Sooner or later, I knew I would have to post something class-related.

Today in class, I was hard-pressed to come up with a repetitive behavior that interferes with my daily life.  I quit biting my nails when I was fourteen after a shopping cart accident fattened my lower lip into a bloated purple mutant-slug.  I don't write lists, or wash my hands too much.  I quit smoking seven months ago.  Admittedly I bounce my leg under desks, and drum on tables with my fingernails, but those habits only bother other people.  No need to change them.  

For lack of something better, I settled on excessive internet use as my repetitive action.  I check my email anywhere from once to five times a day.  Before a kindly neighbor chose not to secure his wireless, my access to the web was limited.  I checked it once or twice daily at school.  In comparison to last year, my habit seems to have grown out of control, but I speculate that if the number of times I check my email was compared to the number of times the average student checks his Facebook account (I have avoided getting one thus far) I'd be a beacon of healthy restraint.  Five checks per day is nothing in our modern technological era.  

Ultimately, I have no need to axe my annoying habits - what I need to do is start more healthy ones!  For example, why not finally make use of the calendars my Mom gets me every year?  I could benefit from a little organization in my life.   Why not take yoga and work on stretching my freakishly inflexible hammies?  Why not set goals for how much writing I do every week, how much music I play?  

It's easy to get worked up with this kind of attitude.  Every New Years, millions of ambitious resolutions are made that have no forward momentum.  It's easy to say you'll change.   I guess the question we have to consider is whether or not it's easier to quit negative behavior, or maintain positive behavior.  

Inclement Weather Policy Enacted Prematurely? Guess not.

Outside, the snow has turned to freezing rain in the most literal sense.  Every stinging piece of shrapnel can be held for only a moment in ones palm; a perfectly smooth teardrop or globe, as manufactured-looking as the plastic bubble at the end of a hot-glue gun, then suddenly an unremarkable wetness.  Yesterday, at quarter to seven I heard classes were curtailed in anticipation of the storm.  I balked, in New Hampshire fashion, that we would tuck our tails so quickly at a little snow.  I expect the Ice Storm that left so many powerless this December (I was miraculously unaffected) set the tone of fear this Winter. However, I will admit today the healthy helping of white perhaps warranted school closure.  

It is a welcome respite from the brown, salt-licked snowbanks, though they'll only return en masse in a day or two. 

Here are some pictures taken with my laptop camera of the view from my apartment.  It's amazing how little separates my resting head from the cold pillows outside.

What do Kurt Russell and Rihanna have in common? As far as I know, nothing except this blog.

Last night I dreamt that Kurt Russell, star of such films as Stargate and Big Trouble in Little China, led a group of animal rights activist/terrorists into my old home, where they released a number of small mammals and hid massive bees nests around the house. The bees stung me all over, as I frantically chased down cats and chipmunks.  It was an inconvenient detail that I was dressed only in my underwear.   An elderly activist/terrorist was also stung, and went into anaphalactic shock - I  honorably picked her up underneath her armpits, and tossed her outside into the snow, clear of the attacking insects, then in a sobbing fit of emotional rage tackled Kurt Russell down a flight of stairs, breaking his neck under my bodyweight.

The dream doesn't immediately lend itself to interpretation.

Show went well the other night; attendance was good. I covered Rocky Raccoon by the Beatles, inserting the first verse and chorus from Rihanna's Umbrella during the bridge; it was a hit medley.  A new song, somewhat inspired by discussion and consideration of protest music, specifically Dylan's younger years, and Working Class Hero by John Lennon, was also debuted.  Feedback was good.  After my set, I relaxed into a comfy armchair, and let  The Accident that Led Me to the World blow my effing mind.  I was privileged to play with them.   Later in the evening my friend Mike held a bonfire in the shallow woods by his residence, where I fell into an existential introspection regarding the divide between the music I love, and the music I make.  It is entirely impossible, though it can't stop me from trying, to objectively critique my own work as a musician.  Would I like it were I not its creator?

If the music I create is an expression of who I am, then perhaps it makes sense that I would have an ambiguous reaction to it: I am after all human, and rife with character flaws.  In a social context, I'm not ashamed of these qualities.  At times I embrace them.

 A friend of mine recently said, "Anything you can say about music, you can say about life."  A stubborn man could prove him wrong, but I understood what he meant.  It is quite weird, however, to investigate the depth of myself by analyzing the depth of my musical expression.  Perhaps I should leave it to the critics.  

Strange Dreams and Great Expectations

Had a dream last night where I kissed an older woman in the middle of a camp soccer game, then later confessed so to my mother.  Other details slipped my mind that now seem more relevant;  All that's left is that particular Freudian field day.  

I tend not to believe in dream analysis on any literal basis (ie: flying represents lack of control, carrots represent the phallus, cupcakes represent childhood), but it's easy to see why people are fascinated by the unintentional creations of their brains.  People have a difficult time believing that dreams have no meaning; thoughout history, we have demanded meaning of anything complex and strange.  The visions or oracles, astrology, the dialectic between coincidence and fate, all good examples.  Dreams are another deep pool in which we fish for reason.  

More on this later, maybe, if the dreams are weird enough to report.

I am playing a show tonight, opening for a band called The Accident That Led Me to The World, a dreamy title if I do say so.  I have come in recent times to become a little superstitious about shows:  If the last was particularly good, I naturally repeat everything from that day in similar fashion.  In the past I've found this habit disgusting in the sports world, which ought to have everything to do with skill (besides, superstition has a way of being unhygienic) but I suppose music is no different.  The instinct stems from the life truth that no matter how hard you try at something, how hard you practice or prepare, there is an element of chaos in whether or not you succeed.  Copying the formula from a previous success is an attempt to re-create the biological and psychological conditions that led to it.  The accident that led me to the good show, so to speak.  The real bummer is what a lark it feels like while you're doing it, and how important it feels if it works.  If I have a bad show tonight, I can abandon the routine, but if it's good the cycle continues.  How silly.  

It wasn't my intention for this blog to be about my own abnormal psychology, but as I sat at my computer perusing pictures of celebrities and political figures playing table-tennis, I have to admit my practical use as subject.