March 7, 2005 at 9:27 AM

Sleep comes in fits these days, in deep, involved efforts with sudden periods of wakefulness. As always, each spell of unconsciousness brings with it mixtures of dreams and impressions, easily interpreted and all very meaningful.

Lying in bed, I verbalized the last thoughts of the day as George drifted off. I hold a good deal of anger and dissatisfaction, more or less at everything in general, and when the day is over, I think about the things I wish I hadn't said or done and wish the next day would be better.

I dreamed I was forced to trade instruments in pit orchestra. I played the piano and was supposed to lead everyone else, but I hadn't a clue when I was supposed to begin. A significant person was there whom I wanted desperately to impress. I played, hoping to be noticed, but all I did was make an embarrassment of myself. At the same time, I was not noticed.

I dreamed I passed by a room in a school and overheard the cadenza of Viotti's 22nd being played... by a first grade boy. He sat on the floor, slumped down, with an unconcerned countenance, absentmindedly playing every note perfectly. But he was a parrot; he had no clue what the music meant and repeated phrases ad nauseum.

I dreamed I ran into an old elementary school teacher who attacked me with condescending questions about my life: "You're not playing with that lousy sounding orchestra; it's such a joke!" I felt it necessary to defend myself and our little group.

The sunlight peeks through the curtains, and I don't know where I am. My heavy heart doesn't know the difference between a dream and reality, and I find it difficult to extract myself from the covers.

It is one thing to be driven to excel and improve myself, be it in skill or actions. It is quite another thing to be perpetually dissatisfied with myself. This mentality seeps into all aspects of living. It affects the way I relate to people, the way I see myself in the mirror, the amount of confidence I have, and my ability to love others.

Unless I can accept my mistakes, I'm not going to be comfortable performing for people. And it's funny--when I care the least about the mistakes is exactly when I make the least.

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March 7, 2005 at 9:27 AM

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