Sunday

While the Pat Bonner-Lyons meeting was going on downstairs I screwed up my courage and wrote to D. I haven't mailed the thing yet, it's sitting on my desk smiling to itself and making me, glancing fearfully at it, wonder whether or not I should send it. It's one of the more truthful letters I've ever written, and I already can't help wondering if I'll get a reply. It would serve me right if I didn't. The only thing I didn't tell him was that I love him, and I think anyone with his kind of perception will see that. In a way it makes me feel bad, but it's better than having the worry from the other letter on my chest. I hope he can bring himself to understand me, and that my biggest fear is he will just write me off as uninteresting and unworthwhile. In some strange way it almost seems to me that acceptance from him is like acceptance from AH. If he doesn't write that will anyway be better than a scathing letter. Maybe I won't mail it, the whole thing is beginning to scare me a little bit. You know I will, though.

Tomorrow is school again, I do not dread it. That at least is a good sign. I don't think I mentioned that I am doing my first solo paid performance at the dedication of my mother's statue. It's far out but it's scary. My first professionally earned money! I'll play Syrinxe and something else. HMMM. All the time I keep asking myself, what's missing? is this what I want to do? and so on, when I'm playing I have no time to ask myself that, and I have no time for that if I make commitments. That's why I dislike lots of free time. Lethargy builds on itself and devours all activity in its path.

I may feel unable to stand Mr. C but I'll stick it through; I may find GBYSO depressing but I'll work on it hard; all because I want my music, I have a tremendous ambition to be best, sometimes I feel horrendously guilty about it. But the main thing is that I don't want to be best just to be best, but to play better, more beautifully than I can imagine, and to have a wealth of opportunities open to me to utilize my skill. If I ever do get to be really excellent it will be through hard work, perseverance, drive, and lots of love. I will never be like some one who is nearly professional when they're thirteen. Natural genius is not there, perhaps some raw talent, but definitely not anything that spectacular. I don't think it's fair and I'm terribly jealous of those who are so good so young. Somewhere within me an evil little something says "she isn't really dedicated, her genius will burn itself out, she'll be a name that will just fade away" while I know that probably isn't true. Alas. Huh, seems as if I'm only going to get 2 hours of sleep tonight! Hmmm, not too good. I feel a hate inside me that I wish would go away, or is it fear (?).

Monday

On the way home from school I was thinking about so many things I wanted to write about that at this point I can't remember a single one of them. I can remember the feeling though, of having a million and one things you want to tell yourself and the world. All I can remember is the color of the sky. It's like remembering the summer before last when R was reading us "The Undefeated" by Hemingway and not remembering anything much but the sound in his voice, the expression of wahteveritwas on J's face, and the physical feeling of sitting on the floor and listening. At times like that, time seems to stretch. Especially when you look back and remember.

Memory is a very strange thing. It's so emotional and detailed, and so rarely generalized. All these little pieces lying distinct and separate. They don't fit together, they don't want to. I just had a flashback of going skiing with T at Loon and sitting in a chairlift with a boy and then trying to find him later, but not telling anyone. I remember what I wrote about it in a feeble journal I tried to keep at that time. It was brought on by thinking about C and the first H- and that being some kind of turning point in my life. Perhaps somewhere in there were thoughts both about this journal and the coming H-.

SU lent me one of her stands, so I don't have to use the plexiglass cookbook holder. Everytime I leave school I have the same feeling that you have when you know you've left something behind but can't think what it is. I still don't know. I dream of collecting a ream of these notebooks and publishing them when I'm famous, which I have no doubt in my heart of hearts that I'll be someday. B and I talked (more like gossiped) alot today. I told her about this journal and realized to myself as well that this is like a skeleton of my thought processes.

A newsman made a biased crack on the 11 o'clock news tonight. It made me feel good, it was a crack I agreed with. I hope he doesn't get in too much trouble for it. It made my night anyway. I think off and on constantly about the letter to D which I actually mailed this morning. I still can't believe I did that. I just through writing a shitty paper on the English Indus. Rev. I got an "A" on my first paper. Big deal. I wish some of the other kids hadn't made a fuss about it.

I feel very calm and slow and serene way deep inside. It's either 'cause of my meditation, or 'cause I'm tired and/or sick. Funsy-wunsies! It makes me sad that I used to have so many things to say. One thing I was going to mention was my opinion of Pat Bonner-Lyons. A very smooth-talking sophisticated sounding woman, with a lot of rebellion, power and anger underneath it all. I hope she wins. I took a strong liking to her. I think she has what is popularly known as "charisma" but she won't misuse it. I also think of the two cute twins who came to the meeting. I'd like to see then again sometimes. I met R on the trolley on the way home. I like him. So many people who I don't know, and don't really know. I'll never meet all the people that I would enjoy being with. It's too bad, but it's always been that way.

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