Read this
"But I listen a little closer, and I also hear a song of sorrow, of an epic battle in which I will fight mostly in defense. I do not think of death as an enemy; it is part of life. But the sadness comes from its approach, and the ways that I will see it advance, inexorable and inevitable. I will dance with death -- with those of others, and later of my own. But it is the suffering that I will see that will be hard to bear, and the knowledge of small steps that later became bigger leaps towards that dance of death, that will sing sadly to me as I lean over the bed of a Type II diabetic, overweight and dying of sugar, or try to placate the desperate heroin addict with methadone (which only partially abates the longing -- the craving never quite goes away), or try to calm the frenzy of the man in alcohol-induced delirium tremens as he shakes and moans to the shadows in his head. Sorrow. Regret. I can hear those minor chords now as I imagine that fight for delay, that fight for time. The medicines can only do so much, likewise the technology. But who am I to say what is the right dance through life? One of the loveliest piano pieces I ever played was named the Tarantella -- representing the mad whirl of a woman dancing uncontrollably, faster and faster, as the venom of a tarantula bite sped to her brain, until she collapsed to the floor, dead. "
This is the kind of humanistic free association that makes me very tender. I have the biggest crush on its author now solely through Xanga. But it is a love that makes me sad, mostly on account of my major.
Different peoples' advice all tornadoes around me. Maybe I should be trying to get to med school, if only to learn that vocabulary for life. Maybe I'm failing to divorce admiration from emulation. Rilke says you should either do art or something not art at all. Let it never be journalism or criticism or normal literature, whose "artistic" posturings are so invidious.
I don't notice a culture gap between myself and med students. They never seem less articulate or cultivated or sensitive. I have no edge. I haven't learned anything that might be of acute, college-level consequence to them, as they have surely learned things about me. I have arms and legs. They have arms, legs and wings. I'm destined to be the groundskeeper who knows some fun things about the ground, maybe. I'm going to be the janitor, who only has so many keys because he's stuck at the school.
Once before this happened to a lesser extent before but then she was very catty. This one is that one's good, impeccably good twin. The entries which end with her shouting out her boyfriend are discouraging, though.
"But I listen a little closer, and I also hear a song of sorrow, of an epic battle in which I will fight mostly in defense. I do not think of death as an enemy; it is part of life. But the sadness comes from its approach, and the ways that I will see it advance, inexorable and inevitable. I will dance with death -- with those of others, and later of my own. But it is the suffering that I will see that will be hard to bear, and the knowledge of small steps that later became bigger leaps towards that dance of death, that will sing sadly to me as I lean over the bed of a Type II diabetic, overweight and dying of sugar, or try to placate the desperate heroin addict with methadone (which only partially abates the longing -- the craving never quite goes away), or try to calm the frenzy of the man in alcohol-induced delirium tremens as he shakes and moans to the shadows in his head. Sorrow. Regret. I can hear those minor chords now as I imagine that fight for delay, that fight for time. The medicines can only do so much, likewise the technology. But who am I to say what is the right dance through life? One of the loveliest piano pieces I ever played was named the Tarantella -- representing the mad whirl of a woman dancing uncontrollably, faster and faster, as the venom of a tarantula bite sped to her brain, until she collapsed to the floor, dead. "
This is the kind of humanistic free association that makes me very tender. I have the biggest crush on its author now solely through Xanga. But it is a love that makes me sad, mostly on account of my major.
Different peoples' advice all tornadoes around me. Maybe I should be trying to get to med school, if only to learn that vocabulary for life. Maybe I'm failing to divorce admiration from emulation. Rilke says you should either do art or something not art at all. Let it never be journalism or criticism or normal literature, whose "artistic" posturings are so invidious.
I don't notice a culture gap between myself and med students. They never seem less articulate or cultivated or sensitive. I have no edge. I haven't learned anything that might be of acute, college-level consequence to them, as they have surely learned things about me. I have arms and legs. They have arms, legs and wings. I'm destined to be the groundskeeper who knows some fun things about the ground, maybe. I'm going to be the janitor, who only has so many keys because he's stuck at the school.
Once before this happened to a lesser extent before but then she was very catty. This one is that one's good, impeccably good twin. The entries which end with her shouting out her boyfriend are discouraging, though.
posted by David @ 2:35 PM
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