I've been homesick as of late. I don't know why. The weather outside is like december in California. Every year the same thing happens to me. Minnesota plays havoc with my seasonal clock.
I bought a chair today from the Salvation army. It's HUGE and I LOVE IT. It was originally marked as $80, slashed down to $50, sold to me for $25 and worth every penny. Mike and Susie helped me bring it into the house and then I took them out to lunch. I am sitting in the chair as we speak - er - type? but by the time you read this, I might not be in the chair anymore, so as I type this I AM in the chair, but maybe not for much longer.
Saw "Jarhead" last night and I thought it was wonderful. Some might argue that it's just a remake of older war movies like Apocalypse Now, but at the same time, this is OUR war movie. It's not our parents as Full Metal Jacket was. I think this movie will strike home to many people in our age group. I don't think there's a kid alive between the ages of 19 and 27 who don't remember the images of the oil fields up in flame. This was our introduction to war, these are our memories.
Been sad as of late - maybe it's the homesickness. Maybe it's just because I have been feeling very...out of place...someone told me I just spend too much time thinking, but really - I think at this time I DO need to think. I mean, I can't worry because worry will kill me, but I need to keep thinking because otherwise I'll never get off the ground. I think, though, I'm scared. Very scared at what I'm doing.
Do you know what I want? What I REALLY want? I want to smoke a bowl and curl up on the couch with a great friend and watch a movie. I want to feel safe. I want to feel secure. I want to NOT FEEL this apprehension that has been eating away at me.
I need to cry but I can't.
Antibiotics are wonderful things. The side effects to antibiotics SUCK BALLS. You girls out there, you know what I'm talking about.
Some people have asked me where "I love you like burning" came from. It's sort of a mixed idea. My friend Paulie is the most emo kid I know. He also has a blog. To leave a comment, I thought of the most emo sounding thing I could. "I love you like burning" came. I think it has a little bit to do with "it tastes liek burning!" as spoken by Ralph Wiggum. But who knows. And yes - "I love you like burning" is a GOOD thing.
I want snow. As crazy as that sounds, I want the peace that snow brings. I want it to cover up the dying ground as a bandage covers a wound. I need the quiet and I need the serenity. The four months of death so I can be reborn; alive, fresh, green. The noise is driving me crazy, I need the snow to muffle the sound.
I went walking with the American Spirit last Saturday along the old railroad. I was on one rail, he was on the other; we performed our acrobatic act in silence. We were barefoot and the sun baked iron burned our feet, tanning our soles into thick leather. I held my sneakers, one in each hand, arms out away from me as I walked. My large frame and tiny feet provided and interesting center of gravity, but I continued, one foot in front of the other, wooden tie after wooden tie.
The American Spirit had tied the laces of his chuck taylors together and slung them over his shoulder. He walked like a cat, a seasoned pro, along the smooth iron. One hand was at his side and the other at his mouth as he constantly smoked. He hadn't gained any weight since last I saw him, and I don't think he ever will, remaining always as the emaciated boy, a child in his father's business suit, an adult lost in time.
We walked together in silence, taking in the feeling and riding out the wave of nostalgia. We both grew up with rains. My childhood home was blocks away from the tracks and I used to tell time at night by hearing the whistle. It would blow and I knew it was time to put my book down and go to sleep. Later, in college, as my friends and I would stand out in the snow talking, the train would signal the time to leave for study, and wed make our own tracks off to our own dorms.
As for the Spirit, he was the trains, and walking down this old trail was like tracing a finger down a scar; remembering where it came from, how it happened, how the warm blood felt as it flowed, and the pain of the healing scab. He took drag after drag of his cigarette, flicking the butt away and starting another. He knew every inch of the track and he walked this part with me.
We continued quietly, until the track ended at a paved bike path. We stepped off the iron and onto the asphalt. The stones and broken glass poked at our feet. I put on my shoes and the American Spirit gave me a hug, kissing my cheek with his nicotine stained lips.
"Follow me home?" he asked, his beautiful but deeply sunken eyes shined bright against the dark bags circling them.
"Where is it?" I asked.
His eyes grew distant and he looked down to where the asphalt enveloped the worn iron rails.
"I don't remember anymore."