February 16th, 2014

Stravinsky's Petrushka is almost too playful, so I switched to The Rite of Spring and this
is the Stravinsky I want. This day was a gift among days. It was a long winter sigh against 
snow and under a veiled sky. It was a stone kept in your pocket to remind you of a river 
you walked along once. And that's something, the idea of walking along a river, didn't you 
think of that earlier today and tuck it away for later? But now you can't quite remember 
the thought and anyway, you're not sure where it fits into everything. On Tuesday the world 
begins again, but it is not the world you've carefully been knitting around you, it is a loud 
and tearing world, a world with spikes on the walls and many pierced hearts dripping from 
these spikes and when you walk down the halls of the school they pulse and you cannot fix 
them. You don't even want to anymore. You want to be left alone to heal and change in your 
cocoon. There must be another way. The icicles keep falling from the roof like teeth from a
great jaw and I am in my room listening to music that irons my brain into one sheet, until,
like Jung, I conceive of myself as a hovering over the landscape, as a pulse and beat in the
things around me. There are many ways to be alive, but only a few ways to stay alive.