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I've been going through music like crazy, as if it were sustenance. I buy new CDs and scarf them down and then look for more. I know I will make the music old if I overplay it, but it's like a hunger that I can't afford to feed. CDs cost more than bread. Perhaps that's why I need to be involved with WRCU this semester, because if things keep going like this I'll be either broke or starved by December. But right now I need something calm and smooth that I can't go through too fast, like a chocolate mousse that's too rich to eat quickly. Hopefully Princess and the Warrior will do the trick, as I'm running out of ideas.
The best moment of yesterday morning was when, during basic marching rehearsal, our lines were so uneven that Jill, at a loss for what to say, called for a re-rack.
Amusing as that was, there is something about basic marching in a block, even without instruments, that I find completely engrossing. That's not to say that my concentration is perfect and I get it right all the time. On the contrary, moving in step to the sound of a drum major clapping can have an almost hypnotic effect, so that I don't actually hear the command that's called and, though I recognize that there has been a command, my mind makes one up and I end up doing something completely different. But even when I go in the wrong direction it's still in that rhythm and the commands still come at the same point in my stride and we're all still immersed in that calm, predictable beat. At times like that it seems like you could easily fit the whole of existence evenly in the space between clicks.
I see the world as an ever-moving web where every little thing is somehow connected to every other little thing. Tangles are the things to be avoided, places where the lines get knotted up and you can't feel connected to what's on the other end of them. It seems so impossible that everything could ever be really untangled, that all the lines could be moving smoothly at once. But sometimes they do, and I can tell by the way it feels when I'm walking down the street. If there's a song in my head, it will match my stride in just the right way, and fit just right with my emotions. It's not the same thing as happiness. Just today I was walking towards the band room with a vague sense of loneliness or longing or something, but with just the right song that just fit with my stride and the mood of the day. It elevated the emotion somehow, made it not something to be avoided or changed or improved but something that was itself just right for that moment, and not wrong at all. After all, how can any emotion be bad when you're dancing with the very forces of the earth?
Sure, it's been exciting from the start to have eighteen freshmen here for band camp, but it only really hit me tonight at music rehearsal. The whole balance was changed; brass was strong enough to be heard, as always, but the woodwinds were for once able to balance it out. It was amazing. Song after song was re-created as we played. The sudden emphasis in the "Born to be Wild" cut when all the woodwinds came in; the amazingly strong introduction and backbeat to "Can't Turn You Loose;" the long row of people standing in front of us doing the "Jungle Boogie" dance for the first time as we played; the fullness of the sound, for everything. It felt so amazing. Yes, I'm a freak. I just can't believe it. It's moments like this that remind me just how much I love marching band. Wow.
So now I live in Read, down the hill, and over the past week my entire grid has been reworked. I didn't quite realize that there was a grid or network of paths that I traversed until it changed. But now I rarely use the same routes I did last year. Academic buildings seem far away when home base is at the bottom of the hill. Suddenly town and the apartments are places I go fairly frequently, and the band room is just across the street. Even when I do use the same paths as last year, they are seen from a different perspective. The whole angle is different.
I think that perspective difference is due not just to changing location in space but also to moving to a different point in time. If I looked backwards, perhaps I'd be able to see what each road or path meant last year, how I used them, where they led to then. But I'm not looking backwards, and I can see what my paths mean and where they go now. Occasionally if I try I can make myself turn around and face the past that way, and feel again that painful awareness that last year is over. But only if I try, and I only try in order to occasionally prove to myself that I still feel these things, as if it's somehow important.
It's comforting that I've settled into the new space and time so thoroughly, though. Last year was amazing in its way, but it wasn't perfect, and I can recognize that. I've reached a point where I can put it aside and say that it's time for a new year where I'll really do things right. I made mistakes last year, and I have regrets (which are not in all cases relevant to the mistakes.) But I'm going to live this year to its fullest and maybe even make up for some of last year, somehow or another. A year of overflowingness.
Overflowing, yes. When I imagine energy flowing like a river in a flood, I can't think of anything I'd like better for this next year. But by that I don't mean it will be perfect. I had regrets last year, and I will this year. I already do. There are two very specific things that have happened already that I wish I could go back and change. Two in one week. It's too heavy a burden to carry if one is burdened by them all. But that's another outlook to change. I can't live my life as though I was going to prevent every future mistake from happening. They will happen; they always do. The thing to work to change is how I deal with them. Dealing with mistakes well is much more important than preventing them, I've found. If every mistake could be prevented, I would have found a way by now. They can't, at least not all of them. I need to learn to deal with them, to keep facing forward. Then maybe every time I tripped on a crack in the sidewalk it wouldn't feel like hitting my face on cement.
And on that lovely note, I think I'll sleep.
