i'm such a naughty brunette.  ¶ 23:40

  The last rehearsal was going fine, until the recorded take. It had clicked perfectly just the take before, but a few seconds after hitting the final note, we all realized that no one had hit "record." I was tired. Then the musicians were changed. The arrangement was changed, per Jay's order. And changed again. And again. And then there was disagreement. Then "record" was pressed and it suddenly just wasn't happening, but I didn't want to stop because I wanted to be efficient, perfect in one take. Cues were missed, changes muddled.

I lost it, standing there, feeling stripped, spouting futile vocalese over changes I couldn't hear anymore. The take ended, Taylor looked at me and instantly knew what I was thinking, because he was thinking the same thing. I sat down, he put his hand on my shoulder when he walked by my chair. I had to get up and leave.

I shut the door behind me, muffling the beginnings of the next tune, and immediately my shoulders heaved, my breathing turned to gasping. I locked myself in the bathroom for the next ten minutes, leaning over the sink, letting my tears drip down the porcelain bowl. WesWinds was giving their semester performance in the concert hall, and echoes of Bolero sifted under the closed door. I heard Taylor's voice outside. Maybe he was looking for me. After a few minutes, he went back to the rehearsal.

I reentered the hallway and sat on the floor, leaning back against the cool cement wall and crunching a wad of toilet paper in my hand in case recollection of what had happened overtook my bearing again. Taylor came back out to check on me a few minutes later, and we had a good talk - about setting personal standards, listing what went wrong and what went right tonight, recalling Taylor's undergraduate years at Wesleyan, listening to him talk about Jay. It made me feel better.

Everyone headed up to the studio to listen to the DAT, and I followed with a pit in my stomach. Vlad came up and silently shook my hand with a grin his face. He'd later describe my musicianship as "incredible." We listened through the takes, and when we reached mine, it didn't sound as bad as I had expected. What went right went okay, but there certainly was still a trainwreck midway through. Nothing will completely ease my mind, however. The fact is, my last rehearsal of the semester, the only recorded take of the semester, and what I'm going to dwell on for the next month of break until we get together in late January, sucked. Supremely.

but, one of the other girls gave me the most honest smile and told me that i was "really, really good" with genuine respect. A few of the other guys came up to me when we were packing up downstairs to tell me not to worry - the previous take killed, and it's not like we were recording an album, anyway. So what if the tape happens to be the worst possible representation of my skill? We've had countless amazing moments over the last month. That's what matters.

So why did I get so upset about the only flubbed take of the semester (and really, this was my only off-night with the guys)? Because this is the most important thing that's happened to me. I've been blessed to be here. I can't think of anything but music anymore. I care more about singing well than prepping for the LSAT or GRE or writing pithy essays on why I supposedly want to spend my life in public policy. These other "rational" goals I've had, I think, have just been a poorly constructed ideal of "success" that I've used to place as many boundaries between my head and heart as possible.

I had to email Jay with my proposed course grade and reasons why I deserved my chosen mark, as is tradition with any tutorial with him. As I sat at my computer reflecting on the semester, I wrote, "I am happiest as a vocalist than as just a pianist. I've tried different instruments in the past, and while I am passionate about piano, I feel like I do tunes the way I want to do them, and internalize them, when I'm singing, in ways that haven't happened with piano alone. You've had conversations with me about taking this beyond just the "Attorney Crawford at the Christmas party" scenario, and I've decided that I want to do that. I've reached a point this semester where ALL I want to do is music, which is something that hasn't happened in the past (i.e. choosing a Government major last year because it's more "practical"). I really want to do this well, Jay, more than anything. It's where my heart *and* head are now."

And that's the honest truth, finally.

  ¶ 23:38

  So, we residents of B6, living with the entire junior class a stone throw's away, have lots of neighbors. The most infamous are the residents of B7.

These Bostonians blast their music, play hockey, and shotgun beers like no other. They invite lots of girls over so that they can hear them giggle. The boys yell. And yell. And YELL. They play videogames. Lots of them. And yell.

B7 has added a new trick to their routine of late: the footrace around the B-unit, a la Sparta to Athens.

Meaning: naked.

We B6-ers know that the runners have approached their marks when the yelling increases to an unbearable volume. Then, a few white asses zip by our front window, and reappear past our backdoor about 40 seconds later.

On a good evening, there are multiple heats.

Tonight: It's been snowing for over 30 hours straight at this point. There's probably a foot of snow on the ground, but the music rumbled, the talk was of hockey, and the beer was all shotgunned within the hour.

The yelling started.

The white asses zipped.

Brrr.

  ¶ 02:27