Anyway, I was practicing my flute earlier, and I had a bit of a tongue seizure. It was odd. Sometimes my fingers will do weird things and stop working right in the middle of a piece. But this has never happened to my tongue before. Granted at the time I was playing the scherzo from "A Midsummer Night's Dream". Which, to use proper musical terms, is played at the tempo of "really fucking fast". Yes. I then proceeded to do a half-assed schlepping through the third movement of the Reinecke. I am all about the schlepping.

And the blowing. The flute does require a lot of air. All that blowing can *really* tire you out.

*smirk*

Hmmm. The cat is sitting on the top bookshelf, in the corner of the room. She just finished scratching her claws on the ceiling, and is now perched precariously on some old gardening books and is looking down at me, as if expecting me to do something. She is apparently planning to jump on the computer monitor. Or my head. I should probably be disturbed by this.

Anyway, I had a revelation earlier. A flute revelation. It occurred to me that there are so many flutists who are better players than me who are off getting (or who have already received) their ed degrees for "job security" or whatever other reason. "Something to fall back on" doesn't mean what I think it means, apparently.

Basically, my wonderment of the night is, what the hell do I think I'm doing? I'm working at Sears now, true, to save up to go to grad school in the fall. For music fucking performance. Implying what? That I'm crazy? That is a definite yes. Implying that I'm good? I have no clue. I don't know how little, quiet me, with my piece-o-crap Armstrong flute, my soon to be B.A. of music nothing, and my lack of solid musical background managed to get in to any school at all for *performance*. I don't know how in the world the flute teacher there, at a major university with a fantastic band program, was impressed with me so much as to leave a spot for me. For an extra year! Not a bloodyfuckingclue.

Aaaaarrrggghh. Please pardon my wondering. The music business is going to chew me up and spit me out and step on the emasticated pulp and run over any unfortunate remains with a Mack truck and an elephant with indigestion. My trouble is, how did I fool these people into not believing this was the case?

Ah, but retail schmuckism? Now that I can do. :-P

I try not to think about the far-off future too much. Like about what I'll be doing in ten years. Where I'll be. Because it scares the living shit out of me. The near future I can deal with. Sometimes.

Gah. Who am I kidding? I can't deal with anything besides refilling ice cube trays. Maybe I should aspire to nothing more than a nice padded room.

In other news, *sigh*. Oh, the great bundle of hopelessnessosity that is me. My telekinesis is still broken. Is hypnosis possible over AIM?

Again, *sigh*.

Oh the stupidity. Goodnight. :)

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