Only 46 hours left until I leave and I'm completely petrified/excited/stressed out/excited!

I like tiny countries.
See you on the other side of this landmass! (If I survive my flight with Biman Bangladesh Airlines that is.)

Although I can do quite a few ballet tricks, I still haven't managed to learn how to spot properly. Practically every week I lose balance mid-way through a routine just because I'm still feeling light-headed from a double pirouette ten steps before.
What my teacher likes to do is compare classic dance moves to real life. You know how people say, "Show me your shoes and I'll tell you who you are"? She does the same, only with ballet. She's convinced that my inability to spot properly shows a lacking sense of purpose: I just twirl around (in life) without having a main focal point, a proper goal or direction. According to her, my inability to focus on one stable point isn't strictly confined to the dancefloor.
Sometimes I'm afraid she's right, but then I think that I do have a proper goal and direction in life; I just get distracted easily and am not in much of a hurry. I don't feel the need to achieve my main goals before turning 21 and wasn't it T.S. Eliot who said that 'the journey, not the arrival matters'?
Basically, I know where I want to go and I am getting there: I'm just taking the scenic route. And it's much more fun on my side of the road.

P.SSS. I'm having a jolly good time editing the 'genre' file tags on my new MP3 player (dEUS is "Belgium, The Kings Of", BSS "Too Fucking Good To Be Scene") and inventing frat party mix drinks.

It's love, I tell you.

My body feels tired and heavy and every movement is composed but pointless. There's a chessboard lying in front of me but as I bent down to make the opening move, I lift my leg into an arabesque instead. I turn sloppy slow, a ronde de jambe (en l'air), like a drunk ballerina. My balance is way off but I do not fall or even wobble, my legs just look crooked and weak.
I start to tiptoe my way across the hall when a blond wide-eyed girl suddenly races past me on rollerblades -I never heard her coming. She moves too fast, going in circles, yelling "This floor is fantastic!"
I want to tell her not to leave black skidmarks on the antique tiles but she's already disappeared through the door. I tiptoe on like I'm on pointes but without until I reach the doorway -

The kitchen in lighted pale blue and tiled black and white and I move across the floor the way the horse does in chess. Step, right right. Step step, left.
I see the girl is still swerving around: she's out of control, narrowly avoiding the pots and pans on the stove, the fridge (which looks like one of those American models from the fifties; it's olive green and clashes horribly with the bright blue walls...), the sink. I'm scared she'll hurt herself, or knock me over - but when I open my mouth to warn her, I hear myself singing along with the music instead. Joanna Newsom is playing only here her song sounds much more sinister. "I killed my dinner with karate - kick 'em in the face, taste the body..."

I wake up with a fright and roll over to turn the music off. Or would have, except it already was.

racoon - love you more.mp3
Is it shameless to associate the 'you' in love songs with yourself instead of your lover?
I just like being sung to.

Love is such an abstract term but yesterday I found it's meaning in our bread baking in the oven all covered in sesame seeds (hands white with flower pulling the dough from your hair), Joanna Newsom's 'Sadie' playing in the background (all doors open to let the songs out and the cool breeze in) and the sound of turning pages (glistening eyes over book covers, yours was André Bazin's What Is Cinema?, mine Toni Morrison's The Bluest Eye) in the evening, evening after-light.
To me, love has become this quiet, peaceful. No more hearts racing, ears pounding, stuttering madness. Just this warm fondness that clouds up the room so thick (like smoke) that you can feel it burning in your lungs.
You said I should put "magician" in the 'profession' field -and I did.

"People in France have a phrase: "staircase wit." In French: esprit de l'escalier. It means that moment when you find the answer, but it's too late. Say you're at a party and someone insults you. You have to say something. So under pressure, with everybody watching, you say something lame. But the moment you leave the party....
As you start down the stairway, then-magic. You come up with the perfect thing you should've said. The perfect crippling put-down.
That’s the spirit of the stairway."
Guts - Chuck Palahniuk

Excuse me but, WHY ISN'T ANYONE TALKING ABOUT THE NEW WHITE STRIPES? Or am I the only one who's totally excited about their updated wardrobe and expanded range of facial expressions? (Oh, and their new sound, of course.)