No. 8.

I am trying to emulate the study habits of the greats. Who might they be? Monks and nuns, perhaps? Although, where their practice may often be in silence, mine is taking a slightly divergent note.

I have begun to familiarize myself with the central library on campus. Its appearance is quite bland. The carpet is old, thin in spots from frequent treading. The colors, a bit dreary. Perhaps thousands of volumes are on the shelves. I love to be surrounded by literature, but when confronted with hit or miss class reading, sometimes I need a shove. One more push in the direction of inspiration. One more driving nail to secure ideas to the wall; to catch falling thoughts.

As I sit, I imagine a shadow of myself dancing around the room, running for ideas and wandering notions. Papers waft slowly from above. Yellow sheets. Blue sheets. White sheets of paper. Lined and graphed. Dropping from beyond the ceiling, they cascade towards the ground. And there I am, looking like a frantic trader. With ruffled papers squeezed between my elbow and my left side, I stride about the room. My right arm extended, I snatch them from the air and force them to the pile. These papers--ideas, theories, words, names--float through my conscious realm, and for a moment my shadow holds them for a more permanent memory. Others, they pass on. Ideas for later. Papers dropping through the floor like ghosts, on to the next boy reading alone.

Somehow, without theme and melody--alone with the silence of fluttering papers--this imagery creates chaos in my mind. But with music, there is a soundtrack to the paper rain. Now, instead of running, I walk. Instead of tearing through literature, I simply lean into the back of a chair. I recline on my elbow and take what I can.

I have purchased some new music. New albums for new inspiration. I have convinced myself I need this. Based on a well thought recommendation, I have bought Mahler's Symphony No. 8, performed by the Chicago Symphony Orchestra. Having listened to the 1st Symphony, I have been told I am ready for the 8th. My theory has not yet been tested in the library, but at home I am finding success. First performed in Munich in the early 20th century, with a chorus of 850 and an orchestra of 171 you can imagine the sheer might! Suddenly, my pathetically bland living room is no matter. The piece is reaching its conclusion. The final stanza, "Alles Vergangliche". The choir sends chills from my shoulders to my legs. The organ thunders to life. I lean my head back and close my eyes. Please, do not end.

I think this will do.