I had two ideas about filters today:
The first is that my affective filter is very high right now. I don't want to do anything. Therefore I can't do anything. My body hurts and my brain hurts, and somewhere out there people think I'm great and will pull strings to get me jobs. (My supervisor and mentor teacher told me this today.) Mentally, sure, I think that's possible. But my affective filter is so high right now I really cannot see anything about myself that is good. And then my other brain, the looking-glass self (I really should have been a psyche major) says, "God, you're such a whiner. Nothing is that bad that you have to cry about it. Just get the work done. Not everyone needs to know every problem you have."
My affective filter is so high that I can't be happy about anything having to do with school. Or the music department. All I can think about is how my music life is taking away time that could be spent on school work. And here I am writing a blog.
The other filter idea is that my verbal one is lowered. I am so low emotionally, and so tired physically, that I can't stop myself from saying every negative and ill-representing thing that pops into my brain.
Exhibit A: Today's brass jury.
Professor: What will you be starting with, the orchestral excerpt or the etude.
Me: I'll start with the excerpt, because I'll just get all the crappy out at once.
Why would I say that? These are very nice brass professors who are evaluating my playing. Why would I set that precedent before they even hear me in my jury? I felt bad about it immediately. But it happened. And I couldn't stop it.
I played beautifully, by the way. Except for the very last, most musically interesting line of the etude. I just wanted it to be over. Or I just wanted to play more. I couldn't just let the music happen, I was thinking way too much. So I messed up every single note. I just can't be too good. Gotta mess it all up somehow.
I wonder if the end of my life will be like that. I'll shape up into a beautiful old woman, who enjoyed a fulfilling career where she touched the hearts of thousands of young musicians, and raised a wonderful family with nice kids and lots of pets. And then she realized she was just gonna die anyway, so she started fucking up every way she could. And then it was over, and just like music, all people really remembered were the beginning and the end, except by that time she was old so nobody who was around for the beginning was still around. So everyone remembered the end where she fucked up.
That would be an ironic fate, indeed.