(no subject)
I came home a couple days ago, on a big airline plane high in the sky with only one stop between me and my beloved "home." I came back for appointments, for friends, for hopes that it would remind me of old times when life seemed so important. I came home and saw my car still in the driveway; that stout black mercedes sitting, like always except for this time the FOR SALE pieces of paper had faded from their brilliant neon-green to a washed-out pastel key-lime-pie color at best, and there was sap and other feral parts of that certain cedar tree that always pissed me off stuck to the trunk, top, and hood of that wonderful machine. The machine that had set me free at night, in the middle of the night, with the few warm, caring, wonderful, and daring people who traveled alongside of me. Who listened to my non-sensible mumblings and rants for hours upon end in the car, or behind churches, or in kerbey lanes, or atop mount bonnell; this is to you. Thank you.
An end to that part of my life, perhaps, with the sale of my car to a young 26-year-old who is working so desperately in some hospital that probably saved my ass a couple times over the years. A thousand dollar deposit check that secured the deal and made it his. I've never met him, and I probably never will. I don't really want to either; the car must start anew and needs no history to bog it down with another driver who will hopefully see more than the Kelly Blue Book value.
My room was always like it was when I walked in, with the absence of my computer (which isn't worth a shit anyway) and, well, the absence of my life--now downsized to half of a cracker box dorm room in Conway, Arkansas. Or really, conway, arkansas. Can a town that's smaller than the university in the city I grew up in really be Capitalized? Or, well, what is capitalization? What is punctuation? What is writing?
Writing is good. Writing is all that I've wanted it to be, and all that it will ever be to me. Just something for me to do with my hands and see come alive from the quick tip-tap-types of these scarred, bony fingers. Oh, how I wish I could want to do what I'm doing now. I leave here in less than 24 hours and then--what then?
My computer somehow contracted a bad case of AIDS and began eating itself last weekend, sending me in a high-stress frenzy to save what I could and try to prevent it from completely decimating that box under my desk that houses so much "critical" information. I failed in saving the computer, but luckily I had my Ipod with my music and pictures that I threw on it at the last moment, and my USB key with most of my school files and essays and whatnot, so I guess I can consider it a general victory. At least now, after the factory restore, my computer is clean and I can start from scratch. Very much like leaving home for college, though now it seems I need to do the same with my dorm room, cleaning out and such. It's amazing how much you can acquire in such a short period of time--all of the foodstuffs and the desk items and the papers and books and such and such. Never enough room, always too much stuff; c'est la vie.
C'est la vie, indeed. I use the phrase all to often, dropping it about 10 times a day when anything objectionable happens. It's my way of not dealing with it, "accepting" it, and moving on. Lilian was talking the other day about how latin-american culture is essentially the polar opposite of this. There is actually a show of emotion down there; they cry out when their soccer team loses, run through the streets at political rallies when they don't like what their states are doing. They laugh when something's funny, they get angry when something's shitty, they reflect what is really going on around them. Maybe this is too much of a generalization to make, but things like this allow me to keep hope. In some far-away land, maybe there I can generate excitement. Maybe there I can learn all over again what it is to really be alive.
I feel like writing more and more, but I'm going to leave this post as it is for now. I have other writing to do: one that is long overdue, one that is just a little overdue, one that will be due in a few days--only one of them that I really want to do. C'est la vie, right?
An end to that part of my life, perhaps, with the sale of my car to a young 26-year-old who is working so desperately in some hospital that probably saved my ass a couple times over the years. A thousand dollar deposit check that secured the deal and made it his. I've never met him, and I probably never will. I don't really want to either; the car must start anew and needs no history to bog it down with another driver who will hopefully see more than the Kelly Blue Book value.
My room was always like it was when I walked in, with the absence of my computer (which isn't worth a shit anyway) and, well, the absence of my life--now downsized to half of a cracker box dorm room in Conway, Arkansas. Or really, conway, arkansas. Can a town that's smaller than the university in the city I grew up in really be Capitalized? Or, well, what is capitalization? What is punctuation? What is writing?
Writing is good. Writing is all that I've wanted it to be, and all that it will ever be to me. Just something for me to do with my hands and see come alive from the quick tip-tap-types of these scarred, bony fingers. Oh, how I wish I could want to do what I'm doing now. I leave here in less than 24 hours and then--what then?
My computer somehow contracted a bad case of AIDS and began eating itself last weekend, sending me in a high-stress frenzy to save what I could and try to prevent it from completely decimating that box under my desk that houses so much "critical" information. I failed in saving the computer, but luckily I had my Ipod with my music and pictures that I threw on it at the last moment, and my USB key with most of my school files and essays and whatnot, so I guess I can consider it a general victory. At least now, after the factory restore, my computer is clean and I can start from scratch. Very much like leaving home for college, though now it seems I need to do the same with my dorm room, cleaning out and such. It's amazing how much you can acquire in such a short period of time--all of the foodstuffs and the desk items and the papers and books and such and such. Never enough room, always too much stuff; c'est la vie.
C'est la vie, indeed. I use the phrase all to often, dropping it about 10 times a day when anything objectionable happens. It's my way of not dealing with it, "accepting" it, and moving on. Lilian was talking the other day about how latin-american culture is essentially the polar opposite of this. There is actually a show of emotion down there; they cry out when their soccer team loses, run through the streets at political rallies when they don't like what their states are doing. They laugh when something's funny, they get angry when something's shitty, they reflect what is really going on around them. Maybe this is too much of a generalization to make, but things like this allow me to keep hope. In some far-away land, maybe there I can generate excitement. Maybe there I can learn all over again what it is to really be alive.
I feel like writing more and more, but I'm going to leave this post as it is for now. I have other writing to do: one that is long overdue, one that is just a little overdue, one that will be due in a few days--only one of them that I really want to do. C'est la vie, right?