I'm all the time thinking I'm so much cooler than everyone around me, and I have to let them no it by being the smartest, strongest, and funniest thing since Calvin Coolidge, put together. Recently, however, I've become aware that I am fundamentally insecure, and I'm all freaked out about making sure nobody knows about the ugliness I see inside. That's where the pride comes from. I try and hide my many faults, end up overcompensating, and come off as prideful and arrogant, which I recognize and add to my list of things wrong with me as a person.
While my self-image may be somewhat skewed by my history as a really mean kid, which I deplore about myself, there is a lot of truth to be found in my insecurity. Theologically, it's all about the depravity of man. I am, as a human being, naturally inclined to evil. I am flawed. I am a hopeless case of selfishness. And, in a way, it's good that I recognize that about myself. Amazing grace saved a wretch like me, not a basically good person like me. Paul was all vibin' on that.
The epiphany I had the other day was that I am insecure, but not humble. I still have to learn that it's okay that i'm scumm and that I don't need to hide behind my own puffed-up coolty.
(The word SCUMM in the last paragraph, by the bye, is a very, very oblique reference to the Script Creation Utility for Maniac Mansion, with which most of my game collection was made. Adventure games forever!)
So, yes. I looked up and saw that it was a blue moon, and since I write a deep post about once in every one of those, I figured it was time to plumb the slimy depths of my tattered soul and dreg up something for all y'alls enjoyment.
Incidentally, senioritis is running rampant at the moment. Only three days of compulsory schooling left... ever!
Friday, June 01, 2007
Monday, May 28, 2007
Melancholy Post #54
My room is rank with the stench of dying flowers from last weekend's recital. It's quite depressing, really. My last recital is over. Forever.
For the few people who I have not yet regaled with this tale, I'll tell it again, briefly. At dress rehearsal, I slipped and fell in the middle of Swan Lake. At the first show (which, of course, was the one that was videotaped), my left pointe shoe slipped off my heel, which is pretty terrifying. As the piece went on, the entire shoe slipped off my foot and hung from my ankle like a ball and chain. I finished out the piece as best I could, cranking up the smile more and more as the thrice-accursed shoe slipped further and further off my foot. For the rest of the weekend, I was completely paranoid and continually and compulsively adjusted my shoe.
Sunday night, at the last curtain call, I did something I'd always thought would be fantastic. I strutted out there wearing the white swan lake tutu from Ballet IV, walking gracefully in my pointe shoes- and the bright orange top from my Modern IV costume. It seemed to me that the applause doubled in volume when I came out.
After the show, clutching my flowers, I retreated to the shop behind the stage, which, every year, dancers have been running through to get to stage right in time for their entrances. I burst into tears. I cried for the better part of a half-hour. Sobbed, in fact. I was joined, before long, by other seniors and some hangers-on who wanted to comfort us.
I really ought to get rid of these rotting flowers, but it feels like they're the last remnant of my time at Hosanna.
I keep forgetting that I still have until August.
For the few people who I have not yet regaled with this tale, I'll tell it again, briefly. At dress rehearsal, I slipped and fell in the middle of Swan Lake. At the first show (which, of course, was the one that was videotaped), my left pointe shoe slipped off my heel, which is pretty terrifying. As the piece went on, the entire shoe slipped off my foot and hung from my ankle like a ball and chain. I finished out the piece as best I could, cranking up the smile more and more as the thrice-accursed shoe slipped further and further off my foot. For the rest of the weekend, I was completely paranoid and continually and compulsively adjusted my shoe.
Sunday night, at the last curtain call, I did something I'd always thought would be fantastic. I strutted out there wearing the white swan lake tutu from Ballet IV, walking gracefully in my pointe shoes- and the bright orange top from my Modern IV costume. It seemed to me that the applause doubled in volume when I came out.
After the show, clutching my flowers, I retreated to the shop behind the stage, which, every year, dancers have been running through to get to stage right in time for their entrances. I burst into tears. I cried for the better part of a half-hour. Sobbed, in fact. I was joined, before long, by other seniors and some hangers-on who wanted to comfort us.
I really ought to get rid of these rotting flowers, but it feels like they're the last remnant of my time at Hosanna.
I keep forgetting that I still have until August.
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