School has a wonderful habit of getting in the way of having time to do the things I want to do, for example, keeping this journal updated. It's been a while.

Fall semester has gone by too quickly. We, the Fairfield University Glee Club, are already having our Christmas concerts this weekend. Staying with the choir has been one of my decisions in college that I'm most proud of. I definitely bitch and moan about rehearsals - at least the ones I show up to - but I can't deny that I love being a Gleetard. I love making music.

In other news: after a doozy of a financial scare, I'm able to actually start registering for next semester's classes, albeit a couple of weeks after the actual registration period. I'm beginning to piecemeal my courses together and although I can liken my schedule to Frankenstein's monster, I think I'll survive. Of course, this only means graduation is rushing toward me. The closer it gets the more and more I become resolute in my dissatisfaction with the world and with society, especially what it mandates is expected of me after I leave as an undergrad.

I know it's selfish and damn childish but I'm not ready to be an adult. I'm not ready for graduate school, to find a job. I'd love nothing more than obtaining a doctorate but I sure as hell don't want to do the work. I want everything handed to me, and that's my problem. At least I know my problem. And rest assured, I don't actually expect anything to be handed to me. That doesn't change the fact that the prospect of leaving my comfortable life at Fairfield is absolutely scaring the shit out of me. I need to start making plans, and I could punch myself in the face because my procrastination really pisses me off.

I had grand plans for this semester. Straight A's, go to the gym several days a week, save money. All of which promptly went down the shitter. Again, I'm profoundly disappointed in myself. I'm at the point in my life that I should be able to come up with at least some answers on my own - hell, thirty years ago and I'd be out the door with my own house, car and career.

My dreams aren't dead yet, and I take comfort in the fact that I can't foreseeing the glimmer of idealism inside me ever dying off. If it ever did, that would be the death of me as I know myself. My dreams, my hopes and remaining optimism makes me indomitable. I suppose the challenge now is figuring out how to put it that metaphorical furnace to good use.

Christopher McCandless still inspires me, the Appalachian Trail still calls out to me. I hear the calls, I look at myself - I'm weak, and I am frail. I don't believe I could survive those aspirations with my physical state being what it is. However I'm slowly becoming convinced that my spirit is strong enough, and that excites me. I can change my body; I can get stronger. Before I go into "the real world," pursue a calling and find a career, I know that I somehow need to test myself.

...the sea's only gifts are harsh blows and, occasionally, the chance to feel strong. Now, I don't know much about the sea, but I do know that that's the way it is here. And I also know how important it is in life not necessarily to be strong but to feel strong, to measure yourself at least once, to find yourself at least once in the most ancient of human conditions, facing blind, deaf stone alone, with nothing to help you but your own hands and your own head...
- excerpt from Bear Meat by Primo Levi

I find satisfaction in the indomitable spirit of man, our perseverance and ability to rebuild, remake and restore. I take comfort in humanity's unfathomable depth of kindness, the inevitability of it to surface when it is needed the most dearly. I take comfort in the other day, when I was gripped by a sudden sadness and despair - and turning a corner, a young buck and I crossed paths. We met eyes, he galloped away and I continued on, my faith and cheer restored.