Yes! The long-delayed account of my August trip down South! No, it's not speel [sic] checked!
(Excerpted from a much longer interview with Numb Boy--no relation to numb_boy--my imaginary friend.)
Jon: It’s the phrase-that old cliche-I keep thinking of, emphatically: “You can’t go home again.” Once you become accustomed to privacy, your own space, the whiff of independence (even when shared by roommates), any other environment is suffocating. That’s only part of the problem here.
Numb: Reminds me of your recent journey down South. How did it go?
Jon: It always pushes the thoughts of here to the back of my mind. It’s a beautiful section of the country, and the change of scenery is refreshing. I discovered I couldn’t hold my liquor yet again, and threw up (a la January) near the end of my stay, which only lasted a week.
Numb: How’s Channing?
Jon: Starts CofC tomorrow...a rather humbling notion, considering all the stress that she needed to sift through to make it to this point.
Numb: And the train ride down and back?
Jon: We were delayed two hours in Fayetteville on a particularly hot Friday. With my father, stepmother, his former college roommate and his wife, we killed time in the Town that Time Forgot, visiting the Airborne Museum on the other side of the tracks.
Numb: Not really your thing.
Jon: I grimaced when the wife asked about my brother, who is. She asked, “Is (brother) home all by himself?” “Yes,” I nodded. “Think he can handle that?” “I think so.” Maybe the house will blow up, maybe it won’t, you have a 50-50 chance, I thought. I diverted my attention to the souvenir weaponry enclosed behind glass, which brought to mind an era where guns looked a lot cooler than they do now.
Numb: You mostly observed how adults do no better a job of hiding their boredom than children.
Jon: I’m finding that even I have a hard time hiding my boredom anymore-which is sad, because it seems to signify a stagnation on my part. But clearly my dad’s friends were bored out of their skulls, seemingly wondering when the whole ordeal would be over. My father and stepmother (she of the gossipy preacher’s-wife demeanor) were, as usual, much better sports, and at least feigned interest in the exhibitry.
Numb: You seemed to be avoiding them most of the time.
Jon: All of them. I didn’t feel overly connected or comfortable...which is funny, because the childhood visits to their house in Raleigh are among some of my fondest memories, though I’m not sure why. Everything they had was a lot nicer than what we had (at least better cared for)...maybe that was it.
Numb: In the end, the train was 2 hours late, going a paltry 55 miles per hour in compliance with the heat index.
Jon: And that pissed me off, because-were I in possession of a vehicle in better condition-I could have been cruising along I-95 at upwards of 80mph and making good time in the process.
Numb: But you need to treat your Soccer-Mom-mobile with care at this point, who knows how long it’s going to hold out.
Jon: I’ve always had that apocalyptic, “what-bad-thing-can-happen” attitude towards cars, yes. And even with the delay, I was kind of excited to revisit rail transit for the few hours it’d take me to get to Charleston. Perhaps the overly elegant notion of sipping a Mint Julep (based on the recommendation of the ladies in Collection Development) while reading a Tennessee Williams play (and I did check out a volume before leaving) in the lounge. Instead, I was simply too tired to crack open a book; instead, I listened to some music and listened in on the conversation of the mother seated in front of me. Apparently, she had been on the train with her 2 daughters since 10am that morning, departing from The City of Brotherly Love.
Numb: You tried to write down your thoughts.
Jon: Generic crap came out. Either I wasn’t inspired, or I have completely lost whatever shred of talent I had.
Numb: You’re rambling like a bitch in heat here.
Jon: I received a series of calls from Chan before my arrival, the last of which informed me that there had been two shootings at the Charleston Amtrak station the previous evening! I figured even the most radical Southern loony wouldn’t open fire on a crowded train platform, so my fear actually subsided for a change (even though the young mother in front of me offered to accompany me in my wait, if necessary).
Numb: The platform smelled like piss-human piss.
Jon: It was pretty vile, potent stuff. Channing’s timing is uncannily good, and I actually saw her Impala heading for the station as I stepped onto the platform. Though I felt like thanking the Philadelphian mother for her offer, I couldn’t see her behind me, so I simply snaked through the crowded platform, through the station, and out the other side, where Channing and Lurch walked up to greet me. The timing, as I said before, was impeccable.
Numb: As for the week, it was a good time?
Jon: The only downside was that I couldn’t stay longer...and, in hindsight, I should have. (Horrorfind, as I mentioned in my previous entry, was kind of a washout.) We didn’t do anything overly extraordinary, but at the same time, flashy entertainment was not congruous to a good time. I consumed a fair amount of Cheerleader Beer, even though I am developing a really low tolerance for the taste of alcohol (and its side-effects). I reclaimed my familiar spot on the couch downstairs, the streetlight cutting white slits on the living-room rug, the ceiling fan circling above my head as I slept. One night, a Wolf Spider somehow perched on my right wrist, and you should have seen me shriek and shake till it flew off (it was captured and taken outside); I had always managed to avoid run-ins with fair-sized arachnids until that moment, and my skin crawled for the rest of the night. I watched almost all of Robocop another night on a movie channel, and now want to buy it.
Numb: It didn’t rain much.
Jon: I don’t think it rained at all...nothing substantial, anyway.
Numb: But the week did what you hoped it would.
Jon: I got to see a friend, and-for the most part-forgot about “home” and the obligations it carries. We could make short work of a day through a minimum of means, which I like-there is never an itinerary, a constant need to be doing something (which is why my memories of childhood vacations are less than favorable).
Jon: It’s the phrase-that old cliche-I keep thinking of, emphatically: “You can’t go home again.” Once you become accustomed to privacy, your own space, the whiff of independence (even when shared by roommates), any other environment is suffocating. That’s only part of the problem here.
Numb: Reminds me of your recent journey down South. How did it go?
Jon: It always pushes the thoughts of here to the back of my mind. It’s a beautiful section of the country, and the change of scenery is refreshing. I discovered I couldn’t hold my liquor yet again, and threw up (a la January) near the end of my stay, which only lasted a week.
Numb: How’s Channing?
Jon: Starts CofC tomorrow...a rather humbling notion, considering all the stress that she needed to sift through to make it to this point.
Numb: And the train ride down and back?
Jon: We were delayed two hours in Fayetteville on a particularly hot Friday. With my father, stepmother, his former college roommate and his wife, we killed time in the Town that Time Forgot, visiting the Airborne Museum on the other side of the tracks.
Numb: Not really your thing.
Jon: I grimaced when the wife asked about my brother, who is. She asked, “Is (brother) home all by himself?” “Yes,” I nodded. “Think he can handle that?” “I think so.” Maybe the house will blow up, maybe it won’t, you have a 50-50 chance, I thought. I diverted my attention to the souvenir weaponry enclosed behind glass, which brought to mind an era where guns looked a lot cooler than they do now.
Numb: You mostly observed how adults do no better a job of hiding their boredom than children.
Jon: I’m finding that even I have a hard time hiding my boredom anymore-which is sad, because it seems to signify a stagnation on my part. But clearly my dad’s friends were bored out of their skulls, seemingly wondering when the whole ordeal would be over. My father and stepmother (she of the gossipy preacher’s-wife demeanor) were, as usual, much better sports, and at least feigned interest in the exhibitry.
Numb: You seemed to be avoiding them most of the time.
Jon: All of them. I didn’t feel overly connected or comfortable...which is funny, because the childhood visits to their house in Raleigh are among some of my fondest memories, though I’m not sure why. Everything they had was a lot nicer than what we had (at least better cared for)...maybe that was it.
Numb: In the end, the train was 2 hours late, going a paltry 55 miles per hour in compliance with the heat index.
Jon: And that pissed me off, because-were I in possession of a vehicle in better condition-I could have been cruising along I-95 at upwards of 80mph and making good time in the process.
Numb: But you need to treat your Soccer-Mom-mobile with care at this point, who knows how long it’s going to hold out.
Jon: I’ve always had that apocalyptic, “what-bad-thing-can-happen” attitude towards cars, yes. And even with the delay, I was kind of excited to revisit rail transit for the few hours it’d take me to get to Charleston. Perhaps the overly elegant notion of sipping a Mint Julep (based on the recommendation of the ladies in Collection Development) while reading a Tennessee Williams play (and I did check out a volume before leaving) in the lounge. Instead, I was simply too tired to crack open a book; instead, I listened to some music and listened in on the conversation of the mother seated in front of me. Apparently, she had been on the train with her 2 daughters since 10am that morning, departing from The City of Brotherly Love.
Numb: You tried to write down your thoughts.
Jon: Generic crap came out. Either I wasn’t inspired, or I have completely lost whatever shred of talent I had.
Numb: You’re rambling like a bitch in heat here.
Jon: I received a series of calls from Chan before my arrival, the last of which informed me that there had been two shootings at the Charleston Amtrak station the previous evening! I figured even the most radical Southern loony wouldn’t open fire on a crowded train platform, so my fear actually subsided for a change (even though the young mother in front of me offered to accompany me in my wait, if necessary).
Numb: The platform smelled like piss-human piss.
Jon: It was pretty vile, potent stuff. Channing’s timing is uncannily good, and I actually saw her Impala heading for the station as I stepped onto the platform. Though I felt like thanking the Philadelphian mother for her offer, I couldn’t see her behind me, so I simply snaked through the crowded platform, through the station, and out the other side, where Channing and Lurch walked up to greet me. The timing, as I said before, was impeccable.
Numb: As for the week, it was a good time?
Jon: The only downside was that I couldn’t stay longer...and, in hindsight, I should have. (Horrorfind, as I mentioned in my previous entry, was kind of a washout.) We didn’t do anything overly extraordinary, but at the same time, flashy entertainment was not congruous to a good time. I consumed a fair amount of Cheerleader Beer, even though I am developing a really low tolerance for the taste of alcohol (and its side-effects). I reclaimed my familiar spot on the couch downstairs, the streetlight cutting white slits on the living-room rug, the ceiling fan circling above my head as I slept. One night, a Wolf Spider somehow perched on my right wrist, and you should have seen me shriek and shake till it flew off (it was captured and taken outside); I had always managed to avoid run-ins with fair-sized arachnids until that moment, and my skin crawled for the rest of the night. I watched almost all of Robocop another night on a movie channel, and now want to buy it.
Numb: It didn’t rain much.
Jon: I don’t think it rained at all...nothing substantial, anyway.
Numb: But the week did what you hoped it would.
Jon: I got to see a friend, and-for the most part-forgot about “home” and the obligations it carries. We could make short work of a day through a minimum of means, which I like-there is never an itinerary, a constant need to be doing something (which is why my memories of childhood vacations are less than favorable).