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.