on summertime alone in Milledgeville...
Twenty-three is a strange age, my friends...
Suddenly it's all but halfway through June and, as is often the case, I'm taken aback by the deceitful movement of time. Here in Georgia, a sense of regularity has made its presence felt. I am becoming a clockwork man, set firm in my own routines. Every hour has its purpose, every day its goal. Friday, which has been somewhat arbitrarily designated as my "day off," has a noticeably different feel about it. I don't run, write, attend class, or see much of anyone, really. So it should come as no surprise to me that on days like today I feel the most isolated, as if my humble yard on Baldwin street is in fact the world in its entirety. There are no phone calls, no visitors, and no plans to speak of. In a certain sense, this sort of life is kind of enjoyable, insofar as I'm free of any obligations. But, try as I might, I cannot stop remembering my life as it was not too long ago. There's something so beautiful about waking up to the knowledge that you're living with friends, constant companions with whom the simple joys of life are shared easily and often. I miss that sort of thing very much.
Last night I drank to excess and I'm feeling sorry about it, though nothing shameful happened. Yet somehow my chest aches with the hollowness of some unjustifiable guilt. I can't shake it. These post-night-out blues have become my body's typical response to overindulging in alcohol, especially in the last three or four months. I don't understand it; nine times out of ten, on the rare occasions when I do in fact drink too much, nothing that I've done warrants this sort of emotional response. It's as if my body assumes that the worst has happened and reacts as such, no matter the particulars of an individual situation. If this is the case, which I think it is, then I'm at somewhat of a loss for words. Have I managed to disrupt one of the synaptic pathways that runs between my thoughts and feelings? How is it that a body can manufacture an emotional response in the absence of of it's natural stimulus? I am, of course, ill-equipped to answer questions like these. But, still, I wonder. Thankfully, these symptoms are fleeting and entirely preventable. This morning, when the feelings were at their strongest, I resolved to stop getting drunk in Milledgeville. Last night, after all, was only the second night in three weeks that I've allowed myself even a sip to drink. That might not sound too impressive, but considering my years and years of heavy, and sometimes destructive bingeing, I think it's pretty damn good. I suppose I could cut out drinking altogether, but I'm firm in the belief that a decision of that nature carries with it a very real social stigma. I don't ever want to be the guy who, when attending a dinner party, or something of that nature, has to turn down their host when they offer him a glass of wine. No, that wouldn't do at all. Instead, I'll just set a limit of two drinks, or three beers whenever I'm headed out for the night. When it comes to matters like these, after all, it's time to grow up , and I don't ever want drinking to be the reason behind anything wrong with my life. So that's what I'll do. Also, when in the company of old friends from home and LSU, or during a vacation, I'll allow myself room to loosen up, but only because environments like those are conducive to my doing so.
In other, more joyful news, my thesis meeting with Allen went quite well. He said that he appreciated my hard work and was really impressed with my writing, how much I've grown in the ten months we've worked together. Following our long discussion of "A Single Perfect Soul," he gave me the proverbial green light to begin mailing it out to a number of literary magazines, and assured me that I've arrived at the stage in my life where the fiction I'm writing is publishable. I was so pleasantly surprised. So, come August, once all of the magazines have begun their reading periods, my manuscript will at last be among their piles. It's a good feeling, to say the very least. I hope that it'll be published, but I'll have to wait and see.
I think that's all I've got.
Suddenly it's all but halfway through June and, as is often the case, I'm taken aback by the deceitful movement of time. Here in Georgia, a sense of regularity has made its presence felt. I am becoming a clockwork man, set firm in my own routines. Every hour has its purpose, every day its goal. Friday, which has been somewhat arbitrarily designated as my "day off," has a noticeably different feel about it. I don't run, write, attend class, or see much of anyone, really. So it should come as no surprise to me that on days like today I feel the most isolated, as if my humble yard on Baldwin street is in fact the world in its entirety. There are no phone calls, no visitors, and no plans to speak of. In a certain sense, this sort of life is kind of enjoyable, insofar as I'm free of any obligations. But, try as I might, I cannot stop remembering my life as it was not too long ago. There's something so beautiful about waking up to the knowledge that you're living with friends, constant companions with whom the simple joys of life are shared easily and often. I miss that sort of thing very much.
Last night I drank to excess and I'm feeling sorry about it, though nothing shameful happened. Yet somehow my chest aches with the hollowness of some unjustifiable guilt. I can't shake it. These post-night-out blues have become my body's typical response to overindulging in alcohol, especially in the last three or four months. I don't understand it; nine times out of ten, on the rare occasions when I do in fact drink too much, nothing that I've done warrants this sort of emotional response. It's as if my body assumes that the worst has happened and reacts as such, no matter the particulars of an individual situation. If this is the case, which I think it is, then I'm at somewhat of a loss for words. Have I managed to disrupt one of the synaptic pathways that runs between my thoughts and feelings? How is it that a body can manufacture an emotional response in the absence of of it's natural stimulus? I am, of course, ill-equipped to answer questions like these. But, still, I wonder. Thankfully, these symptoms are fleeting and entirely preventable. This morning, when the feelings were at their strongest, I resolved to stop getting drunk in Milledgeville. Last night, after all, was only the second night in three weeks that I've allowed myself even a sip to drink. That might not sound too impressive, but considering my years and years of heavy, and sometimes destructive bingeing, I think it's pretty damn good. I suppose I could cut out drinking altogether, but I'm firm in the belief that a decision of that nature carries with it a very real social stigma. I don't ever want to be the guy who, when attending a dinner party, or something of that nature, has to turn down their host when they offer him a glass of wine. No, that wouldn't do at all. Instead, I'll just set a limit of two drinks, or three beers whenever I'm headed out for the night. When it comes to matters like these, after all, it's time to grow up , and I don't ever want drinking to be the reason behind anything wrong with my life. So that's what I'll do. Also, when in the company of old friends from home and LSU, or during a vacation, I'll allow myself room to loosen up, but only because environments like those are conducive to my doing so.
In other, more joyful news, my thesis meeting with Allen went quite well. He said that he appreciated my hard work and was really impressed with my writing, how much I've grown in the ten months we've worked together. Following our long discussion of "A Single Perfect Soul," he gave me the proverbial green light to begin mailing it out to a number of literary magazines, and assured me that I've arrived at the stage in my life where the fiction I'm writing is publishable. I was so pleasantly surprised. So, come August, once all of the magazines have begun their reading periods, my manuscript will at last be among their piles. It's a good feeling, to say the very least. I hope that it'll be published, but I'll have to wait and see.
I think that's all I've got.