I have thoughts.
Too many, if we are being exact.
They don't leave me alone. They pester me all through work; I've even found that I enjoy the mundane tasks because they allow me to daydream more. And sing. But I am a far better daydreamer than I am a singer. If I could make money daydreaming, well let's just say that's why I want to write.
My daydreams are like movies and I am the director. I can watch the same scene countless times with minuscule changes until I see it just the way it's supposed to be. I can even do this late at night or in the early morning when the daydreams mix with actual dreams. I look forward to this every night as I lay down. It is the mixing of my careful construction and my unconfined id. The ideas are replayed and tweaked, but still hold and element of unexpected and irrationality; like the actors I invented are improvising while still following my script. It allows me to discover what is plausible and what is just ridiculous, to get to know the characters, to discover the people. That's how characters go "Do what you are going to do, and I will tell about it."
I've never been one to get ideas from dreams. Countless writers, artists, songwriters, etc say "I don't know I just woke up and it was there" or "I saw him/her/it/etc. in a dream." No, my dreams have always been too strange, even for the wildest of fiction. Sure one dream gave me a glimpse of the most beautiful person I've ever seen and lingering curiosity about the importance of moldy bread, but never anything beyond a humorous anecdote. I pity anyone who tries to "inception" my brain; my subconscious is straight insane.
But lately, really lately, that's changed. In the last week I have had four dreams that I wanted to write in the morning. They were still disjointed and odd, but they had a plot. And in every single one the characters and plot were wildly different. That's where the problem comes in; too many thoughts. My brain jumps from story to story so that on top of my eight plus started stories, I now have three more with less than ten pages and another just kind of looming in my head.
I would really like to just finish one. Preferably the one with over a hundred pages first. I want to do this. For real.
But at the same time I'm afraid I'll never finish anything because when I do, what happens next? I don't want to lose my characters. I don't want to face the inevitable rejection of the real world.
My greatest fears are failure and rejection, yet I picked a field that is 95% exactly that; maybe I'm a little masochistic.
I'm discouraged by the poems I read by my photographer and journalism friends, the blogs of family members, my Dad's articles. I know I'm not that good. I can't put my images into words. I can see it, but only because it lives in my head.
C'est la vie. I will go now to dream and revel in the hours that I have to be truly creative and completely in a world I invent.
But first I'll end with one of my favorite quotes:
"You are lucky to be one of those people who wishes to build castles with words, who is willing to create a place where your imagination can wander. We build this place with the sand of memories; these castles are our memories and inventiveness made tangible...This is what separates artists from ordinary people; the belief, deep down in our hearts, that if we build our castles well enough, somehow the ocean won't wash them away." -Anne Lamott, Bird by Bird
Saturday, August 13, 2011
Wednesday, July 20, 2011
Come Pick Me Up
"The Truth About Elizabethtown" or "Elizabethtown Forever"
A post dedicated to Natalie Harris and Whitni Gardner because they are about the only ones who will understand it and even they might only understand half each.
I'm reading a book that I've read three times before, The Truth About Forever. You'll probably make fun of me for it because it is a teen novel, but although it is a story of a boy and girl, it is about a lot more. It's about grief. It's about not being afraid. And as I forced myself to put it down and go to bed, I realized its resemblance to another favorite of mine, Elizabethtown; a delightful and quirky movie that critics totally missed the point of. Critics wrote it off as an elaborate and unbelievable "meet cute", but in reality it is also about grief and moving on.
Now nothing traumatic has happened to me recently. I haven't lost a parent, as in the case of both of these stories. But I've noticed a theme within them and me. The deadly "I'm Fine." Two (three?) extremely dangerous words. Being "fine" is a glorious concept and a terrible lie. No one says "I'm fine" and actually means it. It doesn't really mean anything. It could mean "my world is falling apart", "I haven't gotten over the fact that I stubbed my toe this morning", or "I just really need to talk to someone, but I'm afraid."
Maybe this last is why I am writing a blog at midnight rather than sleeping. A blog is a sad excuse for someone to talk to. But the fact is I don't always feel like I have the right to talk. My world isn't crashing down. I don't only have one month left on my lease and no where to live. My boyfriend didn't just leave for two years.
My life is, as it's always been, rather cushy. But I still feel like I'm saying "I'm fine". Maybe I'm just waiting for a Wes Baker or Claire Claiborn to whisk me off into a land of honesty and Ryan Adams songs. Or a Kristy to dress me up and push me out there. Or a Chuck to hug me like he means it before dancing down the hallway to his bachelor party. Heck, I'd settle for a Kid With The Hair.
But the funny thing about this wishing and waiting is that lately I've been more and more content with staying home. Sure part of it is because I wasn't here for months and I just kind of like basking in the presence of my parents and dog. I've been happy. I got to spend over a week in Sun Valley with over 40 members of my family, just relaxing and swimming and playing baseball. But I'm still just fine.
Maybe it has something to do with the fact that I woke up with a swollen face, when it's supposed to be getting better. Or maybe it's because I won't let myself be totally happy. Maybe I'm Macy and I feel like I have to put on a brave, perfect face for the world. Maybe I'm Drew and I'm afraid that I'm a failure, a fiasco even. Maybe I really need a road map. Or a rusted sea glass angel. Maybe my heart and my hand need to be open.
I may not have a Wes or a Claire, but I have parents who love me and aren't trying to tap dance or make me quit what I love--even if they do encourage me to be practical. (They are, however coincidentally, are fixing up a townhouse). I have a best friend who I can talk to for hours and never run out of things to say or feel judged. I have a really cool job that although calmer than catering (the job I wanted to do this summer. Another coincidence? I mean Esta even has dark curly hair) is allowing me to actually feel like I am accomplishing things in the real world. I am blessed. And I should feel like it.
During a game of ImagineIff, I was asked which make-up product I would be. The theory of the game is to guess what the person would say about themselves. Most people said things like blush for me because I'm youthful, etc. I said concealer--the "I'm Fine" of the make-up world, the "let's smooth everything over and not let anyone know what is going on beneath the surface". I guess the fact that no one else said it kind of proves my point.
This blog makes me feel overly dramatic sometimes. And really confusing (I promise this all made perfect sense in my head before I picked up the computer). But I guess what I'm learning as I write this and reflect, is that I don't need a Wes or a Claire. I'd like one one day, but until then I can be one. Maybe not a Wes (man's friggen perfect.) but I could try to be a Claire. I could stop being a substitute person and find something better than an ice cream cone ("here's something nice to make you feel good that'll melt in five minutes"). If I want to watch Rukus play "Free Bird" as the fire sprinklers rain down or finally fly again, I'll be the one to make it happen. I'll go dance in the woods with one hand waving above my head. I'll wallow in the glorious misery for five minutes and then move on. I'll laugh and cry as I talk to someone who is gone. I will miss 60-B and Sweetbud Lane.
Now to make myself follow through. Now to fail big and be brave enough to stick around and have them ask why I'm still smiling. Now to not be perfect. Because flaws make things more interesting.
A post dedicated to Natalie Harris and Whitni Gardner because they are about the only ones who will understand it and even they might only understand half each.
I'm reading a book that I've read three times before, The Truth About Forever. You'll probably make fun of me for it because it is a teen novel, but although it is a story of a boy and girl, it is about a lot more. It's about grief. It's about not being afraid. And as I forced myself to put it down and go to bed, I realized its resemblance to another favorite of mine, Elizabethtown; a delightful and quirky movie that critics totally missed the point of. Critics wrote it off as an elaborate and unbelievable "meet cute", but in reality it is also about grief and moving on.
Now nothing traumatic has happened to me recently. I haven't lost a parent, as in the case of both of these stories. But I've noticed a theme within them and me. The deadly "I'm Fine." Two (three?) extremely dangerous words. Being "fine" is a glorious concept and a terrible lie. No one says "I'm fine" and actually means it. It doesn't really mean anything. It could mean "my world is falling apart", "I haven't gotten over the fact that I stubbed my toe this morning", or "I just really need to talk to someone, but I'm afraid."
Maybe this last is why I am writing a blog at midnight rather than sleeping. A blog is a sad excuse for someone to talk to. But the fact is I don't always feel like I have the right to talk. My world isn't crashing down. I don't only have one month left on my lease and no where to live. My boyfriend didn't just leave for two years.
My life is, as it's always been, rather cushy. But I still feel like I'm saying "I'm fine". Maybe I'm just waiting for a Wes Baker or Claire Claiborn to whisk me off into a land of honesty and Ryan Adams songs. Or a Kristy to dress me up and push me out there. Or a Chuck to hug me like he means it before dancing down the hallway to his bachelor party. Heck, I'd settle for a Kid With The Hair.
But the funny thing about this wishing and waiting is that lately I've been more and more content with staying home. Sure part of it is because I wasn't here for months and I just kind of like basking in the presence of my parents and dog. I've been happy. I got to spend over a week in Sun Valley with over 40 members of my family, just relaxing and swimming and playing baseball. But I'm still just fine.
Maybe it has something to do with the fact that I woke up with a swollen face, when it's supposed to be getting better. Or maybe it's because I won't let myself be totally happy. Maybe I'm Macy and I feel like I have to put on a brave, perfect face for the world. Maybe I'm Drew and I'm afraid that I'm a failure, a fiasco even. Maybe I really need a road map. Or a rusted sea glass angel. Maybe my heart and my hand need to be open.
I may not have a Wes or a Claire, but I have parents who love me and aren't trying to tap dance or make me quit what I love--even if they do encourage me to be practical. (They are, however coincidentally, are fixing up a townhouse). I have a best friend who I can talk to for hours and never run out of things to say or feel judged. I have a really cool job that although calmer than catering (the job I wanted to do this summer. Another coincidence? I mean Esta even has dark curly hair) is allowing me to actually feel like I am accomplishing things in the real world. I am blessed. And I should feel like it.
During a game of ImagineIff, I was asked which make-up product I would be. The theory of the game is to guess what the person would say about themselves. Most people said things like blush for me because I'm youthful, etc. I said concealer--the "I'm Fine" of the make-up world, the "let's smooth everything over and not let anyone know what is going on beneath the surface". I guess the fact that no one else said it kind of proves my point.
This blog makes me feel overly dramatic sometimes. And really confusing (I promise this all made perfect sense in my head before I picked up the computer). But I guess what I'm learning as I write this and reflect, is that I don't need a Wes or a Claire. I'd like one one day, but until then I can be one. Maybe not a Wes (man's friggen perfect.) but I could try to be a Claire. I could stop being a substitute person and find something better than an ice cream cone ("here's something nice to make you feel good that'll melt in five minutes"). If I want to watch Rukus play "Free Bird" as the fire sprinklers rain down or finally fly again, I'll be the one to make it happen. I'll go dance in the woods with one hand waving above my head. I'll wallow in the glorious misery for five minutes and then move on. I'll laugh and cry as I talk to someone who is gone. I will miss 60-B and Sweetbud Lane.
Now to make myself follow through. Now to fail big and be brave enough to stick around and have them ask why I'm still smiling. Now to not be perfect. Because flaws make things more interesting.
Sunday, July 17, 2011
We Scream and Clap for the End of What Was and What We've Become
Mischief Managed.
It is the end of an era. And not just any era, my childhood era. Some people measure the end of childhood by turning 18 or 21 or 35 or whatever, but I am meassuring mine by the end of Harry Potter.
Harry Potter. The books that made me like reading, which for those of you who now know me as an English major, is a pretty big deal. The first time I really remember a book being able to take me into another world. My first midnight book release. Those painful days waiting for Rachel to finish it first. And then threatening her if she gave anything away. Countless and countless hours of make-believe with Courtney. Movies. Musicals. Spoofs. Cartoons. A complete world.
My 2nd grade teacher, Mrs. Ball read the first two books to my class. I read the third with my mom. I read the rest as they came, most more than once (including the forth at least four times, maybe five, I don't really remember, but the dust jacket is falling off). They entranced me in a way that until then nothing had or could match. I was a part of their world. I was brave and clever and magical. I could face the evils of the world at 11 and turn back time with a stylish necklace. I had friends that would stand with me to the end.
The books were one thing, the movies another. A joyful escape into the magic I had so often imagined. I learned that werewolves are blueish and finally understood why all of Hogwarts loved Cedric Digory so much.
Harry Potter, in every form and every adventure, has been such a huge symbol of my childhood, which has been my whole life as of now. I will miss the countdowns and midnights until a new story. I'll love Harry and company forever.
It is the end of an era. And not just any era, my childhood era. Some people measure the end of childhood by turning 18 or 21 or 35 or whatever, but I am meassuring mine by the end of Harry Potter.
Harry Potter. The books that made me like reading, which for those of you who now know me as an English major, is a pretty big deal. The first time I really remember a book being able to take me into another world. My first midnight book release. Those painful days waiting for Rachel to finish it first. And then threatening her if she gave anything away. Countless and countless hours of make-believe with Courtney. Movies. Musicals. Spoofs. Cartoons. A complete world.
My 2nd grade teacher, Mrs. Ball read the first two books to my class. I read the third with my mom. I read the rest as they came, most more than once (including the forth at least four times, maybe five, I don't really remember, but the dust jacket is falling off). They entranced me in a way that until then nothing had or could match. I was a part of their world. I was brave and clever and magical. I could face the evils of the world at 11 and turn back time with a stylish necklace. I had friends that would stand with me to the end.
The books were one thing, the movies another. A joyful escape into the magic I had so often imagined. I learned that werewolves are blueish and finally understood why all of Hogwarts loved Cedric Digory so much.
Harry Potter, in every form and every adventure, has been such a huge symbol of my childhood, which has been my whole life as of now. I will miss the countdowns and midnights until a new story. I'll love Harry and company forever.
Sunday, June 26, 2011
Funny, the way it is
So that last post...I sort of kidding.
But not really.
Everything I said I still believe to be true. You can't plan on awesomeness or magic. And Fingers Crossed and Eyelash Wishes work.
The story behind this is: I did get to attend the event that I was heartbroken for missing. I'll admit it, it was a Parachute concert. And it was worth all of the hype and wishes. I love the feeling of my heartbeat matching the drumbeat and all of my bones shaking with the speakers. I love singing at the top of my lungs, jumping, and watching beautiful men rock.
How did this come to be after all of my life lessons on wishing? I gave up hope.
By midnight on Wednesday I had finally accepted that it wouldn't happen. I held a tiny pity party as I got ready for bed. And of course two eyelashes end up on my finger. I spent one, vainly, on clearing up my skin (I have less faith that this one will work, even wishes can't combat the demons that live in my skin) and the other on a Parachute concert in August. Then I went to bed. And just to follow the oath that I gave at the end of my blog, I fell asleep with my fingers crossed.
Let's just say I got a text at work the next day, Thursday coincidentally. After work I ran home threw some clothes in a bag, grabbed cds, a soda, and a gps, and made a mad dash for Logan. Met Whitni and her friend Sherece and drove to the city of the lake of salt. From then awesomeness ensued. Including seeing Whitni for the first time since Thanksgiving.
Can we just agree that Parachute oozes sexiness? And believe me I don't use that distinction lightly. Crowd surfing, shred fest solo battle, dirty tank tops, bad haircut, and awesome music.
Oh yeah and I LOVE SAX SOLOS!
But not really.
Everything I said I still believe to be true. You can't plan on awesomeness or magic. And Fingers Crossed and Eyelash Wishes work.
The story behind this is: I did get to attend the event that I was heartbroken for missing. I'll admit it, it was a Parachute concert. And it was worth all of the hype and wishes. I love the feeling of my heartbeat matching the drumbeat and all of my bones shaking with the speakers. I love singing at the top of my lungs, jumping, and watching beautiful men rock.
How did this come to be after all of my life lessons on wishing? I gave up hope.
By midnight on Wednesday I had finally accepted that it wouldn't happen. I held a tiny pity party as I got ready for bed. And of course two eyelashes end up on my finger. I spent one, vainly, on clearing up my skin (I have less faith that this one will work, even wishes can't combat the demons that live in my skin) and the other on a Parachute concert in August. Then I went to bed. And just to follow the oath that I gave at the end of my blog, I fell asleep with my fingers crossed.
Let's just say I got a text at work the next day, Thursday coincidentally. After work I ran home threw some clothes in a bag, grabbed cds, a soda, and a gps, and made a mad dash for Logan. Met Whitni and her friend Sherece and drove to the city of the lake of salt. From then awesomeness ensued. Including seeing Whitni for the first time since Thanksgiving.
Can we just agree that Parachute oozes sexiness? And believe me I don't use that distinction lightly. Crowd surfing, shred fest solo battle, dirty tank tops, bad haircut, and awesome music.
Oh yeah and I LOVE SAX SOLOS!
Wednesday, June 22, 2011
...Like Shooting Stars
I believe in Fairytales and Eyelash Wishes. I believe in Fingers Crossed and Fortune Cookies if I like what they have to say.
My Grandpa never believed in Luck. He believed in Fortune. I never quite understood the difference.
More than once I have believed that fingers crossed has worked. It wasn't a feeling of luck or fortune, but almost as if I deserved it because I had wished. Really and truly wished. If someone had asked I would have said lucky, but it was really the feeling of fingers crossed.
And now I think I have discovered, not why, but why not. Fingers crossed does not work if you expect something. If it is expected, likely, or even reasonably possible, one wishes differently. I have taken my new found freedom and filled my summer with great expectations. I need to stop.
I had the good fortune of basically being handed a job, and one that will actually be interesting and impressive. And I am extraordinarily grateful for that. I was able to see my brother, sister-in-law, and nephew--who I did not know if I would see again until Christmas--and now I have found out that I will see them again on the 4th. In Sun Valley. A place more magical than Disney World could ever be.
These have created a wonderful beginning to the summer. But neither of them were planned, not really at least, not by me.
And my first plan has fallen through. I took it for granted. I did not spend enough eyelashes or time with fingers crossed. And truthfully that is all that could have helped. I could not have planned my way out of--or more accurately, into--this one. My half of the plans were perfectly laid, although it would have cost me more money than I was admitting to myself. It is everyone else's plans that got in the way.
I know I will get a question as to the nature of this plan or failed wish. And I am a tad embarrassed to admit it, although I shouldn't be--anyone who reads this blog already doubtlessly knows of my unabashed love. But alas, there is another chance before this summer ends. A chance that will have better laid plans and far more fingers crossed preceding it. I hope it happens (even though it will cost even more than it would have this time).
According to the dictionary Luck is
"the force that seems to operate for good or ill in a person's life, as in shaping circumstances, events, or opportunities"
And Fortune is to have something
"happen by chance"
I don't know whether I believe in Fortune or Luck or both. Probably both. Sorry Grandpa. But you were always the logical one. Practical. Scientific. I was the one chasing fairies through the branches of your willow. I believe in Fairytales and Eyelash Wishes. I believe in Fingers Crossed and Fortune Cookies if I like what they have to say.
And I solemnly swear that I will not take them for granted again.
I will wish with all my heart.
Saturday, May 7, 2011
Gotta Figure This Out
Kind of the theme song of my life right now. (And just an all-around amazing song)
Only once has this song been truer for me then it is now. The summer before I left for college I all but had a mental breakdown. I didn't know what I wanted; I just knew it wasn't what I had. If anyone asked me about my plans or if I was excited, I had to fight off tears. I was completely lost and scared. I kept writting it off to nerves. Which I'm sure it was because I'm here now and I've been fine.
I've had a great year and made good friends that I wouldn't trade. But the feeling is coming back. I'm already nearing the end of my first year of college. And I'm getting summer-itis. And I'm getting the feeling that summer might not actually help.
I'm unsure about my classes and living arrangements for next year. I'm stressed about a massive research project that I have no desire to do. I'm thoroughly convinced that no one will hire me this summer. I want to be home and I want to be in Sun Valley. I want a job, but I don't want to miss out on the things I actually want to do. I want to go on grand adventures and then sit on my couch at home and read about grand adventures. I don't want ot sit in basements or living rooms wondering what to do. I've lost interest in school. The only classes I actually enjoy are creative writing and salsa, and even those are a struggle because they are in the evening. I don't really enjoy my lit class, even though it was my favorite class last term and the professor is as good as ever. Maybe it's what we are reading, or the looming research project, or the 8:30 am time slot. But still.
I've been spending my weekends reading, but now I've run out of cheesey fun books. I want to write, but the ideas are disjointed and fragmented. I listen to the same songs on repeat. I want to get into shape, but the motivation is never enough to get me to the gym.
It kind of feels like I'm on the edge and any moment the fall into the dark uncertainty will be here. (Melodramatic, right?) I feel like I'm stressed about things that aren't quite here yet, but I'm not really doing anything to make it better. There are things I'm looking forward to, but they don't seem quite real; just out of reach. I was amazed the other day at how great some positive feedback from my workshopping group in creative writting made me feel. I guess I'm realizing that I don't want the worlds of research and academia--an idea I'm probably reflecting in part from my brother, who is trying to figure out where to go next. I'm not at the turning point he is, but it kind of feels like I will be before I'm ready.
So I'm going to back to dreaming in color--of my grand adventures that I will make happen, even if it isn't as soon or as magical as I would like to believe. I'm not unhappy, but I keep looking forward to what is coming, for better or worse. I'm not content with content.
Soundtrack for this blog post:
Erin McCarley- Gotta Figure This Out, Pitter Pat (anything else by her. Listen to her, she is great and this is my mindset right now)
Matt Nathanson- Car Crash
Only once has this song been truer for me then it is now. The summer before I left for college I all but had a mental breakdown. I didn't know what I wanted; I just knew it wasn't what I had. If anyone asked me about my plans or if I was excited, I had to fight off tears. I was completely lost and scared. I kept writting it off to nerves. Which I'm sure it was because I'm here now and I've been fine.
I've had a great year and made good friends that I wouldn't trade. But the feeling is coming back. I'm already nearing the end of my first year of college. And I'm getting summer-itis. And I'm getting the feeling that summer might not actually help.
I'm unsure about my classes and living arrangements for next year. I'm stressed about a massive research project that I have no desire to do. I'm thoroughly convinced that no one will hire me this summer. I want to be home and I want to be in Sun Valley. I want a job, but I don't want to miss out on the things I actually want to do. I want to go on grand adventures and then sit on my couch at home and read about grand adventures. I don't want ot sit in basements or living rooms wondering what to do. I've lost interest in school. The only classes I actually enjoy are creative writing and salsa, and even those are a struggle because they are in the evening. I don't really enjoy my lit class, even though it was my favorite class last term and the professor is as good as ever. Maybe it's what we are reading, or the looming research project, or the 8:30 am time slot. But still.
I've been spending my weekends reading, but now I've run out of cheesey fun books. I want to write, but the ideas are disjointed and fragmented. I listen to the same songs on repeat. I want to get into shape, but the motivation is never enough to get me to the gym.
It kind of feels like I'm on the edge and any moment the fall into the dark uncertainty will be here. (Melodramatic, right?) I feel like I'm stressed about things that aren't quite here yet, but I'm not really doing anything to make it better. There are things I'm looking forward to, but they don't seem quite real; just out of reach. I was amazed the other day at how great some positive feedback from my workshopping group in creative writting made me feel. I guess I'm realizing that I don't want the worlds of research and academia--an idea I'm probably reflecting in part from my brother, who is trying to figure out where to go next. I'm not at the turning point he is, but it kind of feels like I will be before I'm ready.
So I'm going to back to dreaming in color--of my grand adventures that I will make happen, even if it isn't as soon or as magical as I would like to believe. I'm not unhappy, but I keep looking forward to what is coming, for better or worse. I'm not content with content.
Soundtrack for this blog post:
Erin McCarley- Gotta Figure This Out, Pitter Pat (anything else by her. Listen to her, she is great and this is my mindset right now)
Matt Nathanson- Car Crash
Wednesday, May 4, 2011
It's true I love technology
...But it seems to far more fickle about our relationship.
It has long been a rule that if some important project is due, something will malfunction. It's usually the printer. Printers are vindictive and hateful things, for seemingly no reason. This is an accepted fact in 308.
However, this time the printer is not the culprit. It's everything else. (Okay, well the printer definitely hasn't become more friendly, but it hasn't gotten worse...yet.)
A week or two ago I thought my iPod dock had broken, which meant no speakers and no charger. Oh well, I can deal, borrow someone else's charger, life continues. About a day later the battery died. I didn't bother for a couple days. Then the worst happened.
The Beast was dead.
It wouldn't charge. Evil warning messages of doom kept popping up. It was not a good time. I refused to admit that my friend of six years was leaving me.
Then two days ago my computer got a virus. From Pandora. I mean, really? That isn't exactly a sketchy or back-alley site. So my computer spent a solid 26 hours in the care of ResNet and is now recovered (obviously).
But during our time apart, I panicked in the silence. (No computer and no iPod meant no music, unless Jeana was in the room. I don't do well with silence.) I discovered that my speakers did in fact work and that The Beast would play. Needless to say there was some dancing about the room. I thought the cosmos had taken pity on me.
Close, but no cigar. The Beast is not dead, but I am afraid it is fighting a losing battle for its sanity. I was able to listen to the Gabe Dixon Band and a few more songs before it spasmed and went into insta-shuffle mode. Basically, it just scrolls through the songs without ever playing anything.
I am a bit distressed. I love my brick and don't want to get one of these new-fangled iPods. I want my Beast. Luckily the computer and I are back together. And I have a new found appreciation for personal electronics and a realization of how much I depend on them. It's unhealthy, but that's our world.
It has long been a rule that if some important project is due, something will malfunction. It's usually the printer. Printers are vindictive and hateful things, for seemingly no reason. This is an accepted fact in 308.
However, this time the printer is not the culprit. It's everything else. (Okay, well the printer definitely hasn't become more friendly, but it hasn't gotten worse...yet.)
A week or two ago I thought my iPod dock had broken, which meant no speakers and no charger. Oh well, I can deal, borrow someone else's charger, life continues. About a day later the battery died. I didn't bother for a couple days. Then the worst happened.
The Beast was dead.
It wouldn't charge. Evil warning messages of doom kept popping up. It was not a good time. I refused to admit that my friend of six years was leaving me.
Then two days ago my computer got a virus. From Pandora. I mean, really? That isn't exactly a sketchy or back-alley site. So my computer spent a solid 26 hours in the care of ResNet and is now recovered (obviously).
But during our time apart, I panicked in the silence. (No computer and no iPod meant no music, unless Jeana was in the room. I don't do well with silence.) I discovered that my speakers did in fact work and that The Beast would play. Needless to say there was some dancing about the room. I thought the cosmos had taken pity on me.
Close, but no cigar. The Beast is not dead, but I am afraid it is fighting a losing battle for its sanity. I was able to listen to the Gabe Dixon Band and a few more songs before it spasmed and went into insta-shuffle mode. Basically, it just scrolls through the songs without ever playing anything.
I am a bit distressed. I love my brick and don't want to get one of these new-fangled iPods. I want my Beast. Luckily the computer and I are back together. And I have a new found appreciation for personal electronics and a realization of how much I depend on them. It's unhealthy, but that's our world.
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