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Reach for the stars
Apr. 13th, 2004 10:26 pmWhen I was young, I used to have so many dreams. I wanted to own horses. I wanted to be in a musical. I wanted to be a writer. (I also wanted to be a mad-fencing pirate, but that's beside the point.) And most of all, I wanted to play a piano concerto with a full orchestra, complete with all the musicians in black, a distinguished old conductor who would shake my hand, a long flowing ballgown that would almost cover my sparkly yet not-too-high-heeled shows (ideal for pressing the pedal with shaking legs), and an audience full of friends and parents who would be so proud of me, and they'd give me a standing ovation and lots of thick flower bouquets.
So two decades later I sit and take stock of my life. I'm living in a rundown apartment, typing on my computer from the floor because I was too lazy to ever get my desk fixed. I'm completing a major that makes people give me a sympathetic "good luck begging in the streets" look when I tell them what I'm doing. I'm graduating this summer with absolutely no plans set up for the summer or anything after. I'm still being driven to school by my dad who lectures me on how impossible it is to find jobs at all in the wide world. I stare blankly at people who ask me what my ambitious plans for life are. I'm stuck with a basic English degree because I've just been rejected from the Creative Writing program, proving what I have previously suspected - that my writing sucks - is indeed true. I've realized I could never make it as a writer because I just don't think on the same depth as smart people do. I've realized that I really am as lazy and unambitious as my parents say I am.
I've come to terms with those dreams of being a writer or a star, and I'm ok with them. The only one I really ever regret is the piano concerto one. I still daydream about it sometimes, and it hurts that I would never be good enough (or rich enough) to make it happen (unless some charity high school orchestra suddenly took pity on me, and they'd have to be a pretty bad orchestra to not be able to find a better gig). At this point, I'd love to be a keyboardist for a garage goth band, as long as I don't have to write the music, because hey, we all discovered that I suck at that too! Anyway, I'm not feeling at all self-pitying. More...angry at myself and my unbearably slothful nature.
This rant has been brought to you by your friendly neighborhood radio which happened to play Rachmaninoff's Concerto #2 just in time to bring back memories.
So two decades later I sit and take stock of my life. I'm living in a rundown apartment, typing on my computer from the floor because I was too lazy to ever get my desk fixed. I'm completing a major that makes people give me a sympathetic "good luck begging in the streets" look when I tell them what I'm doing. I'm graduating this summer with absolutely no plans set up for the summer or anything after. I'm still being driven to school by my dad who lectures me on how impossible it is to find jobs at all in the wide world. I stare blankly at people who ask me what my ambitious plans for life are. I'm stuck with a basic English degree because I've just been rejected from the Creative Writing program, proving what I have previously suspected - that my writing sucks - is indeed true. I've realized I could never make it as a writer because I just don't think on the same depth as smart people do. I've realized that I really am as lazy and unambitious as my parents say I am.
I've come to terms with those dreams of being a writer or a star, and I'm ok with them. The only one I really ever regret is the piano concerto one. I still daydream about it sometimes, and it hurts that I would never be good enough (or rich enough) to make it happen (unless some charity high school orchestra suddenly took pity on me, and they'd have to be a pretty bad orchestra to not be able to find a better gig). At this point, I'd love to be a keyboardist for a garage goth band, as long as I don't have to write the music, because hey, we all discovered that I suck at that too! Anyway, I'm not feeling at all self-pitying. More...angry at myself and my unbearably slothful nature.
This rant has been brought to you by your friendly neighborhood radio which happened to play Rachmaninoff's Concerto #2 just in time to bring back memories.
