On a house re-infected with silence...
In my eyes, there exists nothing more sobering than a vacation's end...
Before getting bogged down in the reality of their departure, it's important to say that I would've gladly hosted Alex, Sam and Sage forever. There are literally dozens of reasons for me to count their visit as a success, but the single most noteworthy benefit of their stay was the endless stream of conversations with which I was presented. It was almost overwhelming. Having spent the better part of the past two months strictly on my own, the mere sound of three extra voices was verging on chaos, like a museum suddenly overrun by schoolchildren on field trip. This house on Baldwin Street has never been so abuzz with laughter, and for a handful of all-too-quick days, I relished in the warmth of waking up among friends, and in the gratifying knowledge that this season of boredom would be held at bay.
But now, like all good things, the vacation has come to an end, and I must resume the normalcy of my life in Milledgeville. Since their exit on Monday afternoon, I've been a bit emotionally, let alone physically, drained, and it'll take some time to recuperate. But as far as this journal is concerned, my difficulty in coping with an upbeat period's end is old news, so I suppose there's no need to harp on the emotion's newest manifestation, suffice it to say that watching your friends drive away is a difficult sight indeed.
The vacation has given me so many wonderful memories, and as much as I'd like to document them all, I think a quick surge of impressions will be just what the doctor ordered. Here we go:
So long, vacation, and so long to friends arriving at 5 am, delirious and drinking until long past sunrise; goodbye to cigarette mornings and coffee with Sage, to Alex's hallmark cackle and dancing without end, to a seedy motel room on Tybee Island, where we guzzled High Life and Maker's Mark and talked and talked and talked; farewell to the Atlantic Ocean, its firm-packed shores and no-cost inter-tubes; to sand dollars extracted from the silt with our toes, and to biker bars where Sam and I stood out like babies at a bachelor party; to tourist trap restaurants, angry Macaws and pseudo-stray cats; to suntans and car trips and too much Phad Thai; bye bye to broken locks on bathroom doors and the worst lunch of my life, to games of Taboo, The Last Waltz and public urination; and bye bye most of all to Sue Stine's peach pie.
Give me that old-time college feeling, that throwback to faster times.
Before getting bogged down in the reality of their departure, it's important to say that I would've gladly hosted Alex, Sam and Sage forever. There are literally dozens of reasons for me to count their visit as a success, but the single most noteworthy benefit of their stay was the endless stream of conversations with which I was presented. It was almost overwhelming. Having spent the better part of the past two months strictly on my own, the mere sound of three extra voices was verging on chaos, like a museum suddenly overrun by schoolchildren on field trip. This house on Baldwin Street has never been so abuzz with laughter, and for a handful of all-too-quick days, I relished in the warmth of waking up among friends, and in the gratifying knowledge that this season of boredom would be held at bay.
But now, like all good things, the vacation has come to an end, and I must resume the normalcy of my life in Milledgeville. Since their exit on Monday afternoon, I've been a bit emotionally, let alone physically, drained, and it'll take some time to recuperate. But as far as this journal is concerned, my difficulty in coping with an upbeat period's end is old news, so I suppose there's no need to harp on the emotion's newest manifestation, suffice it to say that watching your friends drive away is a difficult sight indeed.
The vacation has given me so many wonderful memories, and as much as I'd like to document them all, I think a quick surge of impressions will be just what the doctor ordered. Here we go:
So long, vacation, and so long to friends arriving at 5 am, delirious and drinking until long past sunrise; goodbye to cigarette mornings and coffee with Sage, to Alex's hallmark cackle and dancing without end, to a seedy motel room on Tybee Island, where we guzzled High Life and Maker's Mark and talked and talked and talked; farewell to the Atlantic Ocean, its firm-packed shores and no-cost inter-tubes; to sand dollars extracted from the silt with our toes, and to biker bars where Sam and I stood out like babies at a bachelor party; to tourist trap restaurants, angry Macaws and pseudo-stray cats; to suntans and car trips and too much Phad Thai; bye bye to broken locks on bathroom doors and the worst lunch of my life, to games of Taboo, The Last Waltz and public urination; and bye bye most of all to Sue Stine's peach pie.
Give me that old-time college feeling, that throwback to faster times.