I learned my lesson well, not to discuss work here. So I won't. All I know is that I've spent the last week with evil green faeries aplenty, and inappropriateness ad naeseum, and the spectre of my future getting more and more spectral by the moment.
I think we're going to Austin now. Hell, London's too cold anyway. All I know is that we're leaving soon...at least, I think it'll be soon. I hope it'll be soon. Honestly, I have no idea what's up. Everything's in flux. Everything's uncertain. We can't even pretend that we can count on anything but each other anymore, and we're both a bit of a mess.
I'm slipping into a hopelessness-born ennui as the subconscious part of myself that decides what to do next begins to tire of chasing its tail. I was going to work overseas in a humanitarian capacity - but wait, I sure can't do that - and I need to break free of this and find something to do that doesn't pour boiling oil over my dignity - but wait, I can't do that either - and I need to move myself physically to a place that doesn't continually suggest that what I'm doing with my life isn't detrimental to mind and body - but I'm stuck here until things sort themselves out...which they won't, as far as I can see...and so there you have it. Stuck, stuck, stuck. And getting fucking bitter about it, thankyouverymuch.
I had my first private lesson today. It wasn't much to discuss, but it's another promise kept.
Every once in a while, do you feel your own mortality jump out of the little closet it lives in inside your head and walk around scaring the part of you that's trying to keep your sanity intact?
I don't know if I snapped today because of the rapidly-decaying traffic situation around here (good lord, it feels like they're trying to kill me), or my impending crossing-the-quarter-century-line birthday, or all the talk mom and dad are doing about financial planning for the end of the game. In any case, at an unlogically random point this morning I went into a sort of morbid emotional shutdown, victim of an unshakeable feedback loop about - well - death. What I haven't done, and what I won't ever do, and the infinite tininess of the space my death would leave behind it. It pulled me chokingly deep, the sucking fissure of my own too-much-thinking, and left me gasping for reasons to continue with the day. And it left me lonely - horribly, crushingly lonely - and hollow, and burned. Sitting a trot shook the worst of it out of me - thanks, Nebraska, with your uneven gait and your ready nuzzle - but I'm really just beginning to put myself back together.
Sometimes, I wish I could just laugh, so the world could laugh with me - instead of the alternative.
It's a long climb to the top, so we fill it with Peter Bjorn and John, and some country music, and the smash of pumpkins.
We swish by the two abandoned ski resorts that lie sleeping up here - wrapped in orange netting-fence, ski lift benches rocking discontentedly in the biting breeze. I fantasize about owning one of them. Skiing in winter, horses in summer. Hiking all the time (with snowshoes, occasionally). A pub called The Snowplow. A boutique hotel, with really awesome beds and fluffy iinens and a cigar lounge with big, plush club chairs and a view of - well - the heart-pounding cleft of the Angeles Crest that surely appears over the ridge at the top of this paralyzed lift. Our mascot, Winston. The phantom plans occupy me until the front bumper nudges a snowdrift just off the road.
It's amazing, this peace. This pine-needle air, which brings with it an armful of memories of happiness past, and I'm reliving them here with your fingers running through my red hair.
We are silent. The only sound here is the melting of the trees, making little snowball-fight sounds as the ice releases from high branches and makes its hesitant way to the damp, redolent earth.