Well, I got my heart broken again.

Strangely, this time, I wrote to her directly.

Makes the blog emptier than usual.

Written On: Home Computer

Posted by Kurrs at 10:40 PM | Permalink

Originally Uploaded by kavous

It's so tempting to tell myself lies. Lies like "I'd just like someone to go home with" but it's not true. I am honest against my own will. I can't just go home with anyone, I wouldn't be able to, not even shit-faced drunk. Arguably I'd be less likely to go home with someone I didn't like then, as I'm more honest and less polite the more I drink.

Gods I wish he noticed me. There's nothing for it, really. Some people are natural charmers, and so he's also a good person, and doesn't actually want to make anyone upset...so he doesn't lead me on. Well. I suppose there's nothing else to say, is there?

My playing has really improved. If I do nothing else with this life I'll become a good oboist. Haha. I'm glad I have friends who periodically remind me that I can play other types of music whenever I want. There are a bunch of new influences that I want to explore. Perhaps I'll actually get up the nerve to take lessons with Francois one of these days.

I really wanted to get the nyo audition this time. I don't think I did well enough for it. It's hard to realize that's the last chance. I still have till I'm 30 to put one of the standard youth orchestras on my resume, but nyo is out. nao is still good, but it's about twice as competitive. Still, if I can't hack that I'll never get a professional gig that I'm happy with, so it's a valid level. It's funny how much contempt I've developed for 'personal best' in the last couple of years.

I work hard, I'm a good musician, and I love the oboe. None of that makes me a professional or a successful musician. I'll let you know when I'm happy with my level of musicianship not increasing, and I'll give you a hint: I might die a couple months after. It's about the process. It's about ALWAYS looking up, always getting better, always reaching for the next goal. I have no desire to settle and I never will; this is what makes me happy. Don't tell me to be happy with what I have - you might as well tell me to go dig my own grave.

Posted by Beth at 12:34 AM | Permalink

Originally Uploaded here

Posted by Kurrs at 9:58 PM | Permalink

Originally uploaded here

I had thought I could make it work. It was such a majestic opportunity, given way more than I normally would have. It was not a question of worth or right, but merely one of institutional rigidity side-stepped. The fruit was low-hanging, and the orchard had room to grow, it seemed, despite the strange strings attached, too good to be true. It was. Now, I've got to rearrange, in scarcity and torment. I'm not doing a very good go at it, but the gears are turning: hopefully the machine will produce the will and the way.

I love you, fiercely and intently. I could cradle you in my arms, and watch my words weave pleasant shapes through your mind. I could quietly absorb your narrative, understand and forgive your faults, and fuck you until the sun rose. But it is not meant to be.

I'm tired and burnt-out. Things, except for the obvious, are quite good. I just want to let my mind stretch across the sky, and forget. Not actively, but passively, spread so thin as to be transparent, invisible.

Currently Listening: Sally Shapiro - He Keeps Me Alive (Cadence Weapon mix) (listen)
Written On: Home Computer

Posted by Kurrs at 1:10 PM | Permalink

Originally Uploaded here

Posted by Kurrs at 12:46 PM | Permalink

I'm a real bitch, too. I just actively fight it when I can, what's your fucking excuse, hmm?

I'm also rarely apologetic for it when (not if) it does tear its' way out. To be fair, if it gets out you either deserve it, can take it, or actively enjoy it.

I might be a bad person, but I think the idea of a good person is a bit silly, these days.

My oboe is happy and so am I. This is helping me fight against the stupid craziness; perhaps with enough practice I might be able to not swing so dreadfully far to each extreme. Maybe.

Cold medicine really does make me feel weird.

Posted by Beth at 11:24 PM | Permalink

Originally uploaded by *Honest*

I miss you, still.

It's different now, of course. I think of you and smile and wonder when I'll see you again, and whether you'll be happy or tense and conflicted. I think we've settled, for a while, at least in how we think of each other. A bit more than friends but friends more than anything. It works, somehow, even with the intensity that sparks intermittently, we'll know each other through it all, and that's nice in a way I appreciate more than I can say.

Posted by Beth at 4:23 PM | Permalink

I can hear them now, the thousands of reasons, like a dust storm of tiny razor blades. All of them, cutting my sense of beauty down piece by piece by piece. They differ slightly, from internal to external chemical stimulae, but in the end amount to very little more than no. I think I would bear this more easily if they did not all love me. But I have told many of them no, never, so perhaps this is the hell I have wrought for myself.

Time to wrap myself in the cold shackles of work once again. There, at least, I can perhaps return to the blessed absence of not feeling.


I probably deserve this. It is probably just. So few things in this world are, I should take solace in that.

Written On: Blackberry

Posted by Kurrs at 12:28 AM | Permalink

Originally uploaded by giovdim

Oh. You are beautiful, aren't you? I'd almost been able to ignore the fact up until now. Funny how that works.

Posted by Beth at 10:04 PM | Permalink

Originally uploaded by giovdim.

The music runs through my heart like sandpaper,
like mercury, like everything I've ever known
and forgotten.
I marvel at the eddies and currents
as they war against each other
and I don't mind the pieces of me
you take with you.

So small, so gradual;
I'll always be here until I'm gone,
and then it won't matter that I've let you wear me away.
You're so beautiful, anyways,
I don't begrudge it most days.
Just sometimes.

Just sometimes,
when being ripped slowly apart
isn't quite enough.
when I'd like a piece, as well
a pool maybe, instead of a torrent.

Maybe that's a useless desire
why strive for stillness when it's the motion that draws me
even under the glassy surface
so carefully crafted and thin
the undercurrents pull me in and I'm helpless.

I'd like to sink
never breathe the air again
follow you down over the rocks
always flowing, ripping, never looking back
bit by bit I let myself become you

but I fall
I hit the bottom hard
forming roots after the bruises have healed
and then I'm just caught
torn by the current
on its' way past.

Posted by Beth at 11:00 PM | Permalink

So, I'm unhappy. Fuck it.

Seriously, there are only two types of people in these sorts of situations. Those who are weak and those who make it work. I want to throw in the towel, and give up, and leave, and ruin my life to pieces. But no. Fuck it.

I will make this work. I'll grind through it. I'll outlast it. I will be the more perfect one. The colder one. The more professional one. I will bury you and yours and laugh and laugh and laugh when the reckoning finally comes. I will have done you no harm, but ensured that I get what is mine and do with it as I will. And, if not, I will leave on my terms and not on the terms of a pathetic raving lunatic.



And I haven't given up on you yet. The potential is too large to waste over flights of fancy and moment. We'll see. We'll see.



Written On: Home Computer

Posted by Kurrs at 8:29 PM | Permalink

Maybe I'm into the wrong things. The sideways glances, the edges of sanity held together by psyche ductape, and the coping mechanisms surrounding these slips, trips, and almostfalls. I became interested at the most inopportune moment, to comedic, albeit still stupid, effect and seemingly undamaging to whatevernothingthisis. And, on its heels, there it was, almostrejection. I suppose it fits your mythos (or, more appropriately, my mythos of you). I was crushed, but not so much that when you contacted me again, I erased my doubts, decided to make irrelevant your reasons for ignoring me. Worst, they are true and I decide, sensibly, that they do not matter. Best, they were in fact not there at all.

So I agreed to the addendum, and here I am, again, substituting beer for food while you pursue career-shaping events. A parliament of confused thoughts and feelings grumble about in my brain. Ranging from Am I really that forgettable? to If we do end up together, how will you feel reading this? with much more along that gambit. Sensibly, I don't know what to think. I suppose, like tennis, it's her serve. I just don't know who's winning. Or if I'm even playing at all.


I can feel it sometimes, like a kidnap victim looking through floorboards out a window to the lazy summer day outside. Sometimes, the rays rest upon my face for a few moments and I think Yes, this is how it could be, I'm so close, it's just upstairs and out the front door. And it is getting better. Although, sadly, the parable follows well and you might as well say that I'm happier because life hasn't come down here to rape me recently. I'm still trapped, chained to everything that I have worked so hard to have, with migraines and misery shadowing my steps daily from the regular work and toil of it all. Some have tried to pigeonhole the experience into a simple play/work dichotomy but that's so pathetic and misguided I want to scream. I'm a workaholic, I like work. I don't like abuse. And that's what it all has been lately, abuse.


For a moment, I will count my blessings, and I will recount that my metaphors are just that, metaphors. No war tears my country and soul. No death, famine, or plague ruins me. No physical or sexual abuse robs me of my vision and heart. My family is wonderful and supportive through this, as well as my friends. Even if they aren't much intellectual help, they remain a bastion of strength and dependability. I'd like to think I'm the same to them. Sometimes.


Lesser men would break.



Maybe that's why I'm losing it.



Currently Listening: Andrew Kenny - Secrets of the Heart
Written On: Home Computer

Posted by Kurrs at 8:07 PM | Permalink