I don't blog anymore because I don't have anything to say, and I'm pretty sure I don't have anything to say because I'm not doing anything I'm particularly interested in.

Not strictly true; music therapy internship stuff is always interesting, what with the scatalogical and urological mishaps of autistic kids (plus, one of them tried to swallow an egg shaker and nearly died, it was fantastic), and coming home to the girl (in a sense) is always a plus. The job's turning out a whole lot better than I assumed it would, even if it makes my eyes bleed a little bit. Everything else is more or less a wash. Life isn't journal articles and bell charts; it shouldn't revolve around sleep schedules and TV reruns; it shouldn't hinge on the mundane.  Our purpose shouldn't be quantitative.

So, fuck. Going to the library to crank out a study guide, coming back home to catch the girl before she's off to birthday shenanigans, then Japanese steakhouse and god knows what else. Ha, although I have an inkling.

Goddamn.

To the charming ladies of Craigslist;

I know that many women have rape fantasies. I know that the loss of control, the unwilling submission, the power dynamic in these fantasies are what gives them their power. I know what it's like to say 'no' and mean 'yes'. I know that this is frowned upon, seen as a perversion or as a crime. But hey, we can't help that our body's endorphins prepare us for a flood of hormones. The primal rush of fighting desperately, for both the victim and the rapist. It comes down to basic survival instincts: fight, flight, or fuck.

That being said, I don't want a woman who wants a rape fantasy. I want to rape you.

I want to follow you to your office every morning, learn your favourite breakfasts,  One day, after weeks of patiently, carefully watching you, I'll be courageous enough to pick you car's lock.  Your car's air freshener will become your perfume to me, illicit and intoxicating. I'll take inventory of every crumpled napkin, each coffee stain a tiny birthmark on the upholstery. You'll never know, but I've already begun invading you.

I'll trail your car back to your home until I learn your schedule; then, I'll arrive there before you so as to not raise your suspicion. I'll peer through your windows from a rented room across the street. I'll learn your favourite meals, your favourite shows. WHat makes you laugh and what makes you cry. I'll count the steps it takes for you to make it to your kitchen and categorize the way you roll back on the balls of your feet when you stretch. I'll sleep beside you from across the street, and wake up at the sound of your alarm. I will know you more intimately than any man will take the time to know you. I will obsess over you, and you will fill my mind, my mouth, my hands. Although you won't know who I am, you will belong to me.

And one day, when you lock the front doors at work, I'll wrap my arms around your throat and whisper that I love you. Already, I can hear your blood coursing uncontrollably, your lust and fear a cacophony in my head. Please don't scream, I'll whisper, but you of course couldn't hear me, can't even imagine me having a voice even though you can feel it perched on your shoulder. So I'll gag you and I'll throw you into some rough debris-strewn alley, all crumbling brick and shadow, and while you whimper no, I'll know that you mean yes. Because I love you.

Later, maybe we can go out for dinner?

It's all such a goddamned waste, all of it. Every last inch of life.

You guys, shut the fuck up, I've got this one figured out.

Humanity suffers from a crippling delusion: humanity believes that it is necessary to continue existing. In reality, nothing could be farther from the truth. At best, humanity is some sort of aberrant carbon-based fractal that will self-perpetuate infinitely. Most likely, humanity is one of those cell generating games that inevitably collapse on themselves. but that's okay! So is everything. If all the pine trees disappeared one day, or maybe yogurt, things would inevitably continue on. The world doesn't stop because the doctor dances.

Furthermore, the noble goals of charity towards the living are pointless, though admittedly,it's not like we have anything better to do. Any goal we can think of is constrained by the subconscious push to self-perpetuate and limited by human thought (which, incidentally, is exactly why religious crazies claim we can't understand God - we're fucked). All our scientific, religious, and social progress has done little more than help us spread faster in more luxury than ever before.

I feel that if humanity embraced the idea that it is not, in fact, necessary, it would solve a considerable amount of issues. Yes, there still would be suffering - life is long and life is hard, no way around that. But who the fuck cares? You're frivolous anyways. You don't need anything, because you don't need to be at all.

The question, then, isn't 'what do I need?' but 'what would I prefer?'. You want to eliminate your suffering? That's fine, you can do that. You want to stop eating and watch yourself starve? That's A-OK. You prefer to help others with their deficiencies? That's all right, too. No matter what you do, it's ultimately a waste, but it's all equally wasteful.

You don't need fingers, or legs, or eyes. You don't need shelter, clothing, food. You don't need to consume, because you don't have to be here at all. All death is waste, all life is waste, all passions and dreams are all equally wasteful, given special meaning only by your attachments and values.

Reading over a couple of conducting articles, and one of the authors makes the point that, instead of teaching the kids to reach for that moment of the sublime, you should teach them to simply play everything that's on the page. Mechanistic, not rhapsodic.

Initially, I suppose, it's appalling; music education is all about fostering a lifelong relationship with music, not sloughing through keys and stems. Kids should be enjoying music, not being yoked together like so many arranged marriages. Really, though, it's all about the group dynamic - you gots to give something else up to be harmonious with your neighbor, some sense of autonomy and individual direction. The eventual goal, then, is to have the musicians perform with the least amount of individual interpretation. This will create the best sound possible and the overall product will be much more accessible and musical.

That's right, parents: music is teaching your kids to be Communist.