Alien Fungus Babies, Among Other Things

Despite the terror of swine flu, I think I will brave the NCSU campus and purchase my clay studio membership at the newly-renovated NCSU Crafts Center. I worked here for about 5 years in undergrad/grad school (in addition to a couple of simultaneous research positions), and I loved it. The few pieces I threw should have been thrown away (ha), but I certainly enjoyed getting sludgy and hobnobbing with the resident artistes and hairy potters. I didn't have time to do much art, since I was too busy with school work, chatterboxing and my administrative duties. I'll need to surreptitiously watch the other potters for awhile before attempting any magnum opuses (opii?).

I just can't escape the feeling that I am working my life away. I think it's mostly an illusion exacerbated by the inflexibility of my schedule and my alarm clock being set for 5:28 or so AM. When I do get free time, all I want to do is sit around, enjoy watching the early autumn clouds with a cup of coffee, lie in bed all morning listening to the rain, run a few miles, listen to some high-quality electronic, clean the apartment, watch Discovery specials on volcanoes and read plenty of books. My extroverted side is slightly ashamed to admit that being around people has been one of the last things on my mind in recent times.

And I hate shopping. Hate hate hate! I hadn't really put my finger on the reason why I despise it so much until relatively recently: It's the faces. The faces that people make as they stroll down the mall aisles, as they're exclaiming over this sweater or that watch, as they scarf down their Chik-fil-a sandwiches. The faces of the parents as they watch their pre-teen girls don daisy dukes at American Eagle, the greedy, vapid faces of the girls. The faces of the whining babies. I know that if I visit the mall, I will judge every single person I pass, and my judgments will be harsh and biased. The world has become a vomitous roil of political hype, consumerism and horrific crimes. Where's the discipline? I told my dad the other night that I don't think I'm American anymore.

Ergh. I need to quit my entertaining little social flybys and soar into the stratosphere instead. Why do I spend my time hovering above the ground, looking for pieces of dirt to despise? I'd say I do it to bolster my own ego, but I spend more than enough time questioning my own motivations!

I have a master class this weekend. I have to play Chopin's Waltz in Ab major, and one of Tcherepnin's Bagatelles. Clair de Lune is coming along at a snail's pace - it's like seeing it for the first time, every time I play the part where it switches without warning from four flats to five sharps - brain-bending. My small hands can barely reach to hold awkward, measures-long ties, and Debussy's rolled chords are so huge that I have to roll them extra-slowly and risk sounding MUSHY. Like Kenny G, on piano. ::shudder:: Sinful!

Yesterday when I was walking, I found a hammer headed planarian that I'd divided into two pieces by accident when I stepped on it. The piece with the head kept on trucking into the grass, and the rear half continued to squirm forward. I'm sure it would have eventually grown a new head... If I hadn't obliterated it with my shoe, also by accident.

We also found a patch of another bizarre lifeform, indian pipe, growing in the woods. It was illuminated by a beam of reddish sunset, which made it look like an alien fungus baby hatching ground.

This week, I will only see S in bed and at the breakfast table, as he has rehearsal for Rigoletto every night this week but Thursday, till 10:30 PM. I will fill my evenings with cramming for master class, running, and perhaps a smidge of pottery? I should probably hang out with some other human beings so I don't forget how.