Poledo

Hasty now, don't have a lot of time today. Just as well. I've become laconic to the point of disease. I first realized this when I was looking through my own writings for poetry class; the stanzas just got shorter and fewer as time went on. Minimalism overrided every other priority. Avoidance of not saying what people don't want to hear has been achieved at the cost of not saying what I want to say.

Or do I? I can barely summon the motivation to say anything these days. I don't know who I'd tell anything to. I've lost motivation for a lot of things. I don't know what to write because I no longer know why I write. I don't know why I'm getting this Writing Seminars minor anymore. I took up writing because I wanted to tell someone something. Or that I wanted to contribute to the beauty in this world. Or even, in Bukowski's words, "to keep myself from total madness." Now that my own mind feels like a complete dead-air zone, even the last reason rings hollow.

It's already warm enough to sleep with the windows open. I used to love the moments lying in bed before I fell asleep each night. Now I almost fear them; they're the moments in the day I find myself most exhausted, sometimes even like I've been hollowed out with an ice cream scoop. I lie not knowing why I fall asleep, why I wake in the morning, even what holds my body together; my own existence seems as inscrutable and absurd as the existence of anything else.

So much has happened in the three weeks since I last wrote here, and still, it seems nothing has changed:

I applied for the Provost Undergraduate Research Award for next fall and aced a ProbStats exam on the same day.

I wrote a 10pg, single-spaced, paper on influenza membrane fusion, which I got an A+ on.

I recorded a couple more songs: the first an electronic shoegazing instrumental with bitcrushed and randomized guitar, and the second a drill 'n' bass remix of Peter Bjorn & John's "Chills."

I decided to start up the alias "Betastrand" for my electronic music.

I played guitar in the Buttered Niblets' production of Sex aka Wieners and Boobs, and received praise in the Newsletter for my "sophisticated music" and "finessed guitar licks," which took me about 5 minutes to write, total. People laughed; that was all I cared about.

I met up with Valerie for dinner in the park, but not before she'd asked (the previous night, as we were figuring out plans over the phone), "so this is just a friends thing, right?" Not knowing what to say (50% chance of saying the right thing isn't high enough to make me open my mouth), I couldn't come up with anything better than, "...it's whatever you want it to be...?" Didn't even try to argue the point. Like I said, critical levels of apathy. Then again, it's always seemed hard to fight my way into the lives of those who are extremely self-assured, and at this point, I'm pretty sure I'm past trying.

Hung out at Sarah M.'s house last Sunday evening. Late birthday party for Sarah K. and her boyfriend Noah (turned out he did exist, after all). Many biophysics grad students were there...talking to them sort of reaffirmed my belief that grad students are, in general, more interesting than undergrads. I just wish I was one of them (soon). We talked a lot about grad student life and so forth, though it did become apparent that bickering still existed. Sarah M.'s was a tiny one-bedroom apartment decorated with her brother's artwork, a china cabinet, and two cats I was miserably allergic to. Sarah M. made flambed baked Alaska and black cherry chocolate pie. I didn't have dinner that evening, but by the time we were finished with dessert, I didn't care.

Then there's the story of how I got kicked out of Trafalgar. True story. One day Sterling showed me an email Miguel had sent him that said, "Will is out of the band. Do you want to play bass for us on May 5th?" Lou Barlow'd. 1989 style. Those guys can't even fire band members properly if I'm not there to do it for them, like how it turned out with Lisa.

Not overly concerned. My solo electronic stuff is more satisfying and productive anyway. More musings on this later.

Still. Life's lonely when it's easy to be alone. And it's been far too easy to be alone recently. Far too fucking easy.