Old Daily Shows--September 2000

Find the archive of past entries at archive.htm. Today's entry is at daily.htm.

September 23, 2000

This was a really really angry entry. I've decided to censor it; perhaps the first overt move in that direction.

September 13, 2000

Well, figured bass bassically (haha, I'm so witty) bites. I don't like it at all. Damn, Gerry's assigning a lot of work for Music 13.

I did a still life in studio class today that Randy liked. He liked my shading. Cool. Then I tried to mix charcoal and pencil on a drawing of the IC corridor--didn't work at all.

I'm going home for break. Wrote my parents last night with a frantic plea, and found an electronic plane reservation this afternoon in my inbox. Yay parents. So much for trying to arrange my schedule around other people. I seem to be having bad luck with that lately.

Swat's been profoundly frustrating lately. I'm trying to figure out what's bothering me so much about my life. Rather, I'm trying to let myself admit what's bothering me so much, and trying also to figure out ways to deal with that. If you know what I'm talking about, fine. If you don't, you probably don't need to know, but if you're morbidly curious, ask.

So, yeah. Depressing here. Kendra Tornheim emailed me out of the blue, today. That's definitely cool. Cheered me up a bit. Nice to know that someone reads this thing.

--insert random amusing thing here--

September 12, 2000

Life will improve. I will be convinced.

For now, however, I'm having a desire that hasn't happened before at Swat, and that's wanting to go home and scrap it all. I could go to this little two-year college and get a degree in scientific glassblowing. Good job, creative, not something everyone can do.

I don't want to, though.


September 11, 2000

Why am I here?

Remember all that bravado shit about how wonderfully right Swarthmore is for me? Remember it? If you asked me what I thought of Swat during the summer, I probably delivered my pat speech with grace and aplomb, sure of my place, Ford in his flivver, all right with the world.

Fate, it seems, is not without a sense of irony. I, it seems, am not without a sense of plagiarism.

I want people who need me. I'm tired of all these lovely self-sufficient Swatties who don't need anyone. I wish I weren't from a lameass small town with crappy schools that don't challenge you so that you get into a great college only to find that you're learning now things that most people here learned in their sophomore years of highschool. I wish I'd read some subset of the books that people here have read, so that I could have intelligent conversation about them. Hell, I wish I'd read some set of books that other people here haven't read, so I could make intelligent conversation about that.

I want to be in shape, so I can go out running with people. Unfortunately, to be in shape you have to get in shape, but to get in shape you sort of have to be in shape.

I want to be a good musician. Hah, you say. You are a good musician. Masks, people, are thick. Hypocritical, given all the credit I'm giving other people? Probably. Still.

So, this is the journal of a really needy person. Do you know how impossible it is to admit to that, here? Everyone's so incredibly overcompetent. I'm having trouble coming to grips with how much I hate saying that about myself. I'm a damn Eagle Scout. I'm supposed to be self-sufficient. Or something. I can think all I want about how stupid it is to feel like this, but that doesn't get rid of feeling that way.

Yeah, well, whatever. I feel certain that someone will arrive shortly to tell me how froofy and self-indulgent it is to be spewing drivel like this. I'm sure that will be excellent for me.

Oh, right, so I missed Ladyhawke this evening, so I could write fricking chorales. I hate chorales.

Aargh. I wish, but this is totally not the right forum for it. Damn my stupid vow to keep excessively personal things out of here. Not that you want to read them.

September 5, 2000

Why bother?

September 4, 2000

This one's gonna be short, because it's 1 am, I've gotten out of my hall meeting, and it's time to sleep. Besides which, my stomach feels weird.

First day of classes today--Studio Art 1 for me. Randall Exon, the prof, seems as though he'll be really cool. Not intimidating at all. I really like the studio we're working in, too; lots of good, white light.

Mixed Company has happened, somewhat. More will follow eventually.

Played a jam session for about 20 minutes with Will Quale '99 this evening; played whistles in my room a lot; played bagpipes down by the waterfall, with Sven juggling clubs. Lots of cars stopped to listen, and one asked for my name so as to contact me for something or other. Heh. Oh well. Alas, my chanter popped out and did something nasty to my reed. I'm hoping it will be okay.

That's short, but it's late and I feel sick and have classes tomorrow. Bye!

September 1, 2000

Well, here I am, in Mary Lyons 200. Big honkin room that's rather difficult to set up, but we'll manage it somehow. Given that I can't type, I'd probably do well to write quickly, take a very cold shower, and nab some sleep, if I can.

People are drifting back in. Eileen just got here; Katie and Kyla came earlier; Abby and Jennifer were much of this morning's work.

It feels really kind of odd to be back in Swarthmore. Like being home, only not--sort of the way Potsdam felt, I think. Seeing old faces and new, changed situations, the newly landscaped campus, etc... all combine to make for a vague uneasiness. One hopes it will pass.

Nothing's ever simple, of course. The dorm has filled with people and their personalities, and conflict is running amok. Aargh. First day back, and it hits me.

I got a longer Ethernet cable, so I can use my computer now. Happiness. Also I went and practiced my bagpipes on the steps near the athletic fields this evening, and a bunch of people stopped by to listen. I hope it wasn't too lousy. We'll see if there are any other pipers on campus. I found one already who wants me to teach him; not that I could, but it was nice to be asked.

It's bloody hot, eh?

Taco Bell was really really impressively slow last night. We went there for some reason, my parents, Jesse, and I, and we ordered complex things like tacos. Evidently it was hard to do our special orders, because it took them at least twenty minutes to make our food after we made it to the front of the line. Yessiree, they were hopping.

We went fridge hunting this morning. No dice; apparently my parents have gotten one for us somewhere down south. It's a big one, which is unfortunate, but liveable. We'll figure it all out somehow.

Did I mention the temperature? Ugh.

Well, bed for me.