. . . You can ask me how, but only time will tell.
A casual reader might infer that I am alluding to the great Mormon anthem "Come, Come, Ye Saints," the refrain of which ends in "All is well, All is well." That, however, would be an incorrect assumption. It's just Alexis, otherwise known as #, manifesting another episode of teen angst.
There was a possibility that I would have been granted permission a week earlier than had been planned to return to the university to attend classes. Such was not in the tea leaves. My muscles aren't yet strong enough for me to sit up for the duration of a single class, much less to navigate my way across campus on foot or on bicycle to actually get to each classroom.. I joke about the wheelchair option as a non-option, but, obviously, were it the only choice, I would use it, albeit with a paper bag or an Ann Coulter mask and wig over my head while I was out in the open on campus.
I love my room and the amenities it offers, not to mention the fact that my mom changes my sheets for me each day when I'm sick. (I've otherwise since been changing my own sheets since I was in first grade and moved out of my crib and into a big-girl bed because my playmates were beginning to make fun of my crib.) Anyway, while I don't mind changing my own sheets and pulling my share of the housework around here, those rare occasions where someone else changing my sheets daily are something I savor. My sheets match my overall room decor, but some are solid in color (pink, black, or white,), some have pink, white or black polka dots with pink, black, or white backgrounds, one set has the score of Bach's Toccata and Fugue in D Minor for Organ printed on them, one has black and white jelly beans on a pink background, and a few have miscellaneous stripes, plaids, or patterns. My Godparents were ridiculously indulgent in creating this space for me, and I revel in the chance to enjoy things like the sheets, some of which I've never slept on before because there are so many. The sheets have matching comforters and rugs as well. There's a closet built into the attic right next to my room, that stores all the accessories so that I can change things when it suits me. I just don't often have enough time to switch things around. Being sick gives me, or more correctly, my mom, the chance to redecorate frequently.
I break into a cold sweat just thinking of how the muscles in my fingers and hands are atrophying as I lie in bed essentially limiting my manual and digital activity to changing the channel on my TV by using my remote control, plus the occasional blog I find the energy to type. Thank the God of Graduation Requirements Coordination as well as my academic adviser that I am graduating next year and not this year, and thus will not need to perform my senior recital until next fall. This is a terribly rude, irreverent and terribly un-politically correct thing for me to say, but any recital I performed within the next two months would be something of a Special Olympics equivalent of a senior recital. Were I truly special, everyone would sit there with tears running down their faces as I massacred one work after another, thinking, "How wonderful it is that she's so incredibly clueless that she will perform in public when she's so very limited in her skills." As it is, the audience, which would consist of faculty adjudicators, my own family and friends, plus students completing music majors in the music department, who are required to attend 80% of all senior recitals held) would think I was pathetic and would be embarrassed for me. Applause would be sparse at best, and everyone would get the hell out of the mandatory post-recital reception faster than poop passes through a diarrheatic goose in order to have to avoid lying to me about how my performance really wasn't as bad as it seemed.
Thank the God of Graduation Requirements Coordination as well as my academic adviser that I am graduating next year and not this year, and thus will not need to perform my senior recital until next fall.
It's just that I'm tired of waiting.
#
Excerpts from Gabe Dixon's Semi-Modern Anthem of Angst for Youth with Ambition:
Keep it up and don't give up
And chase your dreams and you will find
All in time.
All will be well.
Even after all the promises you've broken to yourself,
All will be well.
Read more: http://artists.letssingit.com/the-gabe-dixon-band-lyrics-all-will-be-well-fltm2vg#ixzz2MSaMxZSr
A casual reader might infer that I am alluding to the great Mormon anthem "Come, Come, Ye Saints," the refrain of which ends in "All is well, All is well." That, however, would be an incorrect assumption. It's just Alexis, otherwise known as #, manifesting another episode of teen angst.
There was a possibility that I would have been granted permission a week earlier than had been planned to return to the university to attend classes. Such was not in the tea leaves. My muscles aren't yet strong enough for me to sit up for the duration of a single class, much less to navigate my way across campus on foot or on bicycle to actually get to each classroom.. I joke about the wheelchair option as a non-option, but, obviously, were it the only choice, I would use it, albeit with a paper bag or an Ann Coulter mask and wig over my head while I was out in the open on campus.
I love my room and the amenities it offers, not to mention the fact that my mom changes my sheets for me each day when I'm sick. (I've otherwise since been changing my own sheets since I was in first grade and moved out of my crib and into a big-girl bed because my playmates were beginning to make fun of my crib.) Anyway, while I don't mind changing my own sheets and pulling my share of the housework around here, those rare occasions where someone else changing my sheets daily are something I savor. My sheets match my overall room decor, but some are solid in color (pink, black, or white,), some have pink, white or black polka dots with pink, black, or white backgrounds, one set has the score of Bach's Toccata and Fugue in D Minor for Organ printed on them, one has black and white jelly beans on a pink background, and a few have miscellaneous stripes, plaids, or patterns. My Godparents were ridiculously indulgent in creating this space for me, and I revel in the chance to enjoy things like the sheets, some of which I've never slept on before because there are so many. The sheets have matching comforters and rugs as well. There's a closet built into the attic right next to my room, that stores all the accessories so that I can change things when it suits me. I just don't often have enough time to switch things around. Being sick gives me, or more correctly, my mom, the chance to redecorate frequently.
I break into a cold sweat just thinking of how the muscles in my fingers and hands are atrophying as I lie in bed essentially limiting my manual and digital activity to changing the channel on my TV by using my remote control, plus the occasional blog I find the energy to type. Thank the God of Graduation Requirements Coordination as well as my academic adviser that I am graduating next year and not this year, and thus will not need to perform my senior recital until next fall. This is a terribly rude, irreverent and terribly un-politically correct thing for me to say, but any recital I performed within the next two months would be something of a Special Olympics equivalent of a senior recital. Were I truly special, everyone would sit there with tears running down their faces as I massacred one work after another, thinking, "How wonderful it is that she's so incredibly clueless that she will perform in public when she's so very limited in her skills." As it is, the audience, which would consist of faculty adjudicators, my own family and friends, plus students completing music majors in the music department, who are required to attend 80% of all senior recitals held) would think I was pathetic and would be embarrassed for me. Applause would be sparse at best, and everyone would get the hell out of the mandatory post-recital reception faster than poop passes through a diarrheatic goose in order to have to avoid lying to me about how my performance really wasn't as bad as it seemed.
Thank the God of Graduation Requirements Coordination as well as my academic adviser that I am graduating next year and not this year, and thus will not need to perform my senior recital until next fall.
School will still be there when I am ready for it, as will be the piano.
It's just that I'm tired of waiting.
#
Excerpts from Gabe Dixon's Semi-Modern Anthem of Angst for Youth with Ambition:
The new day dawns,
And I am practicing my purpose once again.
It is fresh and it is fruitful if I win but if I lose,
Oh, I don't know.
I will be tired but I will turn and I will go,
Only guessing til I get there then I'll know,
I will know.
The winter's cold,
But the snow still lightly settles on the trees. (Editor's note: except along California's central coast)
And I am practicing my purpose once again.
It is fresh and it is fruitful if I win but if I lose,
Oh, I don't know.
I will be tired but I will turn and I will go,
Only guessing til I get there then I'll know,
I will know.
The winter's cold,
But the snow still lightly settles on the trees. (Editor's note: except along California's central coast)
And a mess is still a moment I can seize until I know,
That all will be well.
Even though sometimes this is hard to tell,
And the fight is just as frustrating as hell
All will be well.
That all will be well.
Even though sometimes this is hard to tell,
And the fight is just as frustrating as hell
All will be well.
Keep it up and don't give up
And chase your dreams and you will find
All in time.
All will be well.
Even after all the promises you've broken to yourself,
All will be well.
You can ask me how but only time will tell.
You can ask me how but only time will tell.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=L2-3ooX_XkQ
Note the rather nice piano work.
Read more: http://artists.letssingit.com/the-gabe-dixon-band-lyrics-all-will-be-well-fltm2vg#ixzz2MSaMxZSr
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