host o' things

it wasn't hegel; it was heidegger that i was thinking of.

good one me.

reading kirkegaard. i really miss english classes, i think. singing school is HARD. but in a way the non-intellectuality of it (sorry, i don't mean that in a rude way exactly--i go to school with a lot of smart kids and smart teachers, all of whom are better at getting their assignments done than i--i just miss theoretical readings [of which i have had a few, but not enough, i guess] and theoretical discussions [which you can't really cram into a history review class, and we don't have a large enough format for me to unload my ridiculous thoughts in papers--lucky for our teacher, really]) is good.

good, because i think i've been hiding most of my life behind a strong amygdala, a problem with "depression," and an over-intellectualized viewpoint. i've begun to see patterns in the things around me--not necessarily patterns i want to be seeing, but patterns. every color, and more confusingly, every shape, every texture, seems to have something akin to a frequency like that of sound. sometimes this frequency-sense-thing is invasive; sometimes it isn't. i feel like i'm connecting to something deep...and WEIRD.

i also seem to be more in sympathy with the people around me. that is, if i think about it, which i often don't (being as always a selfish jerkatrice), explanations for what they're doing, what they're thinking within their actions, rise more easily to the surface than they used to, and sometimes i get a bead on the color of someone's aura that doesn't go away (though often it does, and often it has to do with the color of their eyes or the clothes they're wearing or the painting they look like). now, i know this makes me sound like a crazy person, or at the very least a self-deluding person, and i might very well be both.

the explanation i've come up with is that singing--concentrating on learning to sing so fully as i have been--has honed my instincts. the process of learning to fill yourself with a sound that you can depend on, can make over, can repair, is like filling yourself with the tree that sunshine fills herself with in robin mckinley's sunshine. (oh my god, what a book. i cried on BART. it was embarrassing. and incredible. mckinley and kirkegaard are actually turning out to be a great pair, because kirkegaard talks about pain as a poet, from without, and mckinley demonstrates pain as a singer, from within [that might be a false dichotomy]). the attempt to devote yourself to the moment, to work within yourself within the moment, is like her description of magic in a lot of ways--and that's what i feel like, like taking myself to this place of honed momentality, forcing myself to step back and fix and go on all in the moment, forcing myself to embody the process as opposed to the result, is making me magic. this seeing-the-patterns-of-stuff is a result of forcing my brain to understand my singing.

i don't understand it, though, obviously. i have a serious amount of road to travel to even get myself to passable. and i am worried that this whole thing is just the signal of advanced pituitary shutdown or something. but...holy smokes it's weird weird weird, and about half the time it's also beyond distressing--i get phobic about touching these things that have these patterns; especially after i've done something stupid interpersonally, i take it out on myself by freaking out over the patterns.

and that's why i'm thinking about trying to become a wiccan! because i want to be in better balance, and don't think that drugs will do anything healthy for my mind...which i need...if it's not already lost.