(no subject)
It's been a while since I've tapped into the livejournal network. Tonight I'm going to attempt to post an update before I start undertaking the epic, always nostalgic, and frequently melancholic re-reading of my own past. I swear, I write in journals only so that I can re-read them later. I am still in the constant business of categorically detailing and cataloging my own history--as if I'm afraid I'll forget (not so much be forgotten).
I returned to this forum tonight because I want someone to talk to and I don't want to go to the bar. I would call it loneliness, but it isn't stemming from a sad or terribly anxious place, as it usually does. Tonight it may simply be boredom and the contemplative and over analytical part of me that always comes out when I haven't been drinking for a few days.
As a result of surviving my very first carnival season as a New Orleans resident, I've been holed up and sick since Mardi Gras day. I hit the ceiling of human camaraderie; everyone drunk and costumed, aimlessly roaming the street looking for the next glittering stranger to connect with. It was re-affirming, and overwhelming, like any good trip might be--only I was sober for the peak of it.
I spent a solid 8-10hrs filling my nose with shitty ecstasy and, true to form, asking my boyfriend every question I could think of, all the while developing a wicked sinus infection that would knock me on my ass in days to come. It was productive, though we never fully went under. Although "productive" may be the wrong word, because there was nothing to fix or work through--only things to say that hadn't been said yet for lack of time and impetus. It wasn't productive in the way that Clayton and I used to air all of our secrets, because so far in this relationship there's been no need for secrets, or shame, or guilt. So really, it was just a nice outside-on-the-patio playin' tunes, askin' questions, thinkin' about life kind of moment. It was beautiful and everything it should have been. And I was wrecked the next day.
So I've spent about 72hours full of fever dreams and tossing, crying, coughing in my bed and tonight I almost feel like a functional human being again. My brain is working overtime on processing, but for myself I'm not entirely convinced that there is a lot to "process," outside of basic overstimulation by the outside world.
I'm sitting outside staring at Frenchmen Street and attempting to smoke unfiltered Camels that I accidentally bought from the bar vending machine on the way home during Lundi Gras. I feel a little empty, which is either because I am alone, because my boyfriend is gone, because my brain is still attempting to refill on seratonin, or because I am circumambulating my life goals and I'm a little sad about my mother, as always.
On nights like tonight, I find it strange to remember that I have actually accomplished most of the goals I had set for myself so very long ago. I have a degree, and while I plan on getting another and another, I could very easily join the normal world with what I've got. I live in the city that I've called home since childhood, and she, like the cruel mistress that she is, never ceases to surprise me. She also doesn't make it easy.
I watched The Weather Underground tonight, and it reminded me of so many of my former passions, especially the revolutionary political and humanitarian ones. Am I complacent? Have I, like the former members of that revolutionary group, gotten "too old" to become a revolutionary, and will I "settle" (I'm not yet convinced that it's settling, mind you) with academia? If I ever get back into academia, that is--if I ever crack open the books, re-take that god damned GRE, find a school and another city that will fit me if only for a short time.
Yeah, I know it was the 70s and time was ripe for picking a fight, or a side of a fight, but listening to those kids fresh out of their bachelor's degrees was very reminiscent of reading my own 22 year old manifestoes and love letters; the ones where I promised never to turn myself in, to stay committed to the struggle, to fight social injustice and to imbue every thing I touched with love. They were kids then, kids in an era that had much more conviction, but kids nonetheless--and after the war was over and the bombs had been planted and forgotten, they came up from the underground, turned themselves in, and now they are professors at prestigious universities. And kids like me go to their classes every day, and their educators and mentors were members of a revolutionary group who openly and actively plotted to violently overthrow a government whose flaws they couldn't bear to stand for or by. They were people who were willing to die for what they believed in, because they never expected to survive.
Likewise, though less extreme, I never expected to be where I am now. And so, I guess my question tonight is, what's next? What are my goals now? There are so many paths and I've never been good at picking one. I want to walk all the lines, I want to live all the lives and still I regret that there is only one of me and so much time... but what am I doing to fill it?
I work a job that I hate to support a clientele, a group of people whose lives of luxury and frivolity I fundamentally disagree with. I've had this penguin suit, black tie white glove service industry job since my first month in New Orleans and I haven't quit because, well, because I'm scared I guess and because it's the first job that I got and I need to be able to pay to live in the city that I haven't got time to truly embrace. I need to give up comfort for pleasure, again. I need to be reminded of what I am and what it is about life that I ultimately adore and am enamored of, because I can still feel it, lurking nightly beneath the surface, trying desperately to erupt through the cracks.
I feel like a broken record saying "it's time to do something," but god damnit, Savannah, have some conviction. I need something more. It is time to start making new goals, to envisioning a new future, a new place to grow, to run, to extend play, to maximize pleasure, to experience everything, to hit the ceiling, again and again and again.
What's next?
I returned to this forum tonight because I want someone to talk to and I don't want to go to the bar. I would call it loneliness, but it isn't stemming from a sad or terribly anxious place, as it usually does. Tonight it may simply be boredom and the contemplative and over analytical part of me that always comes out when I haven't been drinking for a few days.
As a result of surviving my very first carnival season as a New Orleans resident, I've been holed up and sick since Mardi Gras day. I hit the ceiling of human camaraderie; everyone drunk and costumed, aimlessly roaming the street looking for the next glittering stranger to connect with. It was re-affirming, and overwhelming, like any good trip might be--only I was sober for the peak of it.
I spent a solid 8-10hrs filling my nose with shitty ecstasy and, true to form, asking my boyfriend every question I could think of, all the while developing a wicked sinus infection that would knock me on my ass in days to come. It was productive, though we never fully went under. Although "productive" may be the wrong word, because there was nothing to fix or work through--only things to say that hadn't been said yet for lack of time and impetus. It wasn't productive in the way that Clayton and I used to air all of our secrets, because so far in this relationship there's been no need for secrets, or shame, or guilt. So really, it was just a nice outside-on-the-patio playin' tunes, askin' questions, thinkin' about life kind of moment. It was beautiful and everything it should have been. And I was wrecked the next day.
So I've spent about 72hours full of fever dreams and tossing, crying, coughing in my bed and tonight I almost feel like a functional human being again. My brain is working overtime on processing, but for myself I'm not entirely convinced that there is a lot to "process," outside of basic overstimulation by the outside world.
I'm sitting outside staring at Frenchmen Street and attempting to smoke unfiltered Camels that I accidentally bought from the bar vending machine on the way home during Lundi Gras. I feel a little empty, which is either because I am alone, because my boyfriend is gone, because my brain is still attempting to refill on seratonin, or because I am circumambulating my life goals and I'm a little sad about my mother, as always.
On nights like tonight, I find it strange to remember that I have actually accomplished most of the goals I had set for myself so very long ago. I have a degree, and while I plan on getting another and another, I could very easily join the normal world with what I've got. I live in the city that I've called home since childhood, and she, like the cruel mistress that she is, never ceases to surprise me. She also doesn't make it easy.
I watched The Weather Underground tonight, and it reminded me of so many of my former passions, especially the revolutionary political and humanitarian ones. Am I complacent? Have I, like the former members of that revolutionary group, gotten "too old" to become a revolutionary, and will I "settle" (I'm not yet convinced that it's settling, mind you) with academia? If I ever get back into academia, that is--if I ever crack open the books, re-take that god damned GRE, find a school and another city that will fit me if only for a short time.
Yeah, I know it was the 70s and time was ripe for picking a fight, or a side of a fight, but listening to those kids fresh out of their bachelor's degrees was very reminiscent of reading my own 22 year old manifestoes and love letters; the ones where I promised never to turn myself in, to stay committed to the struggle, to fight social injustice and to imbue every thing I touched with love. They were kids then, kids in an era that had much more conviction, but kids nonetheless--and after the war was over and the bombs had been planted and forgotten, they came up from the underground, turned themselves in, and now they are professors at prestigious universities. And kids like me go to their classes every day, and their educators and mentors were members of a revolutionary group who openly and actively plotted to violently overthrow a government whose flaws they couldn't bear to stand for or by. They were people who were willing to die for what they believed in, because they never expected to survive.
Likewise, though less extreme, I never expected to be where I am now. And so, I guess my question tonight is, what's next? What are my goals now? There are so many paths and I've never been good at picking one. I want to walk all the lines, I want to live all the lives and still I regret that there is only one of me and so much time... but what am I doing to fill it?
I work a job that I hate to support a clientele, a group of people whose lives of luxury and frivolity I fundamentally disagree with. I've had this penguin suit, black tie white glove service industry job since my first month in New Orleans and I haven't quit because, well, because I'm scared I guess and because it's the first job that I got and I need to be able to pay to live in the city that I haven't got time to truly embrace. I need to give up comfort for pleasure, again. I need to be reminded of what I am and what it is about life that I ultimately adore and am enamored of, because I can still feel it, lurking nightly beneath the surface, trying desperately to erupt through the cracks.
I feel like a broken record saying "it's time to do something," but god damnit, Savannah, have some conviction. I need something more. It is time to start making new goals, to envisioning a new future, a new place to grow, to run, to extend play, to maximize pleasure, to experience everything, to hit the ceiling, again and again and again.
What's next?