PickledCherub

Just because I can tolerate a high level of living filth, that doesn't mean that I don't love to clean. I found out that I'm not washing dishes tonight, so I'm cleaning the house today. There's a lot to be done, there's a lot of rotting fruits lazing about, a lot of mail to be sorted through, and an army of dust bunnies occupying the house. I have NPR on, so I'm making analogies between world events and my little cleaning spree. Dust bunnies are like the American army, and this is my Iraq.

Music has been on my mind lately. I'm ready to move on, to collaborate, to make more dance music, to dance more. Thing is, when I think about performing, I get all nervous. How can I possibly translate what I do alone at night to a performance. Different animals, for sure. And of course the even bigger question: will anybody care to listen? I'm accustomed to creating in a vacuum, that's my way, but having to think about what other people will like, that scares me. OK, yes, I'm doing it for myself, of course, but then what's the point? It's the age old "if a tree falls and nobody's around to hear it" problem.

U Penn sent me my rejection letter, finally. The book is closed, but not really, not yet, because I'm meeting with my old thesis adviser tomorrow to get acquainted with her son so that I can babysit him when she gives birth in July. I don't have any definite goals, and I'm embarrassed by it. She's going to ask me what I'm going to do in the future. How can I say to an academic that I don't think that academia matters, not to me any more. My mind will change, I'm sure, but in what direction? I don't want to serve people for the rest of my life, but what do I want to do? Is this just a typical mid-twenties crisis? Oh, my friends with goals, how I envy you.