August 22. Sorry about the bummer title.

I have played until I have got blisters.

Now my goal is just that

I will not stop playing

Until I have got callouses

And that I will keep playing

So that they will stay.

I Henceforth announce this now, before all of blogspot, and all the wonderful patrons of my own personal blog, that I, Lillian the Great of Ogilvie will NOT LET MY CALLOUSES DISAPPEAR. IT has all become pattern for me. Play, Play, Play... Dream, Dream, Dream... until only dreams are left, and my fingers are too tender to even try to solidify those dreams. 'Tis all quite sad. The biggest blister is on my middle finger, that's the first one I noticed, but my other fingers have them too, except for my pinky... but my pinky is just... you know... special. I worry about playing in college. Where now I can sit on the ground with Sara, who's just learning too and not care about my skills. What will happen when I am thrown into the midst of pretentious guitar players who can read tabs and make bar chords? Then what?

Gabriel came back the other day. Tuesday was it? I played him for no more than 10 minutes and my chops died. All of them. I tried again yesterday, and was able to get through my solo 3 times before I got too tired. My tone SUCKS. I hope that it will be decent in time for placement auditions. THere's just bound to be another trumpet player who has been practicing every day for three hours all summer, and they'll whip out something like, Flight of the Bumblebee and then be like, "Sorry I'm not that good, I've only been playing since I was 3 years old." Or worse, I will be placed highest! I really really really hope not, because that would be depressing. Poor Augsburg Band! But I doubt it, I'm but a freshman.

The love I have for my instruments is becoming more profound. It is like falling in love again after that passionate summer of 2005. In the interim years, we've still been friends, hanging out and having some good fun, but now we are spending more time together, getting more intimate, I hope it lasts. I hope that in the coming years we'll grow even closer, and I will learn how to utilize them to their greatest potential, and that they will become a part of me.

My Guitar has no name, but he most certainly needs one. He used to be "Jeremiah" because it was "pretty" but that name holds no meaning. I can't just slap any old name on him either, if I could he would be christened by now. George for the noble and amiable George Cooper, King of Thieves. Gabriel for the Angelic Gatekeeper... and... As I said it can't be any name. Maybe (God Forbid) I'll read Twilight, and then I'll name him "Edward" because he's Hawt. Mickey? For Mickey Wrangle my favorite out-law woodpecker? That's a possibility. Freddie, Marc, John, James... So much potential, but nothing is shouting at me. Perhaps he's just bound to be nameless.

After strumming my guitar and belting the out of key vocals of "Diamonds and Rust" I am feeling very creative, very flowing, very POWERFUL. I want to channel that some how. Maybe I should sit my butt down and write that freaking letter to the paper. Or maybe I'll start a story, the story who's opening lines (however obnoxious) are pounding around in my skull. Visser told me that when I have these stories, I just need to get them out and not worry about how they might compare to others... but all I have are opening lines, menial phrases, nothing sturdy enough to build upon. How do real writers do it?

...I'm wearing my red work out shorts. I've never had real work out shorts before. I hope that I'll actually work out.

Yesterday I was texting Ben about all the things I want to do in the Cities, and how they inconvieniently don't coincide with our Auggie Day plans. Surely Auggie Days will be supurb, but if I have to miss out on the State Fair, or some RNC action, to sit in a circle playing name games, I might be a bit put off. Maybe they'll say, "All Right Auggies! Who wants to go to the State Fair???" And then I'll be all for it. Unless I can still get in with Tim to go next week, that way I can stock up on all the campaign buttons and stickers I'll need to carry me through the campaign and onward.

Bob Dylan is a jerk... but I still love him.

My creative flow has become a mere stream. I think it is time to pry myself away from this box and embrace my nameless lover once more.

Farewell.

P.S. When I googled "Played until my Fingers Bled" to try to find more lyrics for a possible blog title, I was quite amused at how many other blogs there are with that title. It sounds emo.