I’m obsessive.
For the past month, I’ve devoted myself to organizing my music collection. It used to be easy– pop a cd in the player and you’re good. But over the years, the music stored on my computer got scattered into different folders and formats- wma, mp3, mp4, Amazon, Apple, “My Music” etc. Some of my music wouldn’t play on my iPod, other songs wouldn’t play in Media Player, and sometimes I couldn’t even find the song that I wanted. I hate that the music industry still hasn’t adopted universal standards that everyone can live with.
Whatever people think about the mp3 format, it’s the only convenient format that works for everything. So I spent weeks ripping my cd’s onto my hard drive while recording, copying and/or converting all the differing song formats I own into mp3s. I added tags (album, track number, date etc.) where it was missing. I learned to join clips together, remove noise and how to use an equalizer. I organized my mp3 collection alphabetically by artist and genre.
Like I said, obsessive.
And because of that, I neglected updating Encore Seraphine. I stopped visiting people. I locked myself in my room and I listened to music.
I needed the break.
My cousin lost her husband on Christmas, 44 days after he was diagnosed with cancer.

School started last week. This semester, I’m learning advanced CSS (Cascading Style Sheets– the stuff that tells a web page what to look like). This is good, because I have external structure in my life again. I know where my music is. I won’t have to hide in my room and feel guilty for it.

“So, Sera, what songs are you currently listening to?” you might ask.
Answer: Emily Wells. Take it Easy, San Francisco and Symphony 10 – Could This Really Be the End? (YouTube)

And if it really is the end,
I guess I’ll throw a big party,
and all the boys and all the girls can come out
and play with me.
A friendly game of hide-and-seek
that could, easily last for weeks, and just,
when you think its peaked, you’ll forget to pour yourself
another drink.
Youll be happy. You’ll be happy.
Youll be happy, at my party.
Lyric from Emily Wells, Symphony 10 – Could This Really Be the End?

Everyone thinks they know themselves. After all, we live in the back alleys of our minds smelling the same soup every day. But how self-aware are we really? Are we like my Uncle Clem who seems mindless that his house smells like dog urine? Do we get so used to ourselves that we can’t smell what is obvious to everyone else?

While Washington poured billions into propping up the banks and financial institutions that brought our economy to its knees, the Chinese spent their stimulus billions on an epic 19,000 miles of new railroad track. Nearly half of that total will go towards completing a web of more than 42 inter-province hyperspeed rail lines that will link almost every major city in the country. The fastest of the new trains travel at 229 miles per hour. So China comes out of the economic crisis with a rail system that will be the envy of the world.
Quotation from Graydon Carter, Wild on the Street, Vanity Fair

O.k. I get it. You’re sorry. But I’m not the one you should be apologizing to.

I convinced myself that normal rules didn’t apply… I thought that I could get away with whatever I wanted to.
Quotation from Tiger Woods, Professional Golfer

If I’d observed all the rules, I’d never have got anywhere.
Quotation from Marilyn Monroe

If you obey all the rules, you miss all the fun.
Quotation from Katharine Hepburn

Since Xombies are “born” mindless, one must assume their hunger for brains translates into a thirst for Knowledge; and that’s why Xombies will one day take over the world. They are unlike most Humans, who seem unwilling to learn– once they have already formed an opinion.

With the rest I dispense— I sever from what I thought would suffice me, for it does not— it is now empty and tasteless to me.
I heed knowledge, and the grandeur of The States, and the example of heroes, no more.
I am indifferent to my own songs—I will go with him I love.
It is to be enough for us that we are together— We never separate again.
Poem from Walt Whitman, Leaves of Grass