Is that why religions tell you to wait for heaven until after you croak? Are humans ill-equipped to handle the extraordinary highs and lows of nirvana? I was tempted tonight. Tempted to re-frame. Tempted to look at things a little differently. With a different perspective. And something bizarre happened. I ceased fretting over the minutia which often occupies me. I saw. I witnessed. There it was, life. There were people, and objects, and sights. And of course sound. It was a concert after all. And it was a lovelier concert than I've heard in a while. Because I heard it differently. With new ears and mind. And then I got a rush. A joyous thrill. That one that others seem to get. It's the one gotten from just being alive. From just being, and being glad for it.

But then I got another kind of rush. A more sinister one. The floodgates opened, and everything was allowed in. So I guess my mind had to close up shop. It didn't feel inclined to get to know those demons further. But it's too late. I now know the difference between being alive and being stuck. I'll be less easily duped from now on. With all the gradations and layers and nuances, it is really very simple. On or off. Open or closed. I don't want to go so far as to say alive or dead. But it might be right, eh?

There are a lot of them. They are hard to discern, so it often sounds like one loud voice. But it makes more sense that it is a combined effort. It's interesting, because I give people a pass, assuming there's no bad intention. They didn't intend to become a nightmarish mantra in my head. So that absolves them. Not that I'm really interested in blaming anyone. But fact from fiction is important here. One must accurately identify the culprits in the course of history, regardless of intention. You can only surmise intention. Even the party in question may not know their own intent. Intent comes partly from the gut, rather than the mind.

There are those who have inadvertently or purposefully drilled their poison into my brain and soul. That is the situation, and I am left here to pick up the pieces and put myself back together. I must retrieve my shattered soul from it's little corner where it likes to hide from the nasties. It must supplant all the chaos and hopelessness. It's kind of like the Tao Te Ching, right? The strongest force is watery. The quiet, flowing true soul (the Way) has the capacity to erode any behemoths. Love is akin to this, too. If I were more in touch with my loving self over the years, I could have had some protection from those nasties.

I will suffer amazing amounts of pain in efforts to succeed and to drink in life experiences. I have two ways of behaving: 150% or 15%. All or nothing, basically. Somehow my brain and my soul are not tuned to those middle percentages; I don't even notice life at that wattage. Is that why cats like me?

When I speak of the present, it means both the actual present moment, or more key perhaps, present day life situations.

Maybe I know what makes me happy, but I haven't had much practice immersing myself in those things. If I only touch upon them occasionally and reluctantly, naturally I'll still yearn for the other stuff I have become old friends with. The somber, melancholic stuff.

Maybe my childhood observation about my multiple personalities should tell me something about the possible cause of my moodiness. I liked to talk about how frequently I felt like a different person. I'm sure each different person was in a different mood.

I have observed that focusing more on what makes me happy engenders a state of mind which hearkens back to childhood. More unfettered mentally.

But why is it so different in my head, so one-sided, and then when I write or talk about it, everything changes? When I am thinking, it stems from some sort of raw emotion or physical sensation. When I am writing or speaking, it is once removed, at least, from the raw emotion. So you can reimagine the emotions, reconfigure them to help serve a greater, vaster truth than that stuck in your body and psyche. But what happens when I feel I have run out of material? Is there something else which is equally rewarding that I could do to reconfigure the wiring which causes the angst? Yes, I believe so. But there are a lot of deceptively pleasing or fruitful activities which don't provide the assistance or expressive qualities they have been deemed to. Or, if they do, I overuse and abuse them to the point that they cause more harm than good. It's that "ize"-ing thing that I am so drawn to. I exaggerate.

This journaling seems to be a superior coping technique, versus some of the ones I picked up. For instance, I may have actually learned dissociation. I was assuming that it is an instinctual reaction to unpleasant or traumatic situations, but it could also be a learned behavior, I suppose. "Depression is Contagious" style of learning. Environmental depression. Habitual depression. My low-grade depression goes hand-in-hand with my lower end coping techniques. They get me by, but not in a high-functioning way. It explains why I don't let myself stay healthy for very long without an infusion of self-destruction. I am finding that comfort zone where I am mildly depressed.

And there is another side - I am born with these propensities. They are both not taught and not reactions to anything. They are my biology. Or maybe they're a response to my biology. There's also my own behavior choices, which lead to ingrained ways of thinking and feeling - like being a musician might make me moodier or more solitary, or more introspective. Even being a cellist, to be very specific.

So what happens is I cannot trust my own instinctual reactions or propensities. I have been taught or born maladaptively, so I live that way. I live sad or I live manic. But sad and manic are not happy. Although everyone wears masks, mine are more prohibitive than most. They seem less functional.

I would like to accumulate a repertoire of pro-adaptive activities. I do try. They seem to come and go. They lie on the whispering wind.

But it's hard to pinpoint its source. Is it mostly long-forgotten and long-dismissed incidents from long ago? It seems like it. So if I've disregarded the importance of those old feelings, chances are I never went through any grieving-type process. I never actually let myself get angry, or sad, or forgave anyone, or had any other naturally occurring offshoots from painful experiences.

My tendency to hold in my anger, even to my own eyes, could be a result of my fear that if I start letting it out, it will overwhelm me and everyone in the vicinity. I also may perceive it as unclassy. Or maybe it will be underwhelming, and seem wimpy. It'll look like sour grapes, or like I'm a crybaby. Not like a real man.

I used to be admired or commended for my ability to let things roll off my back. Really I just deal with my negative feelings differently - I don't deal with them, for the most part. They come out in odder ways, through my behavior and my difficulty doing things. And my ruminating. But one way or another, they are there and they affect me all too deeply.

And what is the cause of all this? Bad things that happened, which I am spending great energy denying, and which laid the groundwork for not living in the present moment. Not only not living in the present, but being deathly afraid of the present. Much more than most people, it seems. I am truly trapped in the nether-region between the non-existent past (which could be anything, really, since it is no more than dust now) and the intimidating present. Where is that? Nowhere, really.

The past, present and future are all closed off to me, psychically. They seem to be laden with ghosts. Perhaps that was why a lobotomy seemed appealing for a time. Simple surgical removal of them. Seems so easy. But then you realize that the ghosts have great value, if only you could befriend them somehow. They are really the keys that unlock various doors.

But I'm not alone, even when I physically am. I am really rather cluttered with company - all my ghosts. Like Scrooge. He had his 3 ghosts. And like him, my ghosts would be willing to teach me some things, if I could redirect their repeating tapes. There are ghosts whom I am drawn to (much more than is realistic or appropriate or advisable) and there are ghosts I detest (again, more than recommended).

But all these ghosts keep me in a loop - their loop - and my life progresses at a snail's pace, if I'm lucky. I am stuck in a small room with lots of bodies - disembodied ones.

But I don't know the way out, is the problem. I am good enough at ignoring and blocking out all the ghosts while in the same room. That is not a great accomplishment. Or is it? Are they that scary and problematic that I should consider myself lucky to eschew them temporarily?

It may be apparent that I tend to shy away from too great an abundance of positivity. So therefore it pains me to say that I made some sort of breakthrough. That I have been feeling a much lower percentage of sadness in the past week or so. My friend suggested I blog, and I do feel my soul is ripe for expression, but it is still difficult to sincerely spit out the words, "I feel better."

The thing is, I would love to be able to get used to it. Imagine such a luxurious time frame of contentment as to permit trust in it. And if you are as uncomfortable with the concept of contentment as I am, don't forget that it is my version of the feeling. There will forever be room for valleys and gullies and meanderings along the way. I could not change my essence, right? It appears to be the more superfluous angst which I have been able to assuage of late.

It's interesting to find the myriad ways of doing this. It has been one of the most personal quests I have ever undertaken. This is something few talk about, at least in my circles. People are a tad surprised about this blog, for instance. They didn't know I had it in me, or had an urge to express it like so. It is rather a natural act for me to write this. It's my exhibitionistic journal, you know. I would not have been able to foresee the usefulness and serenity this brings me at times. And that is true for many things I have dabbled in. I have to leave myself open to trying things which may seem to contrast with other aspects of my life. The greater risk seems to be too much closed-off-ed-ness, so it's safe for me to keep my options open.

There's also a temporal side to the experimentation. Knowing how long and how often to stay in a situation or a feeling is equally important to the acts themselves. Time can be your friend or your enemy.

Oh, no! I have once again been abandoned! I will wither away and die! Where is my mother's breast to suckle on? What will provide some modicum of comfort in this total void in which I find myself? Isn't there one person who loves me in all of this world?

It is great when you find rapport and solidarity with those whom you spend time with. It is crucial to have that give and take, that pushing and pulling of personalities and passions. I think I might also need to acquire that in my solitary life. In other words, there is no such thing as unadulterated solitude. There always need be a flow, an awareness and participation in the yin and yang, the attraction and repulsion, the artist and the scientist, the cleanliness and the disarray, the mob and the hermit, between yourself and the surrounding community. Maybe my own devices are not as much my own as I originally thought.

Perhaps the difference between an infant and myself is the capacity for creative spark. I do not need to rely on someone else to make known my innate contributions to the universe. I do not need to wait until someone translates my feelings in order to compare and contrast them with those around me, eventually collaborating with my brothers and sisters of humanity. I am my own flower, capable of however much blooming I opt for at the moment.

I try to keep things on an even keel. I try to stay free from vices. I try to be wise in my decision-making. I try to learn from my mistakes. I seek out wisdom from those who seem to possess it.

It is my instability and my neediness which are the problems. But why do I feel like they are a natural reaction to the world around me? I have never blamed my sensitiveness for my problems, because I only see it as an asset. I would like to retain that supposition.

That leaves something else as the culprit. Is it society? Yes. Is it my history? Yes. Is it karma from previous existences? Perhaps. Is it my lack of judgment? No, I do not want to blame that. I don't think blaming a part of myself is helpful or deeply true. Hating myself is a reaction to something else that is going on, not a cause.

I used to like to say that the only place I felt right was onstage during a performance. That realization came later on, in college. Before then I didn't even comprehend the ridiculousness of my emotional situation. I can handle the unhandlable much better than normalcy. It's ludicrous. Or is it? Is what people call normal life really so straightforward and simple? And is getting up in front of hundreds or thousands of people to perform and express something unique so daunting? What if that's the only time you feel like you are yourself? Like you are unencumbered and free. Why is it I feel that time stops when I am performing, but the rest of the time, time is a weight on my head, taunting me not to fuck up this minute, this second, this year, this life, not to make the same mistakes I've made innumerable times before, ones that cause me to not sleep most of a night, or regret what I've said or didn't say, or wonder what in the world I've been doing for the last three hours.

Often the Zen feeling comes over me after I have tried a few of my tricks, and I sort of give up. It seems nearly impossible to get that given up feeling before having given something up. I have tried.

Am I supposed to question this hole? Even though this is how I perceive my reality? To question my perception of reality is to have a high hope that I can somehow alter my reality. This is a difficult concept when one is feeling weighed upon.

If I am sunken in a hole, does it follow that I had been above ground beforehand? Like floating? Because it has been postulated that if you are on solid ground, you are less easily disturbed than if you are in an excited or ecstatic place. You have the best perspective if you are in a central position, rather than on one end or the other; the futility of existing on the edges of the spectrum is more easily seen.

Because if I try getting myself out of my hole in hopes of bouncing back to a flying euphoria, is it not possible I am again setting myself up for another crash and burn (bury)?

I have also been an observer of the different levels of gentleness possible with any psycho-spiritual changes. It seems to depend how the new information is presented. Reading books is usually much gentler than being thrust into a baffling new social situation. However, these many intensities are important in crossing the various rites of passage, I believe. And even if they are not, they seem to be inescapable. I find the best way to truly figure out where the point of balance is on any philosophical pursuit, is to experience at least some of the edges that comprise it.

This notion oddly comes as a relief. Although it is somewhat tragic to think I am something of a lying bastard, it does help to settle some of the incomprehensible quandaries I have dealt with most of my adult life. Maybe I can begin to unravel the spools of knotted up philosophies and emotions.

But I felt a little more at ease today after venting and formulating hypotheses here last night. I could observe others more clearly, more objectively. Maybe that's the first step towards the ability to approach others in the miraculous way they approach eachother.

I also felt myself breathing differently. I noticed that when the breath stays inside my lungs, it permeates out through the limbs and fingers. I don't necessarily have to take breaths, deep or otherwise, to benefit from the presence of air in my body. I just have to use it, be sensitive to its presence.

I see people engaging in conversation, in social interaction, in levity, laughter, story-telling, joke-spinning. Are they acquiring the feeling I am yearning for? The feeling of release? The feeling of disclosure, of open-endedness, of candor? (took me awhile to think of that word) (I hope it was worth my time, my interminable time)

I can DO a lot of things. But it's simple living which wonderfully eludes me. I admire/envy all those who have that gift/knack. They open their mouths and delightful CONVERSATION comes out. Regardless. Under umpteen circumstances. And from that comes activities and group bonding and a continuous sense of a life being lived. For me it has to be a rather controlled environment to get the old gabber going. Or I have to be in just such a mood. Or something.

I read a book about improving social skills that said you must lower your expectations of who you'll talk to and what you're willing to talk about. I tried that for a while, but in the end it didn't seem natural or relevant. Perhaps what would be better is to be better at creating and asking for the people and situations which I really do want to have as social environs. To somehow not be fearful of their adverse reactions to such requests. Until that time I shall utilize you, dear reader, as a friend in kind. I do love you, as if you were right here hearing my most heartfelt confessions. I don't have to make any special arrangements to have this time delving with you. I just had to have this wondrous blog created for our mutual use. I'll meet up with all of you someday, in person. It won't suck, like those other social situations.

I am waiting for the natural progression to adulthood to continue. I don't want to believe that I missed the boat, that the ship has sailed. What would it take to complete that step? Is it possible in an instant? Or many instants strung together? Is this journaling a first step? It always seems to help to journal like this. It helps sort out my jumble of ideas, to give me some direction to go in. Instead of wallowing.

I am still stuck mimicking others. I have not been able to determine my own destiny, make my own decisions. That's why I say I'm not a man, but a mouse, a child, a girl. I live a vicarious life. But it's almost funny that I think things can or will change without me changing first. It's funny that I think things are so compartmentalized that way. It's silly. Everything's interconnected.

Sometimes I am more aware of my mild depressiveness than other times. But I am essentially noticing that I have one foot in the afterlife all of the time. I have quit. I cannot see any better alternative than death. Perhaps that is always the third choice in my decision-making process: should I do this, that, or just simply die and put an end to all options? It seems odd, though, because my rational mind has a multitude of reasons to relish my existence. That must be why I forget that I am some percent suicidal all of the time. There is no good reason to depart from here, from the pleasing life I lead. Just last night a struggling musician scooping ice cream was commenting on how joyful I must be being a full-time artist.

What can I say? The best explanation I've heard is that I am fractured. I don't get to enjoy the differing parts of one human's life. I am denied access. For instance, the part of me that can appreciate making a living as a musician is not hooked up with the part of me that plays the cello full-time. I have extremely brief moments of connection, and therefore satisfaction and joy, but they are unsustainable.

When I say 100%, I mean that you are getting no assistance whatsoever from outside yourself, and you may even be getting resistance. But you nevertheless make your chosen move. It seems there is always some level of give and take coming from your environment, directing you and convincing you and nudging you towards different decisions. They come from both the past and the present, the here and the elsewhere, the corporeal and the spiritual.

Much of my difficulty in life stems from the low percentages I am getting. I have a very hard time sticking up for myself. There are special situations where I have higher percentages, but I can't seem to instill that gutsiness in other arenas.

Thinking in terms of gradation like this is a comfort for me. Normally I get stuck in an all or nothing perception. This will help me feel I can work little by little.

My friend recommended meditation. I was just thinking of what to do if I've excluded all restless, wasteful activity, and I immediately thought of meditation. Perhaps I can explore that today. The other way of looking at it is to try to do less of any given thing. To be less overblown in my actions and passions. That is also akin to a non-exaggerated approach; simple, in the moment, one thing at a time, which I can only imagine becomes like meditation. Maybe it's very Western of me, but I may be best at handling activities meditatively, rather than the true act of meditation.

So the risk of all this is still there: feeling my very own brand of pain. And the converse risk: feeling pleasure that I am direly aware can lead rapidly to pain. I guess that addresses the question, what's the point of recalling happy memories: you are in truth recalling a time of openness and trustedness, which left you equally open to joy and sorrow, to paraphrase Casals. It was the time in life where you're largely accumulating experience from the world. Later you must process those experiences and incorporate them carefully, having accumulated enough.

I noticed that I sure talk a good talk. But when it comes down to walking the walk, I'm sorely devoid. What I'd like to be able to do is have a better sense of any progress I may be making. It doesn't seem to be enough simply to make the progress; you need to occasionally rest on your laurels. To take more of a bird's-eye view at yourself, so you can actually tell whether change has taken place. Looking at things so myopically is generally quite discouraging. But it does make you good at analysis. Perhaps a good teacher? Not that I only deal with minutia in my teaching, but it is good to have it as an element.

So, about the pain...

If I was happy and warm being in bed with my parents, I was unhappy when I had nightmares. I was unhappy when kids at school ridiculed and excluded me. To tell you the truth, I don't really want to know what made me unhappy. I don't want to remember in detail nasty feelings of pain and humiliation. Unfortunately the choice is that or running for the rest of my life.

I wrote a journal about what were the negative experiences in my life. Remember? Must I continue to rehash them?

I never outgrew the idea that love is always about feeling unconditionally happy and nurtured. I cannot see the good for the good and the bad for the bad.

Am I just a naive bastard? A naive boy? As I've noted, I remember feeling unconditional love in our household, as well as other relatives' households. I keep my eye open to that sentiment to this day. Is it a feeling which is not appropriate for equal relationships? Equal partnerships? Am I taking it a bit too far?

So I am perpetually comparing this to that. But I don't realize what I am doing. So there is no way to address it. But it undermines everything. And I mean everything. Either directly or by means of avoidance.

If I do something other than play the cello, I am questioning the wisdom of one of my parents. Unbelievable. So not only do I love them unconditionally, but I also fear them unconditionally. There is the disturbing aspect to this.

I self-medicate. In all sorts of ways. But in my efforts I am masking the natural remedy which is here. I think I am a peaceful man, but instead I am fighting any truths which I am privy to. I am a ludicrous warrior. How boring. No wonder I am so often bored. Fight, fight, fight. How monotonous.

I engage in an activity that appears on the surface to make me feel good. And maybe it does. There's the trouble. Once I am under the spell of this external high, my internal barometer loses its centering abilities, however ineffectual they may be, and I have to take a great deal of time and concentration to eventually regroup and find my spiritual balance.

I might consider enjoying my own natural highs and lows, leaving the external, imposed ones to others who are less volatile.

So, where does my shame stem from? Do I deserve to be ashamed? Did I harm someone else, or was something done to me? These are questions just as much for the heart as for historical accuracy. What does my heart tell me? Can my heart differentiate between one and the other? Abuser or abusee? If so, which one is worse? Are you supposed to shed your shame if you are an abuser? Or do you need it? To keep you in check. Is that more guilt than shame?

The trouble seems to be that something is eating away at me on the inside. Which is good. It is my checks and balances system. I only know something is eating away because part of me wants to be behaving in healthier, freer ways, and is being foiled. So my body/soul is telling me I am in conflict; it's giving me signals. Sadness, compulsion, addiction, loneliness, isolation. These are signals. Flares. Although quiet ones. But they feel loud and overwhelming in their numbification.

I cannot simply enjoy life - like the beauty of this day. Like the beauty of being alive. That is how I know there is inner conflict conspiring against what is natural, natural pleasures of life. I am overwhelmed with distrust.

Am I perhaps existing in a pendulumic world? Are there varying sizes of pendulums which must be kept track of? How is it I don't find others who are on the same nuisance-ridden journey as me? Where are all the other pendulum swingers? I've been asking around lately, and I do get some minimal acknowledgment of the issue, but it appears not to interfere with others' lives like mine.

If it's a beautiful day outside, should I be happy? (philosophy) Should I expect happiness to come my way? (since it has in the past, for however fleeting a time) Can I provide happiness for myself? Or do I need assistance? Assistants? Am I supposed to know the answer to any of these questions, or just ask them? Does not knowing the answer condemn me to some sort of sorrowful existence? Maybe existence isn't so static as finding the answers and then being contented. It's the searching which is so important. So don't stop! Don't be ashamed to be continually inquisitive.

That must be my greatest fear. I hide behind the supposed fear of not liking other people, when what really concerns me is whether they are going to like what they see in me.

It seems if I can work past this underlying shame, I will be able to be more myself around others. I won't be so constantly fearful of others' judgment. Judgmental people tend to have a lot of sway over me. Their personalities confirm my own predilection to judge myself. People have varying degrees of judgmentalness, but almost everyone has some. I do feel it can turn in on itself quite easily, and that perhaps it starts out turned inwards, later going outwards.

When I'm working on my problems successfully, I feel different. I can be more in the moment with other people, less caught up in some neuroses or another. I am less worried about whether what I say or do will violate some law or societal norm. I feel I have calmed the bumpy waters of my soul, so I don't constantly interrupt the flow of life, of a day, an hour, a minute. I sometimes feel that I must check myself so often, I cannot make it through any activity in some semblance of peace.

My deep loneliness is connected to my deep sense of shame. I cannot feel a human connectedness, which is really my birthright, due to my distrust and fear that I will be further shamed. I never figured out how to heal my initial shame, so I inadvertently locked myself up in a box of untouchability for safety's sake. No matter how great the conversation, or how good the camaraderie, or how varied and interesting the day-to-day involvement with the outside world, it is no use. I am stuck here in my cubicle. And it's an unpleasant cubicle. That's why I must distract myself. A prime example is sleep time. There are no daytime distractions left to protect me from my pain and self-flagellation, so I use the eensie weensie voices on talk radio, playing nearly inaudibly. I know someone else who has a thing for radios. I do believe it would be safe to say the word shame can be applied in that person's heart of hearts. But it is really an endearing quality from the outside, most of the time. It imbues just a touch of likable desperation. That is inevitable where shame is concerned - a compulsion to be accepted, since you have none for yourself.

I refuse to value myself, even just enough for basic tending to my needs. I have severe confidence, self-love issues. So isn't it safe to say I would be hypocritical to accuse someone else of a more harmful version of the same thing? At least in anything other than a compassionate way?

I seem to have a terrible time with honesty. It eludes me when I long for it. I spend much of my time dancing around the truth. Or else I am ridiculously blunt. It's one extreme or another. I suspect I was taught this propensity.

Interesting that lying was the one sin in our house that merited punishment. Is that to say that honesty could be forced into you? Maybe lying was an attempt at a different sort of truth-telling. One that tended to be overlooked or squelched.

I am left with a great deal of confusion regarding how to negotiate honesty in my life. Where does it come from, within or without? How do you know if you're lying or being secretive? Stretching the truth might be between the two. Or exaggerating or filtering out elements of the total picture. It's one thing to have some level of privacy, and another to shun truths from yourself. To suppress your own knowledge and experience from yourself doesn't seem to help anyone. Least of all myself.

Part of me would like to think I am 10 or 20 or 40% through after an intense venting session like last night's. Maybe I delved into a few topics to some degree. But there are indeed umpteen more to go. I always like it when I have a direction to go in. That comes from an outside source of wisdom like a book or guru. That can be my impetus for further self-exploration.

I am now coming to know the reasons. But should I tell you, o reader? Can I actually be forthcoming, if only here in this odd un-place? I would like someone to know. This seems safe on the surface.

Is it possible I have been beaten down into submission all along the way? But, of course, always with a smile, or a candy, or a dollar bill. Not in the more obviously harmful ways I was later exposed to and was by then defenseless against. Isn't it time I told the story of how I came to be such that I am? How I ended up impotent. And speechless. And rich with melancholy.

As far as I knew, all the other stuff were the inconsequential details. The soup, the candy, the music, the cards, the bed, the couch and table. They were all awash in the warmth of love around and inside me. Each relative was a new chance to experience these feelings, in their own unique flavor. I was spoiled, insofar as I was granted such affectionate abundance.

One aspect of discipline is self-observation. That is how I noticed that I quite specifically move and think in ways that throw off my accuracy. So then I asked myself, are these behaviors serving any positive function? And if not, what exactly are they doing there? That's how I arrived at the sensation of phobia. A wall. A hot spot in my psyche.

Even the non sequitur titles of these blogs could be my way of throwing or including a wrench in the consistency of the format.

Whatever it is, I now have been granted the freedom to make headway in various areas of my playing which have been weak. What is so nice is to see the difference between stubbornness and strength of character. In my case, being stubborn prevented me from seeing options which were rather close at hand, if only I had not boxed myself into what may have been a necessary cubicle. A safety net, perhaps.

Strength of character is something very different. Maybe it's kind of the opposite. Being able to perceive and appreciate a myriad of viewpoints. And being unstuck.

It's an odd sensation to know you could write volumes on a subject, but then feel stuck for putting down even one coherent sentence. What occurred to me at B&N is that I cannot keep these ideas and feelings inside me for the rest of my life and expect it to have been a fruitful one. They are profuse enough that it becomes a ridiculous notion not to make some kind of use of the sum of their parts.

I guess I spend the majority of my time either actively or passively cutting myself off from myself. It is just by habit. People who don't do this seem like aliens to me.

I believe I wouldn't be so confused so often if I had that knack for integration. It would not only reflect on the cello.

I used to envision love and sex as all or nothing deals. And I did my trick of withholding them (specifically sex) so as not to be drowned by them, just like I mentioned last evening. Actually it wasn't specifically sex, was it. I totally hid my deeper feelings of love and affection from myself and others, too. Such heartwarming traits. Thank G-d I am becoming slightly aware of it after all these years.

If I can stay on this path of looseness, it could be an important turning point. That is what I am thinking as I sit there experiencing the effects of this approach. It's a strange sort of morphing that is going on. At first it feels like it's getting worse - my arm still hurts, and I don't even have the illusory and fleeting pleasure of expressing how the music moves me. Then, little be little, I begin to sense something letting go in my sinews and muscular fibers. I am in disbelief. It's actually taking effect.

So, how long ought I expect this positive change to continue? Is there going to be a swerve in the road at some point? Will I lose focus? Will this technique cease to be effective as time goes on? What about all the different genre I have to perform in?, orchestral, chamber, solo, and otherwise.

These are some of the thought processes I have when I'm sitting there practicing or rehearsing, or even performing at times.

I do appear to be somewhat obsessed with karma, again without my knowing it. It is probably a great way to widen those extremes I so love. I seek good karma (a habit apparently ingrained in me from God knows where). For instance, I imagine if I can play Mozart beautifully, I will go to Heaven (have good karma). Then I fear that if I disobey someone I respect or care about (or am intimidated by), I will have bad karma (go to Hell, I suppose). What's in between these two options, I ask? I can't say. Sadly, what is in between might be the stuff which makes up a life. Is that like hearing between the notes?

These extremes of ideology, emotion or obsession which I and others run to are facades, but they certainly seem convincing in the moment. I would like to be able to differentiate between fantasy and some semblance of reality. Then I will know when I am simply taking a temporary flight of the imagination (either alone or with someone else) from which I can exit at my leisure.

I am a bit at a loss on what to write these days. I've got plenty of stuff I can put in my private journal. Plenty of stuff that is very specific. I obviously prefer to incorporate more general musings here in this public forum. I guess I could put down all sorts of everyday little factoids, but, at least lately, I don't see what use that would be to anyone.

That reminds me, I was thinking about what I deem of worth even in my own hour-by-hour life. Do I have something against pleasant, non-soul-searching conversation? Ought I have that bias? Or is lighthearted banter actually valuable? I wonder. I just told some people that I prefer listening and playing music seeped in pathos. But then I also think my sorrowful undertones give the more cheery stuff I play a certain beauty, if I can get out of myself somewhat and enjoy the sunnier qualities.

But I appear to be a dark soul on many levels. I think it would be good for me to explore and express some other colors in the spectrum of life.