Cured.

Not quite sure how I ever got like this; and not quite ready to admit it. Trying. Failing.

xxkrnqtchunsaxx: u r kinda cold to me
xxkrnqtchunsaxx: and detached
xxkrnqtchunsaxx: ur numb to everything

carloco69: am i emotionally shut down and cold?
diwupiano: yes
diwupiano: u never answer anything!

Seattle. Don't think I've waited this long just to write that I'm literally sleepless in...never mind.

In Portland, Oregon. On art, expressionism, and suicide.

Suicide is the 20th century self-legitimizing defense mechanism for accused-to-be-sensationalist artists. For all the fuss about higher-based intellectually stimulated reasons for suicide, alas, most fall upon the fuss about a girl.

In 1907, Arnold Schoenberg discovered that his wife Mathilde (the sister of Zemlinsky) was having an affair with Expressionist painter Richard Gerstl; and promptly confronted the two. Gerstl, upon realizing the futility of continuing the affair, burned his paintings and hanged himself naked in front of a full-length mirror. Schoenberg spent the next few months contemplating suicide himself, but as Alex Ross puts it, "suicide just wasn't Schoenberg's style."

Expressionist philosopher Otto Weininger shot himself in the room Beethoven died in Vienna; some say, it was about a girl (despite his raucously misogynistic magnum opus). Alban Berg, at the age of 16, impregnated and fathered the child of a house-servant, and soon later began drafting suicide letters.

Mark Rothko slit both his wrists in his studio in his 60's, Ernest Hemingway shot himself in the mouth. Stefan Zweig, the Jewish writer and Strauss' librettist for "The Silent Woman" self-exiled both himself and his wife and the two took their lives in South America during World War II.

Beethoven contemplated suicide in his Heiligenstadt testament (directly after an unrequited love affair with the purportedly beautiful Guilietta Guicciardi), but decided to forge ahead into a life of misery. Schumann jumped into the Rhine.

Virginia Woolf drowned herself poetically, silently walking into a lake, her clothing laden with heavy stones. Sylvia Plath stuck her head in an oven. Diane Arbus, the demented photographer, slashed herself with a razor.


After possibly the roughest summer I've ever gone through, it's time to go back to work. Forging ahead, I have seven different jobs this year, on top of being a full-time student. In Seattle on Sunday, and back to New York late Monday night.

Breathe.

The term "concert pianist" is synonymous with "professional musician" which is synonymous with "freelance musician" which is synonymous with "unemployed" which is synonymous with "I'm a douchebag." If the geometric transitive rule applies to the above statement, we're all in a lot of trouble.

My sister says I have what is called "terminal insomnia."

...now re-reading Peter Ostwald's Glenn Gould biography.

I have problems showing love, gratitude, and any of the synonymous like.

Thanks, mama.

Unable to sleep past 7am, no matter how late I go to bed. Wake up.

When Oscar Wilde created Dorian Gray, I'm sure he wasn't thinking about a new Gothic perspective of decadent hedonism on Faustian proportions. I think he just wanted a 6-pack forever, and still be able to eat a Big Mac every day. But if Dorian Gray never opened up what ended up being his own personal Pandora's box, wouldn't he still just be beautiful today?

You'll never catch me looking at that painting, much less plunging a knife into it. What a douchebag.

It seems as though people (friends) think of me as the unmaterialized facade of some contorted image of intimidation. I've been asked in the past few weeks alone for help with situations involving the temper of a psychotic boyfriend, ridding an apartment of three Irish subletters continuously causing a disturbance, and police-help with an attempted robbery in Bayside.

It struck me that although I continuously receive these calls, in none of those situations was I actually able to provide any help. I am, but a facade.

2nd mvt. of Schumann Piano Quintet.

..defines torture, madness, insanity, redemption, love, betrayal. But ends in depressive acceptance. The poet speaks, as always, though possibly zu leipzigerisch.

So here's the dichotomy.

The essential necessity for apathetic calm gets more and more difficult to cultivate; but I guess at heart, "necessity" in itself carries a bitter implication of forced-will.

In addition, I hate self-pity in others; yet, self-pity is what I fight, day in, day out.

Dichotomies of internal self-reflection that require a constant emotional battle force every living organ in my system to face a new unfounded desire: that to escape. To leave.

In short, get me the fuck out of here.

"During a lecture the Oxford linguistic philosopher J. L. Austin made the claim that although a double negative in English implies a positive meaning, there is no language in which a double positive implies a negative. To which [Sidney] Morgenbesser responded in a dismissive tone, 'Yeah, right.'"

I never didn't not not think that.

What's worse? Unrequited love, unrequited respect, or unrequited fucking everything?

A meal is merely that which precedes a cigarette. A lie is merely that which precedes an apology.

A cocky challenge.

I've taken a lot of shit from many of my friends for various aspects regarding the way I live my life. So...

If you think I smoke too much, outrun me.
If you think I drink too much, eat as healthy as I do, for even a week.
If you think I eat too little, outlift me.
Then we'll talk.

And if you just rolled your eyes while you read this post, maybe I can offer you another cup of haterade.

A fictional short story. Emphasis on fictional.

Once upon a time, there was a girl named Ching. Her last name was Chong. Ching was a sweet girl in her 20's who had immigrated from Asia at a young age and attended college on a full scholarship in the United States. Ching was a precious girl. She was very careful not to mess up any of her opportunities for which she was so thankful, and she crossed the street only when the light turned green. She thought this to be proper.

Ching owned a couch in her living room. It was a modest old thing that some people might call a sofa and she had bought it brand new from Ikea, which she thought to be the most splendid store in the world. The couch had a very octogenarian feel to it and was decorated with the prints of tiny daisies, and the anthers were purple.

Anthers are the parts of the flower that contain pollen sacs.

Ching was deathly afraid of guests spilling coffee on her couch. It was a paralyzing fear and she couldn't stand the thought of someone accidentally spilling coffee on her couch. So she wrapped it in plastic. The plastic covering was disgusting. It made the couch look much nastier than it actually was. She knew this, so sometimes she would remove the plastic; but, one could never know when she would keep it on and when she would remove it.

Down the street lived a friend of hers by the name of Bernard. Bernard was in every way the opposite of Ching, and it was amazing that they got along. He attended a university in the city nearby, but rarely went to class. Especially on sunny days. Why, after all, go to class on a sunny day? At night, Bernard would spend time deciding on what type of white wine would go well with the fish he was about to cook; white wine and fish made him extremely happy.

Bernard owned a couch as well - but it was a boring white couch. There was really nothing special on it, and he didn't much care for the prints of daisies with purple anthers. He had only four guests that had ever come over to his apartment in his life, but all four had spilled coffee on his couch and stained it. He cared at first, but now he didn't really care.

One day, Ching came over to his apartment. She saw that he had four distinct coffee stains on his couch, and she kindly suggested that he put plastic over the couch in order to prevent another stain from occurring. He told her, "Ching. If I put plastic over the couch, it will be even uglier. Plus, there are already four stains on it. Who cares if another guest spills coffee on it?"

Ching was holding a cup of coffee, but she never spilled it on his couch. She was very careful. Then she left.

She never visited again.

I ran into Joel Sachs today while I was munching on a stale-overpriced piece of mochi from my cup of Pinkberry. (Professor and Director of New Juilliard Ensemble)

We talked for a good 10 minutes. Though I didn't ask (nor was I even vaguely curious), he proceeded to bestow upon me an intellectual diatribe regarding my [in]ability to think - according to him, my "vast knowledge of history, literature, art, and music is impressively unimpressive." I am, apparently, unable to formulate a coherent intellectual opinion regarding any aspect of art without "falling" against a wealth of completely irrelevant contextual information. I am, apparently, able to tell you when, where, and why a painting from the 20th century was conceived and exactly what was going on in the world at that time; but unable to tell you why it is beautiful. Or even if it is. Furthermore, he said, I completely defy the old cliche "knowledge is power" because I replace that power with the inability to make aesthetic value judgements without separating content from context; the latter for which I am a junkie.

On a normal day, I'd usually tell him to either eat a dick or take a long walk on the short pier. But for some reason, this hit me hard. Nobody has ever accused me of not thinking before. Is he right?

Oh hell. Eat a dick.

Uh oh. This is when you know that your reputation is not quite what you envisioned it to be.

mysteriouslove06: hey my sister is coming to Juilliard this year
carloco69: oh wow nice. let me know if she needs help acclimating herself to the school.
mysteriouslove06: stay away from her.
carloco69: jesus...

The summer of Michael Jackson, Kurt Vonnegut, Mark Rothko, and Alex Ross.

Having faked a facade of apathetic recovery while jointly losing an easy 25 pounds, I've found my immutable patience threshold to have evaporated into an ocean of quick-tempered hot oil.

Vonnegut says that beautiful girls "do everything they can to give lonely, ordinary people like me indigestion and the heeby-jeebies, and they wouldn't even hold hands with me to keep me from falling off a cliff." [Welcome to the Monkey House, "Miss Temptation")

No wonder they gave him a Pulitzer - that statement redefines the sociological implications of literary Humanism by the ankles of its fundamental roots. Ha.

"I've been here times before / But I was too blind to see / That you seduce every man / This time you won't seduce me" -Michael Jackson, "Dirty Diana"

The rest is noise.

Michael Jackson. My two cents.

Last week (a day after the MJ memorial), the New York Times published an op/ed article by Bob Herbert called “Behind the Façade” which made more-or-less raucously unsubstantiated correlations between the constantly-declining cultural hegemony of the United States’ (spiraling into an escape-from-reality) and the symbolic embodiment of American descent into fantasyland; namely, Michael Jackson.

The dude obviously hasn’t been laid in years. But I digress.

Cross-generationally speaking, the multiple allegations of child abuse and pedophilia will always remain taboo and inextricable from the truly eccentric weirdo that was Michael.

Not to sound intellectually immature and overly-defensive, but I don’t remember too much of a fuss in the classical music world when Maynard Solomon released his equally raucous and highly-substantiated article “Franz Schubert and the Peacocks of Benvenuto Cellini” detailing with unarguably solid proof that yes, Schubert also did take a liking for little boys. Henry Cowell was imprisoned for four years for his sexual relationship with a 17-year old boy.

Of course, Michael Jackson was undoubtedly one of the weirdest fools on the face of the planet. But to Bob Herbert and my classical music colleagues out there attacking MJ, what can I say?

Maynard Solomon said about the music of Beethoven: “masterpieces of art are instilled with a surplus of constantly renewable energy – an energy that provides a motive force for changes in the relations between human beings – because they contain projections of human desires and goals which have not yet been achieved (which indeed may be unrealizable). It reaches as it does beyond the merely aesthetic dimension to touch the domain of the heart.”

Well, Bob Herbert, here’s my two cents, you cold fuck: for a jaded politico, war veteran, and witness of multiple genocides, the power of music is one that you might not readily comprehend – you are, undoubtedly, of the same camp that believe a $100 million private donation to the arts is gratuitously irresponsible. And for the record, you look almost as strange as Michael Jackson, dude.

It’s been a rough summer for me, in many ways; filled with emotional ups and downs. I wake up in the morning and listen to the emotional breadth of Michael Jackson’s output and I am not being sensationalistically pansy by saying that he gives me the energy to get through the rest of my day, in what-would-otherwise-be a pretty nihilistic existence.

It's going to be a long month. 6 months can pass by in 48 hours. Materialization of drastic realization spells danger with all the wrong letters.

Still listening to Michael. Very far from over it.

"Music is what happens when a smart, group-living, anthropoid ape stumbles into the evolutionary wonderland of run-away sexual selection for complex acoustic displays."

Or something like that.

New apartment. A fresh beginning.

I also find it hilarious that on Facebook, everybody born before 1984 has some kind of homage to Michael.

Everybody born after doesn't even realize he's dead. Y'all ain't nothin' but babies, nahm sayn. Rekhanize greatness.

Michael Jackson.

Rarely am I inclined to post such touchy-feely entries; and at a celebrity I don't even know at that.

But today, I saw Thriller LPs selling on broadway starting at $200. I saw a man moonwalking on 63rd to buy coffee. I saw a black guy on the benchpress at the Y singing Billie Jean at top of his lungs. I bought a white glove. He was the greatest ever and the biggest celebrity death (for me) since Pac in '96.

I stood in front of the communal TV at the West Side YMCA today next to a yoked out, 300 pound, tattoed up black guy who started tearing up. Under his breath, he muttered "damn, I'm goan miss that crazy motherfucka."

The greatest ever died today.

My sister.

I guess in typical sibling tradition, my sister and I used to fight endlessly - most often, about stupid shit.

Watching her transform into a beautiful and intelligent person endlessly more mature than I, has been both humbling and inspiring.

Back off, skank whore. This is your last warning.

Most sweat-filled, inspiring, in-the-moment performances of the last few years:

Rachmaninoff Cello Sonata, 3rd mvt, with Earl at Juilliard.
Schubert, Impromptu Op. 90 No. 3, Montreal and Spain.
Brahms, Piano Quartet in c, with Eric/Kristin/Milena in Florida.
Franck, Cello (violin) Sonata, with Mihai in Louisville.
Rachmaninoff, Piano Concerto No. 2, with Henry in Berkeley.
Piazzolla, Nightclub 1960, with Jay in Korea.

Reliving the moment.

Mikey, it's due time.

Lies.

Extreme rage/anger enshrouds logical thought [slash] pain like the fog from the grapevine on highway 5 hides the beauty of the life of L.A.

In twelve hours, I play a recital (for seriously, artistically-minimum-wage) of Schumann's Fantasy Pieces; mostly about subjects of love or the like.

Trying desperately to prevent rage and anger from consuming me.

Failing.

But on another note, Dave/Jerry/Allen come over tomorrow to roast wild boar from Texas (kill from a random-hunting-vacation) on my outdoor grill. Life is still good.

What a ridiculously absurd night in San Francisco.

...and found both at the MoMa today.

Searching for meaning in the sweat filled confines of the YMCA; searching for redemption in the windowless enclosures of the Juilliard practice rooms.

Wow. More lies.

The title of Ned Rorem's final diaries: "Lies."

Midnight hits. Pathetic self-pity.

Man up, they say. Man up...

Days are filled with the pluralism of emotional thought; exhausting to juggle daily rage, acceptance, and apathy.

Do oxford commas really provide clarification?

Movies. Is taste an indicative Rorschach test?

Seung-Hui Cho gunned down 32 innocent people in 2007 at what is now-known as the Virginia Tech Massacre - prior to that, his seemingly-innocent obsession with Chan-Wook Park's "Oldboy" went unnoticed, in spite of his already-psychotic tendencies.

As Mikey loves to point out, "My Sassy Girl" in perspective is much more of a horror film than a chick flick, per se - influencing thousands of Korean girls to further glorify the self-centered ignorance of an entire culture.

Or how about "Serendipity." An entire movie glorifying the phenomenon of emotional cheating, disguising the psychotic nature of the female obsession with chance - an engaged girl leaves her wedding at the altar (cliche enough) to pursue the surely-tangible signs of fate from a telephone number written on a dirty five dollar bill. Vomit in my anus. You have a girl obsessed with this movie? Chances are she's a dirty whore.

I like Rambo, Aliens, and Pulp Fiction. I gladly welcome any analysis.

So...

Yes, I've been casually discussing the utilization of this summer to quote-unquote put my life back together - since that phrase seems to be abstract at best, let me tangibilize it. Here's my day.

I wake up in the morning, and cook myself breakfast.
I head to Juilliard and practice for a few hours.
I go to the YMCA where I pound out an hour of cardio and some light weights, before hitting the sauna to discuss America's constantly-declining hegemony in the wake of the recession, with half a dozen 50+ naked men.
I come home, and I attempt to memorize a few more opus numbers and finish the Vonnegut book I started months ago. Have a drink.
Sleep.

No woman, no cry; the corollary implication being that the existence of woman (singular) necessitates crying. Thanks, Marley.

Professor Ronald Takaki, the chief pioneer of Ethnic Studies and the professor most responsible for the intellectualization of my otherwise complete distaste for beer-drinking white frat boys, committed suicide last week. RIP.

As most of you know, I have a particularly distasteful aversion to the cliché loathings of love's loss; usually over-generalized hyperbolic statements pseudo-intellectually (emphasis on 'pseudo') intended to demonstrate wisdom - and most often induce my vomit-reflex or the mandatory roll of the eyes.

You see it from a girl, usually, who says some retarded shit like "nothing is harder than love," or the like. So here's mine.

Time goes by, and the raucous nature of filthy whores engenders self-pity once again in the solitary confines of blogs, alcohol, and pathetic self-loathing. All at once, in some higher act of twisted simultaneity, the coexistence of pain and extreme relief begin an emotional dialectic; albeit, this time hopefully, without the bottle.

In another mandatory act of gratitude, a special thank to you to all my friends and family; all of whom have put up with the fact that I've been a douchebag for the last 7 months.

These posts are getting all too familiar. As Jon Stewart says regarding the daily search for material, "as long as they keep being absurd, I'll still have a job."

It's been awhile.

If you are as gay as I am, no problem too large exists that can't be solved with a home-cooked omelet breakfast, a mid-afternoon chamber music reading session with Beethoven and Brahms, a late-afternoon museum run to see Gertrude Stein-Picasso portraits at the Yale University Art Gallery, an evening of chinese take-out, and a night of single-malt.

But only if you're as gay as I am.

"Bitch is the new black, but black is the new President, bitch!" - Saturday Night Live

The obligatory New Year's post. Reflections on 2008.

Another sordidly potent year, albeit this one infused with the psychological disaster of futility and the materialization of apathetic discourse. What did I do this year? Countries upon countries of squalid thought; reinvigorating the necessity for self-reflection in order to combat my own hedonistic life style. At the end, what will I think of 2008?

Minimalistically: I got a lot done this year. I had great musical experiences. I saw a lot of the world. I played a lot of gorgeous music. I met a lot of people. I had a lot of adventures; some good, some bad; always fun. I smoked a lot of cigarettes. I drank a lot of whiskey. I did a lot of bad things. What about 2009?

For everyone that is worried out there; don't be. I'm not gonna die. I'm in mandatory counseling for alcoholism, I have a great family, and supportive (for the most part) friends.

Here's to heading in the right direction; or at least figuring out which direction is right. Happy New Year.