Crash and burn is the only way I can describe getting the grade. I ate and drank enough caffeine and pizza to wire the galaxy, and while I am pleased to declare the value in these indulgences that result in getting the grades I want, I cannot refrain from disclosing the powerhouse sleep excursions that follow in the wake of this behavior. I just kept sleeping and sleeping until I was exposed to the reality of, well, what should have been a Monday morning that didn’t actually come around until Tuesday.
What’s funny about life sometimes? The repetitive parts. This bland picture of a staircase actually screams mountains of life psychology:
Every other day I pass over these stairs, and every other day I hear the same exact music scales fingered by a trumpet player resonating from one of the practice rooms. The beauty of life rings clear in this seeming system of déjà vu. The feeling is strange like something from out of a movie director’s playbook, passing over the same exact section of the stairs at the same exact time of all those mornings, and hearing the same exact scales being practiced every time. What is interesting to note is that through this power of repetition and endurance, the scales are beginning to sound a little more fluent (yeah, I think that’s the goal). What this also tells me, though, is that monotony can be non-existent when engaged in doing the things you love. In a way, I would think that’s what love might be like; if you truly loved someone, how could being with them ever get tiring?
The whole process of getting through is grueling for me, however, and the situation seems like I’m being constrained and wound and tightened harder and harder. This may be a good thing, but I found some relief in the unexpected surprise of playing host to a group of grad students for dinner on Sunday. I encountered the details of an interesting segment of life occurring beyond the states when a couple from the city of Puebla, Mexico told me of how different living in Sacramento is, compared to living in Puebla because there is never any ash falling from the sky. Ash?
Pic by CTEQ Summer Schools
Apparently this is what life is like when living at the base of an active volcano, of which the activity is essentially passive for the most part. So at varying intervals of time, at any time, one can be walking down the street and be met with a slight shower of ash when the mountain feels like blowing off a little steam. I guess this all means that at some point in time, I think I’d like to travel and explore 500yr old, Spanish cities that receive delicate coats of ash on their rustic cathedral churches and brick laid streets.
In the sooner view of life, however, I think traveling is quite out of the question. I have places I’d like to see even here in my own country, but as my life stands, stocking the refrigerator and paying bills hold precedence over what miniscule amounts of money I possess at the moment. On the bright side, I’ve got something to look cling on to; the perseverance of trumpet players that inspire me to push, and the stories of those benigns who reveal through their words how the world can be a wondrous place worth living in.