Saturday, October 29, 2005

We left the safety of the building to walk through the woods. I don't remember exactly what our destination was, but the trees were lovely. Nevertheless, I felt an extra element of fear in the journey.

The little girl sensed it first. She became frightened and began pointing as we crossed over a small wooden bridge at a low point in the forest. Imminent danger. What was it?

At last, I spied it: a large grizzly bear. Could I disappear before it noticed me? I tried quickly to become as small as possible while moving from the woods toward an open road. George was there too, only he didn't see it approaching. I shouted for him to turn. Get your gun out, George, there's a bear! He didn't see it. I pointed. He turned and looked in the direction of the approaching bear, which was on its hind legs now, practically on top of him. He didn't see it. Why couldn't he see it?

It's a ghost bear. This type of grizzly only exists in my realm, not George's. He is only real to me, and perhaps also to small girls who are sensitive to such threatening antagonists. This is the first dream in which I have made the observation that not everyone can even see the bears. Great, I've always wanted my own personal grizzly.

Monday, October 24, 2005

I have to confess, I burned my bagel twice today. In a row. The first time was typical and excusable: I'd occupied myself typing happily here at my computer until the charred victim's screams finally reached my nostrils. With a semi-frantic dash to the toaster oven, I assessed the incinerated carcass and emptied the toaster oven contents into trash can, swiftly, in order to avoid burnt fingers and cover up the crime.

Guiltily, I popped in a second bagel, aware of the fact that George would notice two were now missing from the bag, and I would have to admit that I burned one. He had warned me earlier--on four separate occasions, mind you--that this new oven toasted things really fast, to which I scoffed, "Oh yeah, like that's the most incredible oven I've ever seen. And you've said that four times already, gosh!" Continuing, I teased him for showing signs of premature senility.

I'm not sure exactly how much time elapsed during the second offense; I forget. I returned to my seat at the computer, glanced over my shoulder at the glowing window, and saw once again a black object where a golden brown one should be. The repetitive nature of my folly is embarrassing; the demise of Bagel Number Two was identically dismal.

Should I try again? I'm a violinist; I inserted Bagel Number Three. This time, I watched. You know what they say about a watched pot never boiling, right? Have you taken the time out of your schedule to focus on a bagel long enough to watch it toast? Normally, I would call this an arduous task, but not today. It wasn't like watching leaves change color. It wasn't like watching stubble grow on a chin, or even like watching a sunset. No, it unfolded more like a time lapse in a science film. In about fifteen seconds, the edges started to tan. Two more, and the middle began to brown. In a total of only twenty seconds, the bagel had achieved deep sienna. I've never seen anything like it.

Three bagels later, I guess George was right after all. At least it didn't take four times to figure it out.

Wednesday, October 19, 2005

You could pick just about anyone. Okay, not just anyone. Someone with a particular interest in coffee, depth of thought, comfortable conversation, or just plain "gets it." If you're lucky in love like me, you'll get it all in one package.

But it could have been someone else. Right? Every once in a while, I question the should-have-beens and the might-have-beens, just like everyone else who has ever come down to that decision making point and decided to go ahead with it. The circumstances came down to George, and we decided to go the journey together until one of us dies or kills the other. I think that's what we said in the vows...

But why marriage? And why to him? Why do people make such a commitment when there are so many options out there? How do you know if you got the best pick? How could you ever know another person's soul well enough to your rope own to it and see if it takes off or sinks like a rock? It's really quite a scary concept, actually. I've seen way too many distressed couples to take the decision lightly. I knew very well, when I stood before Mom and Dad and God Himself and said those words, the risks that accompanied that decision.

It came about this way. We were going about our favorite things that we always do, and it felt as though we had always done them together, and didn't mind at all if we could be doing them on and on, just like that. And now, we have that agreement that guarantees it for life. He's not backing out. I'm not backing out. We're happily stuck.

Hollywood makes all the stink about hot new romances, sizzling young movie stars colliding in the universe as though destiny or an incredible twist of fate brought them together. I still maintain that it could be just about anyone, and that the meeting is nothing special, and the fact is, you choose whoever happens to be around and thinks the same about it. The miracle lies in the workings that keep it together. It is an absolutely amazing thing when people keep liking each other even after they've come out and shown each other what they're really about, dirty fingernails and all. I tried to pick someone who would. I try to be someone who would.

It's an altogether secure state of existence. I have here on earth someone who is not to reject me even if I take twenty minutes to get out the door or stay up until two making horrible sounds on the violin. George now has someone who will keep liking him, even if he puts dead waterfowl in the freezer or smells like fish sometimes. He'll keep cooking me his Italian specialties, and I'll keep knitting him scarves and hats. We've gone along like this for 1,830 days now as unconditional partners, getting up every morning on the same side of the bed and tackling the day together. Yes, it's a bit like a three-legged race at times, but I still argue that three legs are more stable than two, or even four.

I ask myself from time to time what exactly it is that keeps me steadfast, when I can be so fickle in other areas. I think it is this: at five years, crawling into bed and curling up against the same person actually feels quite different than it does at one year, or two months.

Love, to me, should be more than the 90-minute movie romance package. That whole concept is akin to a bouquet of roses--aesthetic and nice-smelling, but already dying in the vase. I wanted to see what it would be like to grow an oak tree instead. If tended regularly, its roots will flourish, and as long as our interests remain undivided, I'm going to find myself swinging high from its branches some day. I can't wait.

Monday, October 17, 2005

So then, how many of us have thrown our heads back and laughed in the face of death? It doesn't have to be something as blatant as swinging by one arm from a high limb in a tree or lying on railroad tracks at the approach of a train. I have done neither of those. How about running on trails through bear-infested country without any protection? Or taking the dark street home from work, all alone? Or flying in a small aircraft across the Bering Sea with the nation's tiniest landing strip as your destination? Or eating SPAM?

Sometimes, I get the urge to do things just for spite against the fear of death. I want my life to be full and unafraid, and I don't want to cling to it so much that I never really actually live. You miss out on a lot of great moments that way. Heck, while I'm at it, I think I'll do some shopping for tickets to Cambodia. I've still got some unresolved battles to tackle there.

Sunday, October 16, 2005

I had a recital last night with my trio. We performed together, and each of us also played a number of solos. My Danse Macabre I saved for the finale, and by then I was feeling pretty comfortable with the audience. Each performance is a little different, and I take something new away from it. Last night, I don't know if it was the full moon or what, but for a segment of time, I wasn't just entertaining the people, I was Evil. The Danse Macabre is, after all, an evil piece--but in a childish way, so that no one gets hurt. It was as though instead of reciting the phrases in my best acting voice, for a moment I wasn't sure if I was acting or if I had actually convinced myself, too. Do I belive in black magic and ghosts and dancing skeletons? I think not! Thank God the rooster breaks the spell so I can go home with a sane, decent mind.

...I would be lying, though, to say that my devotion to mastering it hasn't affected my psyche somehow. I have become increasingly morbid. I love thinking about death sometimes, since it's something we all do eventually. It doesn't scare me at all; it fascinates me. I personally don't want to die at this time, but I have been enjoying my role as the observer, noting its increasing presence as the seasons change over, watching the frost take its victims and bare the branches once more. Is it sinister? Is it bad? It's part of creation, just like being born--yet, I think that there is an element of darkness in autumn. In a perfect world, we wouldn't have seasons because there would be no death. Death is a result of the Fall. But I like it! I like the yellows and the smell of musty earth and rotting leaves.

I like playing Danse Macabre as a celebration of the glorious side of death (if that's what you could call it without being irreverent).

Thursday, October 13, 2005

There are two basic options when faced with an obsessive spell:

1. Target an incredibly lofty goal and begin picking slowly and persistently away at it, with relentless steadfastness. The target remains on the front burner of one's mind, heated by passion in a crockpot of creativity, perhaps scorching even a bit on the bottom as it transforms from a collection of everyday household items into genius masterpiece. Some goals are only achieved in such a cauldron of perpetually boiling obsessiveness. Am I being redundant in my choice of words? It probably has something to do with the need to properly express obsessive behavior.

2. Knit. Something large and redundant.

Friday, October 07, 2005

I probably began the day too tired, and it just slipped out from under me before I even tied my shoes. My negativity began to manifest itself in the slightly harsh retort I gave to one of my friendly art critics at the coffee shop. It was a joke, I know, when he asked if I'd plagiarized the pen and ink calf roper. He said he wasn't being serious, to which I replied, "How can I take that any way but seriously?" Not terse, not edgy, not with a scowl did I say those words, but with a directness that somehow withered him and instigated his request for forgiveness.

This little incident seems trivial, but it got right under my skin and smoldered in my heart like a thorn. I grew more anxious as I drove to my rehearsal with the Accompanist. By the time I tightened my bow, I felt pensive and feeble, and it became very difficult to perform. I couldn't stop feeling cold. As I stepped outside, every new scent of autumn decay pricked and tugged on my soul with associations of heavy grey memories. Tired and unmotivated, I ran my errands and withdrew to the confines of my home.

I spent the rest of the afternoon curled up under a half-finished quilt on my couch, waiting for suppertime.

I really fear I will become the person I hate the most.

Thursday, October 06, 2005

Ha, I walked around today with a big ol' hole in my pants.

Earlier, with my art show freshly on the wall at the local coffee shop and people perusing calmly and absentmindedly, I sat with my crunch cake doughnut and americano and observed their response. No one wrote any comments in my book. No one had ordered any prints yet. No one had exclaimed, "Eureka, I've discovered the next Picasso and must buy every last one of these originals!"

I, of course, immediately jumped to the conclusion that I must have reached my peak as an artist last year, and am now spiraling downward on the swirling waters of the toilet that handles soon-to-be has-beens.

Naturally, when it's raining, or if it's October, or if George looks at me the wrong way, or if my fortune cookie reads like a bad omen, I will be the first to succumb to self-pity and doubt.

Something I've noticed about ego--once you get used to having it stroked regularly, you always want more. It won't matter how many people think I'm an awesome rock star, I'll never feel like it's enough. After doughnuts, I spent three whole hours moping at my loss of favor in the public eye.

Then, I got a couple of emails and a card to once again remind me of how stinkin' awesome I really am. I'm a pillar in the music community! I could be a Lipizer competition winner! I'm a multitalented, deep-thinking, spiritually upright, humorous chick! Yeah, I'm a freakin' genious!

Then, I discovered I taught all my lessons today with a huge hole in the backside of my pants.

We really musn't take oursleves too seriously, I think.

Monday, October 03, 2005

It's funny, trying to find my way around this silly new blog. It's not like a clean journal that opens simply to the first blank page, and with just the right pen, automatically becomes your own space. This blog feels somewhat like a cubical. It has a desk with drawers that hide important things that I never placed there. It has corporate blue walls and manilla envelopes. I can smell the eraser dust and sharpie pens now. I don' t even have a picture of my parents to hang here.

This is probably why I haven't ever written in it. That, and once this post goes to print, it could show up just about anywhere; may as well do a power point presentation with it.

...And here we have the close-up and personal blog of the Not-So-Famous-Violinist-Blogger who currently resides at eblogger under the pseudonym of puffintoad. Notice her witty and animated writing skills that embellish simple nuggets of truth and wisdom... If I was powerpointing, the Phrase "Not-So-Famous-Violinist" would bounce in size 20 yellow Arial across a varigated purple background. Then three bullets would whiz by:
-----------truth and wisdom

(four bullets is not aesthetic)

Actually, the reason I came to this little cubical hole was to disappear into anonimity, after all the limelight I face with my Violinistblog. Sometimes I just want to come out and say what it is I'm really trying to say, and not have to face a crowd that isn't going to get it at all. Half of the time I start to write and then it's "Nevermind..." Delete. How can you be silly and candid or controversial and exposed when you have such a reputation to uphold? It's more likely that I can get away unnoticed here.

I feel no compulsion to become a regular to this blog. I will either end up writing in it, or I won't. I can guarantee, however, that what you find here will be all the things you won't find out about me anywhere else... How's that for a good trailer?