Madness

I had a strange dream last night. It involved a peanut festival. There was this farmish place and five or six peanut-celebrating events. Steve, my brother and I were playing dice to win some peanuts somehow, and he kept throwing in more dice than were needed. He wasn't cheating, he was teasing me. I was furious and stormed off. Then there was this Cathedral, because for some reason the choirs from Concordia were there. We (Chapel Choir) were all in our robes, and Tim the Amazing was there playing an electric piano and screwing up the acoustics. Rene Clausen was furious but nobody knew it was Tim because he was under blankets and a big beach umbrella in the balcony. And in the building below there was a hallway leading away from the church and there was a room, rather a wall that read: "The Recovery from Oostburg" and something to do with lemons. When I opened the door to the room it had a bingo bar in it, and the wall collapsed and made alot of noise so I ran down the hallway and woke up.
It was so much more vivid when I was sleeping.

Cast off thy nighted cloak.

Forgive yourself, Hamlet. It wasn't your fault. It wasn't all your fault.

Letter

Wouldn't you like to do Hamlet? I think he could be organised delightfully into three pictures: 1) Elsinore and Hamlet before the appearance of his father's ghost; (2) Polonius (scherzando) and Ophelia (adagio) (3) Hamlet after the appearance of the ghost. His death and Fortinbras...After Hamlet I considered Francesca, and she really is beginning to please me!...Then, if Iago worries you, why not do the tale of Othello by himself? Indeed, he does merit a symphonic tableau! As you see, Hamlet is the only new subject I've devised...but if only you knew how much I wish you'd write music on my subject....


Modest to Petr Tchaikovsky
"The Lives of the Great Composers"
Schonberg

Blue

If I am blue, I'm not certain that I want to change to another color. It would explain why certain things happen; it would explain my cycles of various shades of blue.
So I could go to an artist and ask him or her what color I am. And he or she may say that I am red, blue, or yellow. Because they're ARTISTS! They get PAID to tell people what color they are. They have no interests except to make money and to paint you. And even if they're RIGHT; even if they ARE right and I am in fact, a color I oughtn't be...even then...do I really want to change? I felt such joy when a certain magic penguin asked me a certain question concerning the rest of my life. I remember the profound joy I felt at that moment. But I don't feel that way all of the time. In fact, sometimes I feel more depressed than ever about my answer to him. If I were a shade of blue, it would explain this change of color. Varying from light to dark blue would be natural.
What if I'm being rational though? Given my age, the circumstances of the question, the circumstances of the answer...given the loneliness we'd both faced this semester, given the intensities and pastinesses of our lives...I don't see how I am not being rational in wishing to rethink this. It is most dramatic to say that I am a color I oughtn't be. Perhaps he's a color he oughtn't be. In fact, that thought is far more plausable than my color being ary.
As far as desires go, I feel that he is quite too hung up on them. I feel that this entire pallate can easily go badly because, after all, Boo Radley is involved in this, isn't he?

And then I remember my tearful frenzy of colors and personalities that never ceases to amaze even myself. I've got much to do, and extremely little time. But if such minds could save from death Astronauts of Apollo 13, certainly my far inferior one can accomplish a far inferior task such as studying for this silly final.

I don't want to switch to Google!

There are certain people on this earth that I cannot stand. I grant myself that I am not a perfect person. I also grant myself that I don't always make the correct choice or the right decisions. But I also don't know what I can do about certain people who look at me with their condescending eyes, knowing that they have succeeded and I have failed, and smirk because they are pleased that it is so. The thing that gets me the most angry about it is that they have the right to do so. They are better at this than I am. They also are loved by most other people and I gradually have become more and more bitter, even to the point at which I seek simple things, worldly, fleshly things to sedate my anger.

When it was boys, everything was fine with her, but a five minute conversation with my dad on the phone was altogether unacceptable. I find it a direct derivative of my gender versus her gawdy anger.

I love the look of things on other things, or in other things. Like when mixing paint or glue.