on catching my breath and that transition hangover....
Jesus...
The last month or so has passed in a quick surge; time is moving too fast for comfort these days. I think my previous entry dealt with how things went while in Chicago with my mother, so I guess I'll pick up where I left off. The remainder of my stay in Texas was by and large successful. I had the pleasure of Jack's company for almost an entire week at my mother's house. While he was there, the two of us went running, headed to a bar on St. Mary's street for some quality Spurs-watching, cooked meals together, and basically just filled our days feeling generally satisfied at the notion of spending face-time with one another. The following weekend, we headed to Austin where, with the addition of Lauren and two hilarious cats, much of the same activities went on. I also had the unexpected chance to eat lunch with Alex and Sara, neither of whom I'd seen it what felt like years, though I suppose it hadn't been that long. Afterwards, Alex and I headed over to an amazing pool at Sara's apartment and split a six-pack of Lone Star while catching up. She seems to be getting her shit together, but who am I to say? It's not like I'm anywhere near having a real grasp on my own reality.
Our last night in Austin is most noteworthy for the nearly all-night conversation Jack and I shared on his porch while taking pulls from a bottle of Evan Williams. The subjects of the talk ranged from a discussion of our favorite albums, to our dreams in the future, as well as some in-depth and blatantly self-indulgent trips down memory lane, the latter of which has become a hallmark of our longer chats. I think we ended up calling it a night just before the chiming of 5am, but not before we'd listened to the entirety of Neutral Milk Hotel's "In the Aeroplane Over the Sea," (our mutual pick for best all-time album).
Upon our return to San Antonio, I experienced that familiar tugging at my chest that always reminds me when a vacation's end is in sight. No matter how much time I've had on any trip, the last few days always tend to be soured by a palpable sense of it's nearing end. I also tend to use this final portion of a trip to obsess over what I'd meant to accomplish, but, for one reason or another, ultimately did not. There was no beach trip, no jaunt to Schlitterbaun, and I barely managed to squeeze in some time to steal music from Clay. That's not to say I felt like my time in San Antonio was poorly spent; on the contrary, I throughly enjoyed myself while at home, but it's easy for me to consider all of the things I could've done to make my trip better once it's already drawing to a close.
Last Thursday marked my not-so-glorious return to Milledgeville. It's not that I dread the idea of being here for the summer, but it's hard to deny the disappointment of sampling the delicacies at the easy street buffet one moment, only to be thrust into the soup kitchen of reality shortly thereafter. As soon as I crash landed on my bed that night, I was fully aware of the tasks that awaited me: short-term=moving; long-term=doing well in summer school, adjusting to a few months of living on my own and, above all, adding between 40 and 50 pages to my thesis. And so it went, at least the short term stuff. From Friday through Wednesday I was moving: a dozen Honda Accord loads back and forth, up and down stairs, arranging and rearranging furniture and appliances, doing laundry, cleaning like a slave. By the time I'd gotten myself somewhat settled, it was time to help Meredith move from her place into my old apartment, and then, a day later, John and his Dad were down from Virginia and the three of us spent another 12 hours hauling his shit into our new place. Today, which also marked the start of my summer term, is the only day that I haven't had to break a sweat as the result of heavy lifting.
But what's done is done. The new place is fucking awesome, despite a few kinks here and there. I'm having a love seat delivered tomorrow, and the internet should be hooked up and running by next week. The only real tragedy that's befallen me since John left yesterday came in the form of a brief power surge that somehow, never mind that it was plugged into a "Surge Slayer," resulted in the premature death of his awesome XM radio receiver. As minute of a problem as this might seem, listening to the XM jazz and public radio stations through nice speakers was actually a pretty big part of how I'd planned on filling my days. Oh well, podcasts will have to suffice until we can manage to replace the receiver.
Well, I suppose that's basically it. I think I'll be all right this summer. Sometimes I get a bit overwhelmed with lonesomeness, but it's a pretty big adjustment, and I know that life will improve once I've forged a routine for myself.
Tomorrow I'm starting work on a new short story entitled "Alone Together in the Midst of Strangers." Hopefully that endeavor will only be a little soul-crushing; as it stands, I'm not really in the mood for a metaphysical demolition.
Come visit me.
The last month or so has passed in a quick surge; time is moving too fast for comfort these days. I think my previous entry dealt with how things went while in Chicago with my mother, so I guess I'll pick up where I left off. The remainder of my stay in Texas was by and large successful. I had the pleasure of Jack's company for almost an entire week at my mother's house. While he was there, the two of us went running, headed to a bar on St. Mary's street for some quality Spurs-watching, cooked meals together, and basically just filled our days feeling generally satisfied at the notion of spending face-time with one another. The following weekend, we headed to Austin where, with the addition of Lauren and two hilarious cats, much of the same activities went on. I also had the unexpected chance to eat lunch with Alex and Sara, neither of whom I'd seen it what felt like years, though I suppose it hadn't been that long. Afterwards, Alex and I headed over to an amazing pool at Sara's apartment and split a six-pack of Lone Star while catching up. She seems to be getting her shit together, but who am I to say? It's not like I'm anywhere near having a real grasp on my own reality.
Our last night in Austin is most noteworthy for the nearly all-night conversation Jack and I shared on his porch while taking pulls from a bottle of Evan Williams. The subjects of the talk ranged from a discussion of our favorite albums, to our dreams in the future, as well as some in-depth and blatantly self-indulgent trips down memory lane, the latter of which has become a hallmark of our longer chats. I think we ended up calling it a night just before the chiming of 5am, but not before we'd listened to the entirety of Neutral Milk Hotel's "In the Aeroplane Over the Sea," (our mutual pick for best all-time album).
Upon our return to San Antonio, I experienced that familiar tugging at my chest that always reminds me when a vacation's end is in sight. No matter how much time I've had on any trip, the last few days always tend to be soured by a palpable sense of it's nearing end. I also tend to use this final portion of a trip to obsess over what I'd meant to accomplish, but, for one reason or another, ultimately did not. There was no beach trip, no jaunt to Schlitterbaun, and I barely managed to squeeze in some time to steal music from Clay. That's not to say I felt like my time in San Antonio was poorly spent; on the contrary, I throughly enjoyed myself while at home, but it's easy for me to consider all of the things I could've done to make my trip better once it's already drawing to a close.
Last Thursday marked my not-so-glorious return to Milledgeville. It's not that I dread the idea of being here for the summer, but it's hard to deny the disappointment of sampling the delicacies at the easy street buffet one moment, only to be thrust into the soup kitchen of reality shortly thereafter. As soon as I crash landed on my bed that night, I was fully aware of the tasks that awaited me: short-term=moving; long-term=doing well in summer school, adjusting to a few months of living on my own and, above all, adding between 40 and 50 pages to my thesis. And so it went, at least the short term stuff. From Friday through Wednesday I was moving: a dozen Honda Accord loads back and forth, up and down stairs, arranging and rearranging furniture and appliances, doing laundry, cleaning like a slave. By the time I'd gotten myself somewhat settled, it was time to help Meredith move from her place into my old apartment, and then, a day later, John and his Dad were down from Virginia and the three of us spent another 12 hours hauling his shit into our new place. Today, which also marked the start of my summer term, is the only day that I haven't had to break a sweat as the result of heavy lifting.
But what's done is done. The new place is fucking awesome, despite a few kinks here and there. I'm having a love seat delivered tomorrow, and the internet should be hooked up and running by next week. The only real tragedy that's befallen me since John left yesterday came in the form of a brief power surge that somehow, never mind that it was plugged into a "Surge Slayer," resulted in the premature death of his awesome XM radio receiver. As minute of a problem as this might seem, listening to the XM jazz and public radio stations through nice speakers was actually a pretty big part of how I'd planned on filling my days. Oh well, podcasts will have to suffice until we can manage to replace the receiver.
Well, I suppose that's basically it. I think I'll be all right this summer. Sometimes I get a bit overwhelmed with lonesomeness, but it's a pretty big adjustment, and I know that life will improve once I've forged a routine for myself.
Tomorrow I'm starting work on a new short story entitled "Alone Together in the Midst of Strangers." Hopefully that endeavor will only be a little soul-crushing; as it stands, I'm not really in the mood for a metaphysical demolition.
Come visit me.