I finished a journal last week—another volume in the life of megh, bringing with it a sense of accomplishment “I did it!” did what? and the ominous intimidation of a brand new blank book waiting (though my journaling is sporadic, I already have another one gilded flowery).
The last one took me about a year, late July to August. Strange to attach ending and starting over to a life continuous—forcing meaning on the last page, looking forward on the blank of the next, and the most curious impulse to control, to censor myself in the unknown, fear-grudging the judgment of my future selves.
Not having re-signed the lease at my Prospect Park home of two years, I don’t know where I’ll be in September. As of last week, Minneapolis was settled for me, having landed a job in a library at the university. I applied elsewhere—everywhere, countrywide—to no avail. I know how I feel about this.
Last Wednesday morning I decided to drive to my internship to avoid bikemuck on my back riding in the rain. I opened my car door and oops, what’s the ashtray doing in the footwell? Eye wander. Aw hell. Yes. My first car stereo heist. The thief busted the lock on the passenger side door permanently damaging it, cracked the console and rifled hrough my CDs… but didn’t take any, despite their full case and insert resell viability. I should be thankful for that, but really, all I feel is ignominy that the inconsiderate asshole who stole my stereo also thinks my taste in music sucks.
What violation. What crude discrimination. I keep reaching for a volume knob that isn’t there, a blind hand pushing through the wire-creeping hole, the technobeating heart torn out of my vehicle, and t’s the least of present worries, really, it is, but constantly announcing itself with its silence.
(Mars Volta’s much me-lauded Frances the Mute was in the player at the time—many thanks to Fake for replacing it for me.)
In other news, a few weeks ago I had the pleasure of tagging along to Lake Tahoe with my friend Colin and various other cats. Colin won airfare and nine nights accommodation at a million dollar condo. Yep. And he invited us all along, because he rules (I visited for only the second half, but it was plenty). We stayed in luxury in Incline Village, Nevada, and did loads of not a damn thing at all, swimming, kayaking, hiking, sunsoaking, saunaing, Reno gambling, grilling and general merrymaking. I’m tanner now than I’ve been in years with freckles I haven’t seen since I was twelve. Viddy the evidence.
Regular visitors have likely noticed a lack of updated news. Hard in coming it is these days, and I suspect it shall be worse with an intensified work schedule and the possibility of no home internets, at least for awhile.
I love you, deepsicks. But I want to love other things too.