The Rise and Fall of Sara and the Hipsters From Ashland
 

I thought I'd do this journal in a way that it's kind of like my life soundtrack. Basically, I'll pick a song or a few songs, and write about what's going on, using those songs as the soundtrack for my day / week / etc.

As of April 10, 2011, I will also be expanding this journal, and making it more of something I'd be interested in updating more often. I will still have the strange, dubiously music-related bits that have seemingly become the norm when I go to this journal, but it's also going to have a bit more to it.

Still, it will serve as a musical soundtrack of sorts. There will, however, be more in the way of album reviews, concert reviews, songs worth checking out, playlists, general musical ponderings, and the like. For a more guided and organized journaling experience, I choose not to start over, but improve the quality of posts within the journal itself; the previous entries will, of course, remain for nostalgia's sake, but things are going to work a little bit differently around here, starting now. The types of posts you will find in this journal:

Soundtrack: These posts will be similar to several other posts already contained within the thread. It will consist of the goings-on in my life, and the music which sums it up. It's a little like the "Which song describes how you're currently feeling" thread, but the length of the posts for my journal will be a bit longer and more in depth.

Playlist / Mixes: A bit about playlists and mixes I have made will be the content of these sort of posts. In some ways, this is similar to the above. It serves to remind me of precisely what I was listening to at a given moment in time, and why those songs were selected. Probably most importantly, it displays how the common act of making playlists and mix CDs can be cathartic or serve as the soundtrack for a particular moment in time.

Album Reviews Project: This is a part of the journal to which I'm going to dedicate a lot of time. These may come once a week, once a month, or occasionally, perhaps even a few within a given day. This project is me, with a list of 300 albums I have queued to listen to in a specific order via a randomizer. These albums are in a variety of genres, a variety of eras, and hopefully there's a little something there for everyone. Some are well-known, while others are albums from artists with very few plays on last.fm. For this project, I'm not intending to review these completely in typical album review format - they will probably contain a lot more personal thoughts about the albums and songs themselves.

Check This Song Out!: If I find a cool song, you can bet that it will fall in this category. I'll offer opinions on the song itself, and some background about the artist.

Cool Music Things: Super nifty websites, information and news about bands I've discovered recently, things within the music world which have piqued my interest, and musings about all aspects of music from songwriting to live performance will go here.

Dubiously Musical Rambling: This is for random things I will probably end up posting which are only loosely related to music. Dreams about musicians, and foolishness of that nature will probably round this out.

There will probably be more additions to types of posts within this journal. I also will not be labeling posts with these categories, but this is just an explanation of what you'll find here.

So kick back, enjoy, and crack open a cold PBR. Hopefully you'll enjoy your stay!



Metric - Help I'm Alive (Acoustic)

I'm currently working very hard as a performer in a play in my community. It's "Nightfall With Edgar Allan Poe", written by Eric Coble, and I'm a narrator during "The Raven", as well as playing the role of Sante in "The Pit and the Pendulum".

I've had many roles in theatre previously, including multiple credits for directing, as a playwright, and such. I don't really get nervous anymore, but I know when I'm getting a really intense role. One of those roles that reminds me that there's no way you can coast through an acting performance.

Sante is one of those roles.

I'm playing a male, ultimately, although the idea is that I'm supposed to be playing more of an androgynous / sexless prisoner during the Spanish Inquisition. The material is...intense to say the least. Very physical, very demanding.

Ultimately, I know that I should be completely happy with this, but I'm kind of terrified. I'm so thrilled to have been given the role, particularly as I get to perform for the first time in this gorgeous, historic, 1400 seat art deco designed theatre in my area - something which has been my dream since childhood.

I just don't want to blow it.

I love this idea. I'm sure you'll do great. You seem to be throwing yourself into this role100% and its rough but it makes the character come alive. Its worth it in the end. I do theatre and I'm insanely jealous of you ATM.
Dear god, that song is gorgeous. The vocals are so vulnerable and glassy....

I like the title of your journal. Is it an obscure reference to a song or album title or did you make it up yourself?

I've wondered this too. This journal is the top hit on Google......

Semi-David Bowie reference. I was working on a life soundtrack at one point, and couldn't think of a title to sufficiently sum it up. I went to an old standby method, and thought back to album titles I really enjoy, which I can rework and make into a title.

This came from "The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders From Mars" album title.

This journal has been forgotten for a bit, and I'm bringing it back. I understand that one post didn't really make it much of a "journal" in the first place, but I'm definitely going to try to keep this updated more frequently.

I've gotten in the habit lately of doing something which has proved oddly therapeutic - I make mixes for people which they will never receive. It's like writing the letter you never deliver (that many self-help books swear by!) just to get everything out. It really has been making me feel better.

All but one mix.

This mix is to her. The one who could have been before I got scared and ruined things...then could have been again before I got scared and ruined things again. She's the "what-if" I've never quite been able to let go of, and nothing ever coming of it has been, completely and undeniably, all my fault.

Her undeliverable mix was in the form of a cassette. Side A was entitled: To Someone Who Deserves It, and Side B: ...From Someone Who Doesn't.

It really seemed not to fit the theme of many of the other mixes I'd been making in that it was not embittered towards the person. It is full of things I felt needed to be said, but Side B turned into straight up self-deprecation. Instead of just making the mix as a form of catharsis and putting it aside, I keep listening to it. It points out the flaws in myself I'd like not to look at. My own weak points displayed. It also made it glaringly obvious to me that the only reason I'd never pursued anything is because I didn't feel like I was good enough to do so.

Side A:
1.) Joy Zipper - 1
2.) The Delgados - Keep On Breathing
3.) Ben Kweller - Falling
4.) Bob Dylan - I Want You
5.) Harry and the Potters - Save Ginny Weasley
6.) Julia Nunes - Pen To Paper
7.) Ingrid Michaelson - Die Alone
8.) The Brunettes - If You Were Alien
9.) CocoRosie - By Your Side
10.) Loch Awe - Lullaby From a Digital Sea
11.) Rilo Kiley - Hail To Whatever You Found In the Sunlight That Surrounds You
12.) Jenny Owen Youngs - Nighty Night

Side B:
1.) Bright Eyes - Something Vague
2.) Amanda Palmer - Blake Says
3.) Sarah Brightman - Anytime, Anywhere
4.) Regina Spektor - Apres Moi
5.) tape recorder - Carbon Copy
6.) Imogen Heap - Hide and Seek
7.) Ingrid Michaelson - The Chain
8.) Young Hunting - Sonata
9.) Phish - Dirt
10.) Rilo Kiley - Small Figures In a Vast Expanse
11.) Amy Seeley - Catalinas
12.) Jeremy Messersmith - Tomorrow
13.) The Beatles - Blackbird

90 minute cassette.

Just feeling a little depressed lately, I suppose. I'm going to try to destroy this cassette and keep myself from listening to it anymore...after Christmas.

Very clever themes. Chin up, mate, tis the season for depression, but don't go wallowing in it. We must have very similar musical tastes because I own 20 of your 25 selected songs.

I had a dream last night (in the brief period I got off of here to sleep) that I really thought should probably go in my journal as opposed to in the dream thread. For the occasion, I'm going to "illustrate" said dream to give you a better understanding of what was going on.

As an added bonus, I was listening to this when I fell asleep:

Trey Anastasio & Tom Marshall - Trampled By Lambs and Pecked By the Dove
http://place1.dyndns.org/music/files...ed/1778220.jpg

(Which probably explains the characters in the dream, but not the dream itself. Oh no. That is all to do with my crazed imagination.)

The stars of said dream were me:
http://i53.tinypic.com/5lapfm.jpg

Trey Anastasio:
http://i54.tinypic.com/213m4cz.jpg

And Tom Marshall (Trey's songwriting partner):
http://i51.tinypic.com/px94n.jpg

In my dream, I was at the Trey concert, and he had just performed a wonderful set with his band, as well as an acoustic set. It was setbreak, and I didn't really care about being close to the stage for the second set as much, so I was going to buy a delicious and refreshing beer.

I looked at the bar, and what to my wondering eyes should appear (not a miniature sleigh and eight tiny reindeer...) but TOM MARSHALL!

http://i54.tinypic.com/294m99h.jpg

He was at the bar going to buy himself a drink, but I took the opportunity to swoop in and offer to buy it for him. I mean, after all, this man had been Trey's friend since middle school, and the lyricist for many many many of Phish's songs.

He graciously accepted, I bought a brew for myself, and he and I went to sit down and chat a bit. We talked about music, movies, and all sorts of things, then Tom got really serious for a minute.

He said he wanted to show me something.

I was like, "Okay, yeah, that'd be cool! What is it?"

And he said that we'd have to go outside, 'cause that's where he'd kept it.

At this point, I motioned to the door, clearly marked: NO RE-ENTRY.

http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3276/...67ff9f6ac8.jpg

With a wave of his hand, Tom dismissed that. I gestured again to the door, and expressed my concern that I wouldn't see the second set if we left. He informed me that there WAS re-entry because he was Tom fucking Marshall.

http://i54.tinypic.com/mbl9hk.jpg

I couldn't argue with that.

We went outside, and he led me through a gate around the side where he had a car he'd rented to drive around Columbus while Trey was in town, so he could see the show and not have to ride in the bus.

Tom popped the trunk, and pulled out a guitar. But WAIT.

This motherfucker had a guitar made out of bones.

http://fc08.deviantart.net/fs13/f/20...hatefueled.jpg

"Um," I managed, "Are those real bones?"

Tom laughed and smiled. "Yup."

"Whose...bones..."

At this point, Tom started monologuing something fierce. "You know, I think it's a great present. I think Trey's really going to dig it. I'm going to give it to him after the show, you know. As a present. Boy, Trey loves presents..."

I stammered out again, "Whose...."

"Consequently," Tom told me, "There's not going to be a summer Phish tour...or any other Phish tour, actually. But Trey has a bitchin' guitar now."

At this point Trey walked out of the building, smiling.

http://i54.tinypic.com/213m4cz.jpg

Then his smile quickly turned to a frown as a single tear trickled down his face.

http://i51.tinypic.com/2l52l1.jpg


So. I dreamt Tom Marshall fashioned a bone guitar to give to Trey made out of the bones of the three other members of Phish.

I was very upset.

Today has been a day of deep thought. Introspection and melancholy have been the norm for me for the past few months, but it seems as though both were out in full force today. Perhaps it has a little bit to do with the rain, which has been bearing down, pounding at my roof all day. Who knows? What I've come to realize that I ultimately feel, however, isn't quite melancholy. That's an undertone of the general flavor. There's something like hope fleshing out the overall state of emotions, a hint of near despair, and full notes of complete and utter self-awareness.

I do this. When performing in a play, I get into a character only to realize that maybe I've been hiding from myself for a little while. I manage to pull myself out of my two-dimensional funk and realize that there are more dimensions, more facets of what makes up me (or anyone else for that matter) than I had been allowing myself to be consciously aware of. When it hits, I'm not scared exactly - it just feels as though I've awoken from a deep sleep, from a superficial dream, and I'm completely disoriented.

When this happens, I'm more aware of how I'm feeling. Everything is very detailed, and I can pinpoint tiny nuances in my own emotions, and can allow things which have (regrettably) upon occasion been little more than background noise really affect me.

The song which broke all of this down for me today, as the rain made irregular percussion on the roof above me, was an acoustic version of Trey Anastasio's "Black" from his most recent tour.



In spite of this being an audience recording, and not as sensitive as the soundboard I have from this show, it is the same version of the song from the same performance. Certain lyrics in this song really touched something way down deep.

Try to maintain all that you can
When the story that ends is not so clear
Tried to replay all that was good
When the lullaby, lullaby ends in darkness.

And also:

Time for driftin' - ropes turn to sand
You'll be borne on the winds of the sea.

And the repeated, Just let it slip away felt more relevant than anything I'd heard in months, years...a lifetime.

By the end of the song, I was in tears. It just felt...perfect. Beautiful and sad. My current view of the world is that it is beautiful and sad. Bittersweet.

Today's introspection has also made me wonder if I'm a masochist. I am completely...crushing...which is one of the most hateful and seemingly juvenile things to my mind right now. Crushing. It sounds like something only grade school, middle school kids should be feeling, and yet it's got its hooks deep, deep in me. It has for some time. As per usual, it's destined to come to nothing. The odds of her feeling anything towards me are slim to none.

I've been trying to distance myself from her for...God. Since I've known her. I'll think I'm over it, then as soon as I think, "A-ha! I'm over it. I'm good," I'll run into her again. Or have to work with her in a theatrical capacity.

This last time, I really almost made it. I really did. I was able to spend almost three months without crossing paths with her, and then I was asked to do a show. Once offered the role, I accepted gratefully - being able to work with the most respected director in my area without having to even audition because he's familiar with my work is something I'm not going to pass up on. Read-through came around, and she was in the show. Worse, she was cast as my friend. My co-star. This has resulted in horrible, horrible tension for me. I'm able to believably portray my character, but it aches deep down.

I've been able to be very professional about the whole thing - as has she, but I feel that she's not completely writhing internally, so that's to be expected of her - but I can't...get...over...it.

There was a time - when there was a chance. But, as per usual, I messed up. It's like, I'm constantly set on self-destruct, be it through self-medicating, taking no action to prevent myself from feeling any negative emotion and just allowing it to hit me full force at all times, and letting people who no longer care to have significant importance to me. It doesn't have to be in terms of "romance". It could be anyone. It could be a friend with whom I've had a terrible falling out, an ex, or, in this case, a person I legitimately have been interested in for something like two years, but completely alienated by doing stupid, stupid things. I knew what the repercussions were, but I decided I didn't deserve any better.

As stupid as that sounds, I guess.

I guess the reason I'm saying all of this is because today, I was off in my own little world. Whenever I wasn't doing a scene, I was thinking. Just thinking. Which may be scarier than anything else - I can't hide from myself thinking - where would I go? So, I was acting with an intensity I'd not yet shown in rehearsals prior, (had been working on Texan dialect and memorization) and the director was pleased. I guess the girl noticed something amiss. I glanced up at her, and she looked concerned for me. I turned away. When I was leaving, I avoided talking to her, because she had the look of, "I'm going to speak to you..." on her face. I just kind of smiled and walked to my car.

I suppose maybe I'm just...not at all into allowing people "in" anymore. Even if there was a chance with her. I figure if I keep them completely out, they're not going to have to deal with my crap, and that I'm really doing them an enormous favor.

And this song has just been on repeat for a while. And I love it.

And that is all.

I have no idea where on MB this song was initially posted, or who was the actual poster, but thank you so much! I saw it somewhere on the forums, and downloaded the first Black Box Recorder album immediately...and then two more of their albums. This song is indie pop at its catchiest, and its most intelligent.

I will say...I will posting a full review of this album ASAP. Until then, check out this song, which I give a perfect 10 at this moment in time, and if you'd like the album and can't find it...I may be able to help you out. ;)

Yes! Black Box Recorder! I found them on here probably about a year ago just when I got internet back thanks to jackhammer I think... it's definitely some great twee, with members of auteurs, jesus & mary chain, and balloon. Good post I haven't listened to the first album in a bit... you've definitely recommended me my evening music.

You're welcome ;)

If you're interested in some followup material to have a look at, you should check out some of Luke Haines' solo work - I'm pretty sure he's the male backing vocal in that song you posted, and definitely one of the brains behind Black Box Recorder all the same.

Par example;

I wanted you to know that I laughed aloud at your Phish inspired dream.

Oh yes, they're brilliant! I was amazed that when I heard them, it was the first time I'd so much as heard of them - but was definitely glad that there was something new and awesome!

Very cool! And thanks so much for posting them - they are fantastic, and I can't get enough of 'em right now. They're just the exact kind of music I was looking to listen to at that point in time. Very good stuff, that.

Ha, thanks! :) It was a bizarre dream. I was going to post it in the dream thread, but I figured that 99.9% of people on here had no idea who Tom Marshall was, and felt it was more of a journal entry.

I'm currently working on writing some short plays to potentially have an evening of theatre in the "Grand-Guignol" style. I'm really interested in that sort of theatre, and have never seen anything like that put on around here.

Naturally, I'm a bit wary about the themes inherent in that sort of theatre - murder, violence, rape, etc. - but I do intend to have more of the melodramatic, campy, and comical pieces throughout the evening.

As lame as it is, I've been almost completely unable to find any literature on the theatre - in English. And I don't speak French, so that's pretty lame. Also, apparently there's not even a vast amount of information available in other languages.

So I think what's going to happen is that I'm going to do some weird, modern, hybrid Grand-Guignol theatrical evening of performances...it'll be something.

I guess I've gotten past the point of worrying about offending audiences - if it's not made for the sake of being offensive, I've got nothing to worry about. Presumably. The workshop of "The Accidental..." was well-received.

Musically, I've been trying to find some good classical music to listen to in order to inspire the pieces, and underscore them when performances come around - I figure I'll spend the better part of July - September working with actors on getting this shit down.

Can't find the studio cut anywhere, and can't be arsed to find it, but I've been listening to this song a lot today:

Phish - Anything But Me



You've become an island in the hazy world surrounding me
Offering a vast reward each time I safely cross the sea.
All too often, I become lost in the fog and haze,
Clinging still, against my will, to promises of clearer days.

I am just a raindrop that accelerates without control,
Losing bits and pieces in descent 'til I am no longer whole.
I am just another shooting star above that you might see;
Until I have your full attention, I'll be anything but me.


One of their more beautiful songs, and one that often doesn't receive as much live play as their more rollicking and exciting numbers. Still, it's one with the sort of emotive impact I desire at times such as these.

I'm still writing - on my Grand Guignol brainstorming, as well as working on a full length piece which is one of my more fully realized theatrical stories - more in the traditional vein of theatre - but I'm also writing songs.

Because I can't say in a play right now exactly how I'm feeling. And I really need music right now. People are unnecessarily cruel, and I am not okay with that. And still other people are working so hard not to be cruel that the cruelty from others hits harder. It's just...an impossible situation.

The Black Box Recorder album review is still forthcoming - technical difficulties will be dealt with in the next few days.

Upon doing a great deal of reading on Grand-Guignol, I've come to the realization that my theatrical project for which I've been spending years gaining necessary experience and knowledge is actually far more similar to Grand-Guignol than I'd previously thought. My goal of producing numerous original pieces per evening in an extremely intimate space with naturalism, farce, and plays which explore the uglier sides of the human animal (themes which recur in much of my writing) was something like the old French theatre, a regrettably under-appreciated movement in theatre with very strong influence on more modern theatre and film.

This was initially meant to be an undertaking separate from my intended path theatrically, and was meant to supplement what was yet to come from me. With my research and such, it has come to my attention that it may very well be the time to launch forward with my work. There are a great deal of differences with my current work and what was typical to the Grand-Guignol. For example:

- Many of my written pieces are stylized rather than in a more realistic or naturalistic vein. In spite of this, however, there is evidence to support that the theatre did present works of a more surrealist nature, although documentation is scarce.

- Grand-Guignol reflected France at the time of its operation. I often write plays which aren't meant to take place anywhere in particular, and are more involved with the human animal than political commentary.

- As was popular at the time, Grand-Guignol featured many melodramas and over-the-top, almost campy bits. This is not my strong suit, although I have experimented with modern forms of writing and theatre - which is really why the melodramas and such were in place at the time.

- Grand-Guignol was never evidenced to have used any music during its production, aside from perhaps classical music to be played between shows. I am strongly for using music to set the mood in theatrical pieces.

With this last one, I've been listening to a lot of music I feel would help reflect my particular vision, and create the appropriate mood.

My goal is to have performed something like three short one acts (10-15 minutes) one longer one act (30-45 minutes), and perhaps even a full length (90-120 minutes) upon the opening of my Grand-Guignol influenced project. The theatre will ideally be claustrophobic and intimate (think: 40-45 seats) yet naturally safe so that I don't get in trouble for subjecting patrons to a potential fire hazard. With this intimate space, I want music that's uncomfortable - music that people in close quarters will probably not be able just to tune out and have their own conversations.

(For those of you keen on using the music journals to discover music, this particular part of the post is for you as, perhaps, you've not heard from a few of these artists and can check 'em out.)

Autechre - Eggshell


Bola - Eluus


Eno Moebius Roedelius - Old Land


Popol Vuh - Ich Mache Einen Spiegel


Architect - St. Vodka (Mother Russia)


Tangerine Dream - Sequent C'


Lithops - Swingern In Flingern


I'm listening to these, intending for them to be used, and thinking about using a screen and projector to play short films in between plays, so the audience is encouraged to stick around. This would probably soundtrack some short films - fortunately, I know people who can assist me with this particular endeavor.

My main concern right now is effective use of lighting - I don't know if I could train a lighting board operator to do what I want to be done for this. I guess I'll cross that bridge when I get to it, but that is still a concern weighing on my mind a little bit.

All right, so my boys are back on tour, so I'm really crazy in Phish-mode again. Whenever there's 5 or so full shows a week to download and listen to like crazy, this happens (to me and many of their other fans.)

So with that, I thought I'd do my top 10 favorite Phish tunes (of the moment). These aren't necessarily all amongst what I believe to be the best songs by the band, but they're the ones which have been on constant rotation as far as my listening goes...and the ones I'd be most ecstatic to see live. Such great tunes as "Reba", "Suzy Greenberg", "Fluffhead / Fluff's Travels", et al. are still very much loved by me, but just not as much as these 10 songs at this moment in time.

10.) Bathtub Gin


9.) Horn


8.) Ghost


7.) You Enjoy Myself


6.) Cavern


5.) A Song I Heard the Ocean Sing


4.) Rift


3.) The Lizards


2.) Stash


1.) The Man Who Stepped Into Yesterday

Now, I'm actually looking to build a guitar of my own. I've been talking to a couple of luthiers, and they said they'd be willing to help me out over the course of my venture - making sure I buy appropriate wood for my purposes, helping figure out some of the more complex aspects I plan to incorporate, and most importantly, helping out with my potting. I'm good with wood-working, and also at very precise detailing. Basically, the luthier told me that in theory, the guitar I'm planning to build sounds like it's going to be really interesting.

I want the body to be somewhat assymetrical, something like the Fender Jazzmaster. The tonewoods are going to be a koa top, bubinga sides, and a 3 piece maple/koa/maple back. (Probably quilted maple)

I want an ebony fingerboard and a maple neck, with a set up of three strings on each side of the headstock, a la a Gibson guitar, but I'm working on tweaking that shape a little. Also, with chrome, covered tuners.

The guitar will be a full hollowbody, ideally, with F-Holes, a rolling bridge, and a Bigsby.

Electronically, it will have two Schaller Golden 50 humbuckers, one in the bridge position and one in the neck. I'm also thinking that a 3-way switch will suffice.

As far as color goes, I was thinking a red transparent would look beautiful over koa in particular - I was thinking natural, but I really want this guitar to pop! The top will also be ever so slightly arched, and the body will be more of a thinline.

I'm feeling doing some custom inlays as well, which should be no problem...will probably be the easiest part, in fact! And I'm not feeling a pick guard.

The rest I will talk some more about with them, in terms of binding and the like, but I'm really excited to try to get this started...I already have plenty of woodworking tools. Just got to buy the supplies. Electronics and that stuff will come last. This will probably take me two years or so to complete, but I am so excited!!

Today's entry will be about the most beautifully sad songs I've ever come across. And maybe a little bit about why they're so sad to me, because I'm feeling chatty.

Trey Anastasio - A Case of Ice and Snow

Just ignore the video and listen to the song. This one in particular completely kills me. Basically, this song is when Trey was at the height of his addiction to opiates, and it tells the story of how completely shitty he feels, in relation to how it's affecting his wife. As a former opiate addict, this song particularly hits me. The line, "Winter: Strung out, and she knows," makes me think back on my relationship with a girl I loved deeply. It was winter at the time, and I was completely overwhelmed with a crippling addiction which was hurting me and the person I loved. It wasn't something that I could stop immediately, because I just couldn't...stop. This song is beautiful, but it's sad. So...immensely sad. For me, the instrumentation also perfectly conveys the feelings...it's like you hate yourself for doing it, and you want to do better, but there's really no way you know of you can stop it. You know that you're hurting yourself, but you also know that you're hurting someone else, and you really can't stand to even think about it. It's out of control, but everything's going so slow. Perfect song.

Radiohead - Like Spinning Plates

There's really not too much I can say about this one. Basically, it's believed that this was Thom Yorke's depressed and somewhat horrified reaction to the band's success and his own feelings about being unable to measure up to that success. Beautiful, sad, and somewhat surreal. This feels like my summer of 2009. I remember one night when I was on copious amounts of narcotics, ten hits of LSD, drinking way too much, and smoking pot while huffing air duster. I really hoped I would die that night. Someone was playing music on a laptop, and this song came on when I was so fucked up I couldn't think straight, and I thought that it was a perfect eulogy.

Richard & Linda Thompson - The End of the Rainbow

I've been trying to learn this song to perform, but I can't get through the vocals without breaking down and crying. My thing lately has been thinking about disillusionment, that there's nothing really worth it in the end. What I'm working towards is so insignificant in the grand scheme of things...sometimes, I've been worried lately that any success I have would do little more than distract people from the truth. But at the same time, I think that's important, if only to make sure that the human race continues. This is my "existential dilemma" song. I can't think of one single good reason for existence. Not just mine, but everyone's. I remember reading in one of my fourth grade science books that mosquitos were the one insect that served no real purpose for existence of life on earth, and I asked my teacher, "Then what is our purpose? Don't we just destroy everything?" and she didn't have an answer.

Ingrid Michaelson - The Chain

This is a more superficial, romantic sort of sad, but that shouldn't demean its efficacy in any way, shape, or form. Her vocals are completely heartbreaking, and the lyrics are so sincere and tragic that I can't listen to it without tears coming to my eyes. This feels like something I want to sing, to scream from a mountaintop, but it would come to nothing. It's pleading, but it almost seems like pleading without the hope of its coming to anything. Like a mere act of desperation that can't ever be realized, but is still a wish of sorts.

The Mountain Goats - No Children

This is bitter, angry, but sad. I live in a small-ish city, desperately want to get out of here, but I have no real hopes for my life outside of this place; I feel damned to live here for my whole life. There's some dark humor within the lyrics, but ultimately, I just feel the underlying saying within the lyrics. Very simple, but well-done.

Amanda Palmer - Blake Says

When I listen to this song, I feel like Blake. I feel like I can't really connect with anyone who means well, because I'm always looking beyond and can't be happy with what's in front of me. It's looking out for the somewhere else that isn't as shitty, and ignoring what's right there. Ignoring logic in favor of hoping that there's a meaning, but you realize there isn't. And you know that you're not helping anyone else's happiness or your own, and feel like a rat bastard when you even try.

Trey Anastasio - Black

I apologize that all I could find is a live recording, but this song is the closing credits for my play, "The Accidental...", and holds a very deep significance for me. While "The Accidental..." was about a man who was previously an abortionist, the dreams and fears were all mine. This song breaks my heart, and feels like one of the most sincere things ever written. I hate that people dismiss anything related to Phish as mere druggy bullshit because they're legitimately tuned into things which affect them and others. It's foolish, and it's depressing to me. Legitimate artistic expression and musicianship regarded as complete bollocks, basically. I guess not everyone likes the same music as me, but I don't know how people can't be open to letting something touch them and relate to it, just because of things they've heard about a given act. I can't listen to this song without crying, and it really feels like it's something that fits into my life in a very specific way.

Well, I have gone on far too long, and I suppose this will suffice.

I would be fascinated to see your work in progress with that guitar as you build it.

@Pedestrian: I'm in the process of getting money for an apartment and moving right now, but I'm going to be allocating funds to it starting in early September or so, after things have been settled.

***

I don't know how many people in the last fifteen years have attended a Kenny Loggins concert and had it be a "transcendental experience", but two of my best guy friends and I did just that on the evening of July 5.

At roughly 4pm that afternoon, I awoke with what I feel was one of the most severe hangovers known to mankind. Checking my phone, I saw that I had a voicemail waiting. My best friend, with whom I'd planned the entire Kenny Loggins concert experience, called me saying he was going to have to bail. The day was starting off to be complete shit.

Roughly 15 minutes after awakening, I was despondent. I didn't really feel like going to the concert by myself, because there's no way that was going to measure up to the experience I most desired to have in full. After all, Kenny Loggins was going to do a lot of 80s novelty numbers, and I didn't want to dance alone, right? Right. I shot a text to one of my other best guy friends, and he said he was on his way there right then, and he'd pick me up.

Quickly, I hopped into the shower, changed, then put my hair up. I was wearing nice, comfortable clothes, and one look in the mirror told me that I was looking like a million bucks on that day. My buddy arrived, and we went to the festival early (the opening act wasn't starting until 8 or so) and actually managed to get superb parking.

Once there, we tried to find any holes to get into VIP that might prove helpful when it got dark. We found many.

Now, at this point, I should probably state that Kenny Loggins was, in a way, opening for himself. He's a part of a new band called Blue Sky Riders who are country/americana/whatever you want to call it. As a horrible Barney Fife (Andy Griffith Show) impersonator took the stage, I texted another best guy friend who told me he'd be there stat. He wasn't about to miss Kenny Loggins' solo set.

Blue Sky Riders took the stage. They're a new band, so they were pretty raw, and their genre isn't really my bag, but standing off towards the back with another friend I'd run into, I was kind of digging it. An awesome hippie guy in his late fifties came dancing over to us and talked. It was a nice vibe, and Georgia Middleman (who we dubbed "homely Regina Spektor") had a pretty nice voice.

It's also important to me to note that Kenny Loggins was wearing a vest, and looked super-classy. Homely Regina Spektor was dressed something like a barmaid, and it was kind of alarming. Greg, the other fella, was just looking like a dude in jeans and a button-up shirt. As I've already mentioned, their sound was raw (they've only played a handful of shows together thus far) but really does have potential. At some point during their set, Mr. Loggins thanked his bandmates for the opportunity to completely reinvent himself musically for the third time in his career, and I loudly cheered him.

Their set was kind of short. Somewhere between 35-45 minutes, I'd say. During setbreak, a local comedian performed, and was actually pretty funny and clever, even if some of his mannerisms seemed to rip off the late, great Mitch Hedberg. At some point during the comedian's set, I was told by a woman who'd directed me previously in a few plays that her cast of Footloose was doing a flashmob during Footloose.

My friend and I jokingly asked if we could join, and she got strangely pissy and said no. It was at this point that we decided that we were going to steal her glory and do a Footloose mosh pit.

We wandered back to the friend near the fence, and formulated the moshpit plan. My friend tweeted and facebook updated to ensure that it would occur. Then, my other best friend showed up.

This guy is a pretty normal guy, if a little shy. He means well, he's intelligent, but somewhat socially awkward. He was, however, ready to have a good time. We filled him in on the mosh pit, and he agreed that it must be done.

Shortly thereafter, Kenny Loggins appeared on the stage. He had removed the vest, and was now wearing a button-up shirt, mostly unbuttoned, and looked legit. He said, "We'd like to do my version of kumbaya now..." and they launched into "Danny's Song". I was riveted to the performance, as were the two friends who were standing with me, where we'd decided to place ourselves on the lawn, right in front of the video screen (no smoking in VIP, so we said fuck it).

Mr. Loggins played through more songs, some known, and some obscure. Whenever the momentum would go down and he risked losing the audience, he skillfully came up to entertain. There was never a lull that felt too long. Everything was expertly placed, and catered to audience response; it seems that he's learned a little something about being a performer from the late sixties/early seventies to now.

During the encore, they came back out. My friends and I shouted "Danger Zone!" as soon as Mr. Loggins was back onstage, putting his guitar back on. He looked over to see the Danger Zone shirt held up, smiled, and launched into the song. We raged. We were jumping up and down, screaming lyrics and the happiest I can remember being in years.

Next, he cut into Footloose. We went wild. We finally remembered the flashmob and our mosh pit, and began moshing. I may still have bruises on my body for this. Finally, nearly spent, we rushed the fence for VIP.

We didn't jump it; there was no need. VIP was filled with chairs, and there was no room to dance. We instead opted to dance wildly just outside the fence. We cheered until our throats were raw. We sang. We danced. We were into the vibe.

He cut into a cover of Crossroads. Incredibly pumped, we shouted in glee and ecstasy. It felt as though he was playing just for us, since he had acknowledged us prior to launching into "Danger Zone".

He closed his FOUR SONG ENCORE on a down note, with "Forever". At one point during the song, my friends and I continued to dance, having the time of our lives, and he shielded his eyes from the spotlight to look directly at us. Upon looking at a video of the song, closer, it became apparent that he kept looking over to where we were standing. :laughing: He also appeared to be having the time of his life, and I felt the shared experience, and that made it seem all the more important. This moment is preserved on youtube:



After the show, we wound up meeting Kenny Loggins. He was extremely nice, extremely tall, and smelled amazing. I don't now how that's possible after playing one medium set and one long set, but he really did. He's also got to be at least 6'3". It was kind of alarming; most people in the entertainment industry I've met have been less than 6' at least. He shook our hands, thanked us for being at the show, smiled, and seemed the most genuine musician I've ever had the joy to meet.

Then, disaster struck.

Mr. Loggins looked behind me and to my left while talking to me, and his eyes widened. He began backing up. He looked directly at me and said, apologetically, "I've got to go..."
and sprinted into the building.

I looked where he had been looking, and the entire Footloose flash mob was sprinting down the alley at him, holding flyers for their stupid fucking show. I was livid. I'd been talking to one of the nicest performers I'd ever met in my life, and it was ruined by a bunch of theatre idiots in red Footloose shirts trying to pimp their community theatre show to the poor man.

In spite of this, I'd still met him. My friends had still met him. He was genuinely kind, and seriously legitimate performer. We'd expected a novelty act, and gotten a man who was seriously passionate about music, and wasn't allowing himself to stagnate. It was admirable to say the very least.

I felt the happiest I'd felt in years. My good friend said today that because of that, he'd had the best week of his entire life. My other friend who was with me urged me to learn Kenny Loggins and Loggins and Messina covers for our band. We're also fully intending to go see the man in concert and actually pay for it this time.

He's not a novelty act; he's still the real deal.

As cheesy as it sounds to you (I wouldn't believe it if it wasn't me and I hadn't been there), this really was something of a life-altering experience.

This song describes my feelings completely, but in a different way - if you replace 'girl' with 'guitar', you'll understand exactly where I'm coming from.

You know how in Harry Potter when the "wand chooses the wizard" and all of that? Well, this happened to me, but also, replace 'wand' with 'guitar'.

I was in a pawn shop because my bro was pawning his ****ty DVDs for gas money (he got $60, but that's not the main part of the story).

Anyway, I was fiddling around with the musical instruments, and there was an entire rack of guitars, which I was pulling out one by one (unable to see the instruments fully) and I grabbed one, and there was like, a static shock throughout my entire body.

I finally managed to remove it from the rack, before even seeing it knowing it was meant to be, and pulled out a 1960s fender telecaster replica. White. Highly relic'd. New electronics.

After my friend had dealt with the DVD sales, he came to me and it took him 15 minutes to get me to stop playing the instrument. I've never had a guitar feel so natural in my hands. It was perfection.

Naturally, I was completely broke at the time. I'm now going into a job interview tomorrow, with the sole purpose of getting enough money to get that guitar (theatre jobs aren't happening this summer, and I'm bummed and broke). So, I'm also going back to the pawn shop and begging them to hold it for me.

I'll even tell them that I'll pay $25 over the asking price if they'll just, please, hold it for two weeks.

I seriously have never fallen this in love with anything EVER.

I'm making a top 30 albums thread - this album may be number 30. Then again, it is overall the most solid album I've heard (ever).

So really - this post is just to prepare people for the future thread - while giving them something something positively bitchin' to listen to.

Something of a personal post. I apologize, and I'm sticking it here, in my own highly defunct journal thread so's not to sling it all e'rywhere.

Anyway. I'm just going to say Trigger warning, because I feel like any post of this nature should. And I'm just going to say 1-800-SUICIDE if you're in the states and need someone to talk to, or whatever your international equivalent.

It really had been a long time coming, and I was spiraling out of control, for want of a less melodramatic and better term. I'd been acting all kinds of crazy for months...Hell, it's probably been at least 18 months, and on a self-destructive bent that was just building steadily into worse and worse consequences. I spent a lot of time verging between retreating completely from society and friends, and a good bit of time just being an ******* when I was feeling social, because, goddammit, if I was going supernova, I was going to have to take everyone and everything else down with me. I was completely irrational. I was full of anxiety, depression, misplaced anger, periods of deep shame and denial...a total mess. How I "functioned" in society with maintaining a job and/or not being locked away for some manner of stupidity is beyond me. I went to 'talk to' people, and got varying diagnoses, but damned if I ever took a single pill prescribed to me. I'd have moments of, "Oh, I'm going to fix this," and that would last all of a day before I'd go about doing the exact same goddamn thing. It was pretty overwhelming, and its being a destructive cycle did not escape my notice. When I wasn't busy destroying everything I touched, I was depressed, anxious, and overwhelmed with everything. Kind of like being trapped in a, dare I say, "Maze?"



Anyway, I'd thought of suicide, I'd maybe do something stupid and self-destructive, and then just keep on...keepin' on. People must just have thought that I'd acquired a sudden case of asshole-itis, because no one really ever said, "Hey, I'm worried about you," and since I wasn't driving drunk, PHYSICALLY hurting anyone else, and was still keeping a job, I figured I was more or less all right, or that it was maybe going to fix itself.

Wednesday, I'd decided to end it all. Something in me wanted to talk to someone, maybe see if anything was reparable. I called tons of contacts in my phone, but it was really late so there were no answers. I had a bottle of Tylenol, GIANT bottle, dumped on the floor in front of me. I called the last number in my phone, my "best friend," who I'd not spoken to in weeks, and who shares a phone with his girlfriend - who never bothers to tell him when I call. Weirdly, this time, he answered.

We were talking, everything was going fine, but I couldn't say why I'd called specifically, what I was considering, or anything. I thought maybe it was a sign, as superstitious as that sounds, and was feeling like maybe things weren't that bleak, because he'd answered, and that meant that things were going to be all right.

No dice. He then drops the bombshell that oh, by the way, his girlfriend had a falling out with people, so they were packing up and moving across the state in a week. Needless to say, I did not handle it well. I also did not act tactfully, nor did I consider anything that any rational human being should, e.g. that he clearly loves his girlfriend and wasn't doing this as a personal slight to me. With everything else that had piled up and led to this night, that was just like being slapped.

I went off on a vicious tirade about the girl, accused her of all sorts of baseless nonsense, and generally freaked out. All without mentioning why I'd called in the first place, or what was really going on. He got pissed and hung up. Again, understandable. He had no idea what was going on. And I was being a lunatic.

His girlfriend then texted me from the phone and was like, "You're toxic. Never call this phone again."

"Gotcha. Consider it done." I texted, then scooped up handful after handful of Tylenol and shoved them into my mouth, swallowing down amounts I'm not even sure of; suffice it to say, it was a lot. I walked out of my house, and decided I was going to just keep walking until I dropped, but something in my head kept saying, "Really, now? Like this? After everything, you're just going to go like this?"

After about a mile. I just stopped, dropped down onto the sidewalk, and realized my phone was still in my pocket. As were my cigarettes and lighter. I lit one, and called 9-1-1. (Emergency Services, for those not in the states)

An Operator answered, and I very calmly explained what had happened. They asked my location, and I gave the location of the street corner at which I was seated. They instructed me to stay on the line until help arrived, and I did. They kept asking why, and I kept saying, "It was just too much," and that was about the best answer I could give. About five or ten minutes later, a cop showed up, to wait with me for the ambulance, and presumably to administer any first responder help if needed. He asked me the same things as the operator, and I told him the same: It was just too much.

The ambulance arrived a few minutes later, and I was feeling legitimately weird. I can't describe the feeling otherwise. I don't know if it was the Tylenol, the nerves, fear, or what, but it was this horrible, darkly surreal feeling - I wasn't hallucinating, but I imagine the feeling would be horribly similar to the way I'd feel if I were really to be trapped inside The Black Lodge in Twin Peaks.

I was given a container of activated charcoal and instructed to drink, which I did. I don't remember a lot of the commute or arriving at the hospital. They wheeled me straight through a full to capacity emergency room, and I said something like, "No...we have to wait," and one of the EMTs was like, "If we wait, you're going to die."

I vaguely remember being in the hospital and people crowded around me, pulling my clothes off and putting me in a hospital gown, holding my arms and legs down and sticking a bunch of needles in me.

I woke up a few hours later, dazed and still surrounded by people, (now in the ICU) and the doctor was in there. I felt positively queasy, and feverish, and tried to move and they kept telling me not to. My blood pressure was appallingly low, and the doctor was explaining that I was hooked up to a Tylenol antidote on my IV, and that my Tylenol level was at 300 or something, when the "dangerous" level was considered anything 100+; a person taking Tylenol normally might be at 10-30. I kept saying I was sick, and I needed water. They brought me water and sat me up and said I was going to vomit. They got a container under my chin just in time, and jet black liquid flew out of my mouth and nose. The nurses gasped. The doctor may have, too.

"Charcoal," I muttered in explanation, and continued puking.

They took blood from me to test my Tylenol levels every four hours. I refused any visitors and phone calls, and over the next 12 hours, my blood pressure and pulse rate were great. My liver, fortunately, showed no signs of damage, but I was still on a clear liquid diet, i.e. disgusting broth, green Jell-O, and Sprite. There was also a nurse in my room with me 24-7, because I could not be left alone for one second. Social workers and psychiatrists were constantly in and out of my room, circling like vultures for that moment when I could be considered medically stable enough to be moved to the "Behavioral Ward."

About 30 hours in, my levels were good to go, but they advised they'd still be monitoring me and taking blood work during my stay just to be sure, and they sent me off. Before I left, I was finally willing to speak to the people in ICU, and had a really nice nurse who wasn't much older than me. She and I were chatting about our love of Sherlock, and she was really cool. When it was time for me to go, she was the one - along with the mandatory security guard escort, who had to run me over with a metal detector - who accompanied me to the ward. She very kindly told me that everything would be fine, that she knew it would be. So, they took me into this frightening part of the hospital with garish Victorian brocade wallpaper to starkly contrast the sterile, clinical environment it framed. All of my my items, including clothing and cell phone (not that I'd been wearing the clothing since I'd been there anyway) were taken from me and locked away. I was told that I was on lockdown, and didn't get my normal clothes back until the doctor damn well said I could have my clothes back...okay. They were a lot nicer about it, but that was the subtext that I took away from it.

I was shown my room and the recreation room, which contained a television; some magazines (honestly, where do hospitals even getting those circa 1985 National Geographics?); some crossword puzzles and sudoku puzzles; and a few books (Nora Roberts; John Grisham).

I chose to go to my depressing room (one prison-esque twin bed; one tiny dresser; one imitation leather recliner with stuffing coming out of it) and lie on my bed in misery. They brought me toiletries and my new clothes - blue "pajamas" they called them, and some warm socks, which I actually took home with me. The attire was eerily similar to:

http://f0.thejournal.ie/media/2012/08/cuckk.jpg

I refused to socialize. I completely shut down. I still refused calls and visitors, and actually signed forms stipulating that NO ONE was to be allowed to visit me, and that the only information given could be that yes, I was a patient, and a message taken and given to me. I was not in a place where seeing anyone familiar would be good for me, and I was afraid I'd completely melt down.

One of the first things I experienced was another patient in the ward having a meltdown. He had been in there 24 hours already, and desperately wanted a cigarette. His delirious tirade ultimately ended in his emergency contact being notified, and authorizing him being tranquilized. That really steadied my nerves...

Social workers and psych nurses came into my room frequently, and asked the same questions over and over. It was tedious.

Q: Are you in any physical pain?
Me: No.
Q: Are you currently thinking about trying to hurt yourself?
Me: No.
Q: If you do think about it, will you contact us?
Me: Yes.

I sulked. I was in a state of horror and disbelief, that it amounted to my being unable to move or do much of anything useful. I showered and put on my fancy PJs, and crawled into bed. More nurses. More social workers. More of the same question game. I slept, and had a dream that my coworkers were in there with me. The dream didn't paint the place in less a hellish light.

The next morning, Friday, I was awakened at 7:00am, ate breakfast, and stayed in my room. I still wouldn't go into the activity room or leave my room at all. At around 9, I was summoned by the psychiatrist, and taken to her office.

Psychiatrists scare the piss out of me. They have two facial expressions:

Completely blank and unreadable horror
http://images.latinopost.com/data/im...8/hannibal.jpg

and

Politely upset on your behalf
http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-wITttPTIla...02_D6_2252.jpg

Fact.

If they do crack something of a 'smile,' it is only a slight variation of the first look, to almost trick your brain into thinking of it as an encouraging human emotion. Almost.

http://wac.450f.edgecastcdn.net/8045...mikkelsen1.jpg

And guess what I did? I cried a lot, gave zero useful information, and got hyper-defensive when I gave one nugget of information that led to a follow-up question. She can't have been thrilled, but I'm sure she wasn't surprised either. She said something about medicine, and I interrupted and was like, "FUCK medicine. What are you even diagnosing me with? How can you talk about medicine without knowing what's wrong? I haven't given you anything and you're throwing medicine at me. That's like some guy coming into the hospital in a basketball uniform, so you're immediately like, 'Oh, basketball player. Torn ACL.' and send him into surgery without even doing an ultrasound."

I was dismissed from her office.

Spent the rest of the day brooding. A social worker gave me a notebook and pen, which I used to write all of the loopholes I could find in my patient agreement, and since I was pretty certain the psychiatrist wasn't going to discharge me willingly, I knew that in the morning, Saturday morning, my 72 hours of mandatory hold at the hospital (which didn't have to be actually spent in the psych ward) would be up, and that I could not be held without consent barring court order - and it was going to be a Saturday, so they couldn't get said court order.

I still refused the activity room; there weren't really 'group sessions' going on, because there were only four people on the ward, and three of us refused to leave our rooms.

After a nurse tried to helpfully let me know that the doctor was just trying to help, I broke down crying again, and said that I hated the doctor and didn't want to see her again. Another nurse came in later, and I was like, "I'm only on a 72 hour hold, so they have to let me leave tomorrow," and she was like, "The 72 hours doesn't apply to weekends. The same doctor IS going to be here tomorrow, and she can release you, because that would be 72 hours assigned to the same doctor, but she is the only one who can release you on weekends."

With horror, I went over that little nugget on my copy of the Behavioral Ward agreement that I signed, and resigned myself to being trapped in there until Monday.

The doctor dropped off two workbooks for me: Stress Management; Overcoming Depression, and I skimmed them before writing furiously in my notebook for hours. I went through and made a douchey list of things she'd covered, and why I didn't answer, everything from, "I didn't like the implication of that question," to the very dramatic, "It's the difference between empathy and sympathy. You can get that a person's suffering, but unless you've experienced it first-hand, you can't really say that you truly empathize."

It was absolutely pointing blame everywhere but at me. I was reading over it, and planning how to work some well-placed jabs into the next appointment, when I really thought about it and realized how ridiculous I was being. If I wanted to get better, I was going to have to take responsibility, admit that people weren't deliberately trying to hold me down, and really make an effort to take in the blame and work forward. The other people had just been trying to help me, and I got hyper-defensive because I was incapable of really acknowledging the faults for what they were, actually addressing the issue head-on, and trying to fix it. I read through what I'd written again, and realized that WOW. I had really been a grade A douche-nozzle. If I had to stay in the ward, then I had to stay. They didn't ask me to be rude to the doctor, who was just trying to figure out what was wrong so that she could help ME by trying to use her professional experience and knowledge to find something that could help me out. They didn't ask me to refuse going into the activity center and doing something else to occupy my mind and pass the time. That was all me.

I played over the session in my head, and cringed. I thought about what she'd asked, and how I should have responded. I thought about what she'd tried to offer as solutions, and even did a lot of my workbooks. They actually left me alone after "lights out," because they saw I was working on them, and that was very kind of them. That night I dreamt of Alaskan Malamute puppies and living in a colony of tents in trees.

When I woke up in the morning, I ate my cheese omelette, fruit, and yogurt, and was feeling much better. It really was clarity, and that time to myself in what had seemed an adverse situation had allowed me to become more zen about the whole thing. I had previously been stressing about staying until Monday, because I'd have to miss work. Instead of panicking and thinking, "THEY'RE doing this to me. I'm going to get fired!" I was realistic, and calmly thought about how I wouldn't get fired, and that they'd give me a doctor's note. Even if they kept me until Tuesday, God forbid, I'd still have a doctor's note, and everything would be fine.

I was anxious for the doctor to come in, but the nurses told me that since it was Saturday, a kind of 'overtime' the two psychiatrists alternated, she wasn't exactly required to come in at any specific time, so long as she afforded enough time to see each patient - four of us. She showed up a little before one, and went to her office.

I ventured into the activity room, and watched the Florida game. I talked basketball with the nurses. I met the other patients: The gentleman from the night before, who was now completely calm, even friendly; a quiet girl who'd also attempted suicide and had only been there since Friday; and a paranoid schizophrenic who was presently being weaned with seizure medication so they could start her on a new medication. She wasn't quite with it, and kept telling us of her visions in the night of a white crucifix that went from room to room.

The nurses and I were extremely into the basketball, joking about how low-scoring the Louisville game was, and just in overall good moods. The guy was called into her office first, and discharged. Then, the quiet girl. She'd have to stay, because she'd not yet been there 72 hours. The girl who saw the cross went next, and she came back saying that the doctor said she still had issues to work through before she went home. I imagined the same would be said of me.

The Louisville game was almost over (it had just started, actually, when the last girl came back) and I was finally thinking, "Damn. I must have really pissed her off yesterday," and assuming that she'd left for the day. A few minutes later I heard her go into my room trying to find me, then she came into the activity room and took me to her office.

I was much cheerier this time, and answered all of her questions completely. I embellished on things I'd been vague about the day before, and didn't cry. I was very calm, although a few things were still kind of tough to talk about...especially since I'm not one for actually TALKING about problems aloud. I usually just try to process. I told her as much. I told her that I was really upset after the previous session, and that I'd been irrational and blamed her, and then I realized that I was just doing that because I was seriously pissed off at myself, and couldn't accept the responsibility. I told her about writing the lists of things that I wanted to talk about, and realizing that, hey, this is stupid, and this isn't productive. She asked if they'd given me a sedative or anti-anxiety medication. I told her truthfully that they hadn't. She cited my refusal to take medicine. I told her I would take it. We talked about that for a bit, and I asked some questions about the side effects, which were quickly answered. I agreed to go to follow-up appointments, gave my work schedule, and she'll be getting back to me on Monday about the specific times. Also got a script for Citalopram.

She ended up discharging me. Overheard some chatting with the nurses, doc, and social worker about how I'm really a "sweet girl," which is apparently the general consensus when I'm not being a raging lunatic.

I'm getting better.

Jesus Sara! That's scary! I haven't had a chance to read the whole thing yet (but I will) but I get the general idea. I hope you're all right now. Best wishes for your recovery, and you know you can talk to us if you need to, right?

Be well.
Deryck