Detour

I have a pile of German homework lying on the table, giving me the evil eye. I have 2 books-in-progress and 3 plays to read, books I can't wait to dive into. I curse my German homework for infringing on my reading time, and I curse my German class for eating up my practicing hours. I'm feeling guilty these days for neglecting my piano. The beauties of Schumann lie open on the music rack, twinkling stars, cerulean depths, a tender caress, a sigh, a caught breath, the inky blackness of an infinite galaxy glittering with warm, shimmering light - these are some of the images that his posthumous variations of the Symphonic Etudes evoke in me.

I should blog about my trip to England last week to visit my fantastic cousin in Cambridge and some friends in London, about the evensong at King's College (the most beautiful artistic/religious moment I've ever witnessed), about Equus, about speaking my own language again, about how I love England, about future schemes.

Sometimes, while following natural thought processes, you stumble upon a door that you've ignored in the past, a door you continue to ignore whenever you pass by it. I have many doors locked away in my mind, and I take care not to enter them. But tonight, conflicted by a mix of curiosity and sadness, I reached for the key and unlocked some old memories, things, as Keren Ann sings, "I always try not to remember rather than forget." Well, ok, it'd be easier just to forget many things, but it turns out that the most we can do, aside from completely blocking experiences out, is to not remember. Because the wound under the band-aid, behind that door, remains raw, unhealed. Because it still hurts. Maybe airing it out a little helps, cleaning the infection, drying it, covering it with a new bandage. And forgetting again.