To play or not to play.

i’ve been  neglecting my music for a long time. Mostly I’ve been feeling sad that I haven’t had the energy to give to it on top of working full-time. The last time I played with the group, I felt like I was half-assing it for the whole year because I missed rehearsals and didn’t get to practice as much as I would like because of the fucking migraines.

Now I’ve been kind of scared to pick it up again, because I know that I’ll be rusty and need to practice just to get back up to, well, my level.  I was afraid that I would start to play and then cry because my skills were so crappy from disuse.  I pretty clearly can’t just keep going with work and migraines and nothing else, because it’s killing me emotionally, so I figured I had nothing to lose.  So I picked it up tonight, and tuned it, and realize that I needed to get a nut to hold the pieces of my Kun shoulder rest together because my other Wolff shoulder rest sucks and pisses me off.

It was more like riding a bike than I expected.  So I signed up for this master class type thing happening in the fall, thinking that I have a couple of months ahead of me that I can practice, and that would be a good way to get back into music and meet some people in the music community here and so forth.

Now it’s about four hours later, and I don’t know if I’m going to be able to go through with it. I can get a full refund until a couple of weeks before it starts, and I don’t even think I’m worried about being able to play  with the time I have between here and there. I’m worried that I’ll be shy to go somewhere where I don’t know who is going to be there. And that I’ll get a migraine.

The only question is, is the stress of going somewhere new and having to play through a migraine better, or less stressful, than the stress of not doing hobbies I love and having in my life only work and migraines and depression?

When You Are Old

When you are old and grey and full of sleep,
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;

How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true,
But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face;

And bending down beside the glowing bars,
Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled
And paced upon the mountains overhead
And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.

W. B. Yeats

A quote I found.

“And no matter what anybody says about grief and about time healing all wounds, the truth is, there are certain sorrows that never fade away until the heart stops beating and the last breath is taken”
– Tiffanie DeBartolo

Depeche Mode is OK with my suicide, I think.

Some excerpts from their brilliant, painful lyrics:

 

Scum

You’re calling, and you’re falling
And there’s nowhere left to run
And you’re weeping, and not sleeping
And you’re begging for your gun

You’re dead inside, you’re numb
You’re hollow, and shallow
Your empty life is done

Pull the trigger
Pull the trigger
(Hey scum, hey scum)
Pull the trigger
(Hey scum, hey scum)
Pull the trigger

 

No More (This is the Last Time)

This is the last time
I’ll say goodbye
The last time
Then we won’t have to lie
The last time
(All the memories, all our pain)
This is the last time
(All the memories, all our pain)
The last time

Zdzislaw Beksinski was a genius.

His images depict depression absolutely. Let’s form a narrative of how it feels to be a depressed person in a world that doesn’t understand:

“You can’t just stay in bed all day.”

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“Work is good for you! What do you mean, you can’t focus? I’m sure you’re fine.”

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“Are you exercising? Exercise is good for depression, you know.”

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“Well just go for a walk then!”

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“What about music? You used to love playing music.”

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“You think about yourself too much. There are a lot of people worse off, you know.”

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“Maybe that’s what you need, just get out more.”

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Corrupt

Lyrics to Depeche Mode:

“Corrupt”

I could corrupt you
In a heartbeat
You think you’re so special
Think you’re so sweet
What are you trying
Don’t even tempt me
Soon you’ll be crying
And wishing you’d dreamt me

You’ll be calling out my name
When you need someone to blame

I could corrupt you
It would be easy
Watching you suffer
Girl, it would please me
But I wouldn’t touch you
With my little finger
I know it would crush you
My memory would linger

You’d be crying out in pain
Begging me to play my games

I could corrupt you
It would be ugly
They could sedate you
But what good would drugs be

But I wouldn’t touch you
Put my hands on your hips
It would be too much to
Place my lips on your lips

You’d be calling out my name
Begging me to play my games

Self-Harm and Spirit Leaves

Nettle leaves…

From anniesremedy.com: “Called “wergulu” in old Wessex in the tenth century, nettle was one of the nine sacred herbs, along with mugwort, plantain, watercress, chamomile, crab apple, chervil, and fennel.”

Full of serotonin, the leaves hurt when put on intact skin but can feel good when put on injured areas.  Is this the mathmagic of self-harm?  That pain plus pain equals healing, and those who were never wounded can never understand?

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