval of D to F# and the interval of D to Gb (G flat) would sound the same, but because there are three steps from D to F when it's notated as such, and D to Gb is four steps, they are actually named as different intervals. This is because (and here's the wonder of the freekin' piano) F# and Gb are the same key...they're called enharmonic equivelants. Anyway, this is when I had actual proof that I wasn't completely equipt to teach. I've done myself a great disservice with relying upon my ears constantly. I often rationalized to myself that I didn't need to attend to the details of the theory because ultimately I could hear it correctly, which meant I could sing it correctly. However if someone asks me to speak about it as opposed to sing, I'm often slow, and sometimes wrong. So. I'm actually looking forward to reviewing some of my theory books (and the teaching books we sometimes use for lesson plans) just so I can feel more secure in my knowledge about the music itself, as opposed to relying solely on my knowledge as a musician.
Whew! That was exhausting to write. Sorry if it was confusing. The point is I have work to do, and I'm excited to do it. And even more excited to feel that I can back up my degree with something other than experience.

Tomorrow Mum and I are going to an 8am meeting, then she and I will meet Kate for yoga, then Dim Sum, then the Museum of Modern Art, then a musical called Spring Awakening. And now I'm going to crash. Because I'm wiped out.

on the porch drinkin' ice cold cherry coke, where everything is black and white

Boston's pouring with rain; I am lonely today. I guess the semicolon would suggest they're connected, they're not, I just like proving that I went to college.

I realized when I sat down just now that I haven't said a face-to-face word with anybody today with the exception of Kelly, who is paid to listen to the things I say. Just read that sentence back and now I'm thinking maybe that's not so unusual, maybe many people go through their days solo and stay connected solely through the phone, maybe that's not so odd. Heh. Maybe I'm just looking for a reason to feel sorry for myself (I'm so very good at that). I had Symmetry this morning, then Kelly, then this hour and a half Yoga class from which my shoulders and wrists are pretty sore; there- that's a good reason! And one I can't complain about but once.
I'm still in my totally sweaty yoga clothes, and this isn't gym sweaty, this is wring-out-my-pants-into-a-bucket sweaty. The kind of sweaty where, as I'm driving home, I'm trying to support all my weight in my feet and my hands on the steering wheel thereby assuring my butt doesn't actually touch the seat and leave this massive ass mark. That usually lasts about two blocks.
So now I'm home, I'm eating some yogurt and honey, I'm finished with the first part of this week's Symmetry homework, and I've got two hours before I need to be at work for the dinner shift. I've got the big book that I bought at the meeting monday morning sitting atop the shelf to my left. This is my first experience with feeling as though an inanimate object is actively staring at me. Even text books and unfamiliar music for approaching concerts never gave me the eye like this. Big voice says shower, download music, catch up on dear abby. Little voice says do the reading Terri asked me to do. First three chapters, then some writing. I feel stupid being told this. Stupid because I've grown up hearing this damn book read, I've read the first three chapters myself before, and stupid because after all that I still need to do it again. Also because I remember telling Lucy once when we were all at the Sunday meeting (and mind you, I was 11), that we'd never have to worry about needing to come to these meetings because we'd already know what to do. I guess that means the lesson I got from going was simply 'don't develop a thinking problem'. And a whole bunch of nifty catch phrases. I don't think I ever listened closely enough to get the message of 'don't develop a thinking problem. Or a feeling problem. Or an eating disorder while you're at it'.
Hm. Just fear. I'm afraid. I am lonely.

So now that I've procrastinated thoroughly by writing here, I'm gonna sit on the floor next to my teeny space heater and read chapters 1-3 for the next half hour, or however long it takes. I won't die of being sweaty a little longer.

Then shower, then to Upstairs for the dinner shift.

Dona Nobis Pacem (bach b-minor, not the chairlift)

I'm up, it's still dark out, I'm cranky, I'm unbelievably tired, I've just had a bowl of cereal and I'm gonna grab a piece of string cheese when I get in the car, but first to the shower. I'm supposed to call Terri after the meeting so this is my in-writing reminder to do so. Morning folks. Today feels new.


Oh! And Mum and Nancy fly east today! Wooohoooo! I think we should all do dinner at Upstairs Thursday night when I'm not workin.

the breath that blows these cool winds round

Mailing off my W-2 forms to Renee, and feeling like a big girl. For the first day in eons. Today I talked to Clint, I talked to Emma, I talked to Mum, I left messages with Terri, I prayed constantly. I prayed for the willingness to let go of all the control I was imagining I could have over everything around me. And then prayed for the panic that arose immediately at the thought of relinquishing that control to be lifted, or at least eased. I prayed for the willingness to be honest. Which came. It all came.

I've found a 7am meeting tomorrow, it's AA and it's big book but I'm going to go anyway. I hope that's alright. I'll go into work lunch from there (likely spending the time in between reading at Starbucks).

Today I ate one whole butterscotch pudding, many little mint chocolates, some eggs, breakfast breads, bites of salad, bits of all things pastry, an onion ring, a lady finger...no actual real meal. I'm not taking care of my food. I had plenty of calories I'm sure, but no nutrients to speak of. I'll have an actual breakfast tomorrow before the meeting. Which means I should pretty much just get up now.

Just remembered I'm supposed to conduct a Tufts rehearsal tomorrow and I haven't looked at the music. Tomorrow's a busier day than I'd expected...I'm looking forward to this weekend in New York. I really, really need the break. Really.

I have no inspiring observations about the day, no quirky things to mention, just relief and exhaustion and hope.

Oh wait I do have one funny thing- the printers went down at work tonight, the ones in the kitchen that print the orders we ring in, and so we had to do it all manually. It was rather slow, so Tony instituted a rule that he would ignore all tickets that weren't illustrated. It became pictionary on the ticket. When a woman requested the pork chop with no potatoes and extra broccoli raab, I drew a very unhappy piggy with an ax above it's head, next to it a potato (that was a lumpy mass upon which I drew tiny eyes) with an X through it. Next to the potato was a plus sign, and then I drew a piece of broccoli and one of those old-timey thieves with a black eye mask sneaking away with a "loot" bag with a big dollar sign on it...then I wrote "verb" under his picture, indicating that it was not "Robber" that I was looking for, but "Rob". So. I got my pork chop, no potatoes, extra broccoli raab. I love that I can leave my crap at the door when I come to work.
Oh! This is big news- they asked me to sing at Upstairs! Like a night of me and a piano and a mic! I get to pick the night and they'll advertise and everything! I'm terrified. And thrilled. And the restaurant owners are gonna set me up with an accompanist- a guy who plays jazz there some nights - everything! I'm hoping I'm courageous enough to follow up, this is right there on the table for me. I'm wickedly excited.

Okay, just talked to Terri, to bed I go. It's been a very, very long day.


(by the way, Blogger's spell check is down, so now it's officially revealed how truly hopeless I am with spelling. Feel free to point and laugh.)

washing machine noises

A tiresome day at the restaurant, beginning with lunch shift at 10am, continuing through tea, and then hostessing at dinner which I've discovered I really don't like as much as I thought I might. It's a lot of waiting around and running up and down stairs between the Monday Club and the Soiree Room upstairs and organizing reservations and...it's not as mindless as making tubs full of roll-ups, as physical as balancing plates and racing from the kitchen out to the floor and back, and there's not nearly as much interaction with people as there is when you're waiting tables. And that's what I missed. On the bright side I did get to wear something other than black slacks, white button-down and a tie, but that was little compensation.

After work I felt numb, exhausted, and viciously under-slept. I had an unbelievably difficult and unproductive conversation with Emma (that I'm certain was my fault, most things are), but then unraveled it all with Terri on the way home, and felt much much calmer. She was talking about the difference between shame and guilt. I definitely remember hearing about this at Sierra Tucson, I know it was the topic of a number of workshops and group sessions, but I don't think I paid much attention to it because I didn't think it applied to me. I understand a little better now that it really does. Terri explained that guilt was when I feel badly about something I've done, a mistake I've made. Shame is when I am the mistake. How quickly I go from "things are going badly" to "I am bad". Or maybe less drastically "this situation isn't right" to "somethings not right with me". Hearing her talk about this was a relief, so much so that I cried. When I heard her say "I am the mistake", that's what really did it. Since I was 14 at the Sunday meeting I've wondered if I am one of those "such unfortunates", because I felt within me this gnawing thing that told me something wasn't wired right. I can't imagine that anyone is able to hear that phrase about the constitutionally incapable without for a moment wondering in fear that it might apply to them. After all, they're in this room, in this meeting, are they not? The people around them have written them off as a lost cause, they're morally and emotionally and spiritually at the bottom of most barrels, why not here too? Certainly it's not far-fetched to think that would apply to any of us, but I wonder sometimes if "constitutionally incapable" is a cop-out. This topic of shame and punishment and retribution has been really haunting me lately. I don't know what I have to say about it yet but I'm sure more will come soon.

I've just opened up a BCC check. The MLK weekend stipend was supposed to be for $250 but it's been knocked down to $150. Which averages roughly to about 5 bucks an hour. I want to complain given that we all basically worked 3 days straight before that concert, wrangling singers and running rehearsals in preparation but I know it's not a particularly wealthy organization and I'm so grateful that I'm even being paid to do it in the first place that I feel like I should just shut the hell up and deposit the damn thing.

I have no music playing because I don't think I can really handle anything right now. (Did I mention that the background music at the TF's dinner last night was Best of James Taylor?). So I'm listening to the tak tak of my keyboard and the wumwumwumwum of my washing machine that's running because I need to wash my shirts for work tomorrow. I like how when it goes on spin cycle I can feel my whole third floor shake. I've agreed to work brunch and dinner tomorrow, which will have a special menu in honor of the Superbowl. That's right. Our gourmet restaurant serving chili, homemade chips and guac, and hot dogs with cheese. Classy. I trust it'll be upscale versions of them all; we have to be pompous about everything. As for the game itself, I know the patriots are playing but I don't know who the other team is. Here's how much I care about the Superbowl:
I care about it this much- from here --> <-- to here. That's not even an inch.
I'm a little bitter about the game. Tom Petty and all the rest. It's really rough to think about. I'm not well there. I'm grateful I'll be running around the restaurant, hopefully without much time to stop and watch much more than a commercial or two.

My shoulders ache. I need to get myself to bed. Miles and miles and miles to go before I sleep.

It's up to your knees out there

I've just returned from rock climbing with some people from work and there's still chalk in the crevices of my hands and my forearms are achy and I can feel my heart beat in my shoulders. It was really nice to do something purely physical but that doesn't require any internal vision or personal peace. Cause I have none of that. What I do have is the ability to belay up to speed (that's when, in top roping, you're the person on the ground locking the line to your harness as the person you're attached to climbs so if they slip they don't fall), and to ascend a 5.8 level without even a smidgeon of grace. I climbed like I wrestle, I'm all scrappy and without form and I certainly don't look good doing it (my sweats were all bunched in my harness like a giant diaper and the waistband had snuck up into my armpits) but I got up there.

It's raining like crazy here, has been all day, even sleeting some, and I'm going to brave the traffic tonight to go to a dinner that Michele (Assistant Director of the BCC) is holding at her house for the teaching fellows. It'll be nice to have a meal that comes out of the oven rather than the microwave, or one that's not an mistake dish at the restaurant that everyone has had their forks in. So I'll battle traffic as soon as I'm dressed and out of the shower. Or out of the shower and dressed, whatever works.

Also, I got my first Symmetry assignment back this morning and I got a B. It's not whopping, it's not fantastic, and I know it's only the first bit of homework but it's passing and that pleases me...it's a bit of hope suggesting that, at some point, I'll get a diploma and I won't live in Medford any more.

I'm really grateful to have had plenty to do today, and to have somewhere to be tonight. I feel like shit and I'm being plagued by the wrong music at every turn. All Tom Petty, all James Taylor, all Rascal Flats, India Arie, Ben Folds, even Barenaked Ladies aren't safe. Songs that have no affiliation to me but sound remotely mournful or longing or self-indulgent, no, I'm just gonna make the blanket statement that anything that begins with the chord progression I - vi - V is entirely unsafe and likely to throw me into my wallow. By the way Wallow is a noun now. I've had to make a playlist consisting of only Paul Simon and Bonnie Raitt and even then not all of their stuff is okay, so I've had to supplement with stuff that makes me laugh out loud, like Eric Cartman singing "Come Sail Away" and the audio recording of each of the Harry Potter books! Anything to get out of my head, anything to pull my head out of ...well ...my head. I was talking with Terri yesterday, Mum's sponsor (and, I hesitate to say it, mine?) and she was talking about living from the neck down, letting the head go off on it's own balloon ride - which is fine - as long as the body doesn't decide to react to it, or worse, go take the actual balloon ride (that's my crappy metaphor not hers). Let the head go, don't pay it any mind, just do something physical like a shower or yoga or teeth brushing. To me, the thought of living in my body is really not comfortable either, but lately it's preferable to the circus that's trying to calm down in my head.

I'm going to go take the shower and un-numb a little and then get dressed to go to dinner with the other teaching fellows.

Oh, and add Alison Krauss to the above list of unsafe artists. "Stay" especially.

What I wouldn't give to be 9 again.