I'll always think about this place and miss the people there.Wednesday, September 9, 2009
A Bee Lectures Me in Marxism
I had a dream about just that. A dust-covered bee in its last gasps of life told me its deepest political convictions, but the only precise beewords I remember are, "For me, [the problem] is less about power and more about alienated labor."
Unsurprising, after the conversation I had with David about work, health care, and other domestic (as in national) gripes until much too late last night/early this morning. We're going to Turkey or Morocco or Algeria within the year, somehow or other. Your imagination is more qualified to fill in the gaps than is my ability to explain how we arrived at the conclusion.
I keep hyperventilating and yawning. That is an issue for the 'quitting' thread. Without having to see a doctor, I can pretty well infer that if this isn't walking pneumonia (somewhat unlikely, given my age), then it's chronic bronchitis, which is usually exacerbated, if not directly caused, by smoking.
The first problem with the obvious answer--'Quit smoking right-fucking-now, dumbass'--is that I am certain that the last time I had a lingering respiratory infection like this in April, the situation was actually complicated by my attempt to quit smoking at the same time that I was trying to purge the illness. It was too much for my cilia to handle without laying me up totally useless for a couple of weeks, even with the whole giving in to taking antibiotics thing.
That's exactly what happened. I became so sick that I could not possibly have done anything productive for several weeks, which made me really depressed and generally got me into a funk that took a long time to get over. This is something that I cannot afford right now. It is not that I don't believe quitting is worth my time and effort, it's just that I would have to plan for the inevitable illness that would ensue, unless, of course, I start the quit project when I am relatively healthy in the first place. I know that this logic sounds counterintuitive or plain silly to a nonsmoker, or maybe even a lightly-addicted smoker, but the people who know what I mean will know what I mean.
...Which brings me to the next thing I have to think about. I want to try Chantix this time. I could spend hours explaining how I got from my general anti-pharmaceutical stance to this particular conclusion, but I've already done the work of thinking really hard about it, and so I won't. Suffice it to say that the resolution stems from observation of facts about my past attempts to quit. The problem with making it happen is a money issue.
I have the prescription already. I got it when I still had insurance from the public school job, and the doctor was happy to give it to me, even when I explained that I was not sure if or when I would want to have it filled. However, in my current insuranceless situation, enough of the drug to get me started would cost at least $100. This is another expense that I will need to plan for, and that cannot happen right now.
Looking at the research I can find about treating whatever chest crap I have going on right now, it appears that I may have enough Cipro left over from the neurotic doctor, (different one from the Chantix lady, who was awesome) who gave me way too much of it before I left for Guatemala, to self-medicate in the event that I get desperate to breathe more easily. I don't think I will need it, because the whole thing seems to be on the outs, but this is still a small comfort. I need to get a little better before I can think about going through the taxing experience of quitting.
This has been a brain-dump about bumblebee comrades covered in white dust and microbes covered in smoke. It is not yet time to set a quit date. I'll let you know when I get the memo.
Unsurprising, after the conversation I had with David about work, health care, and other domestic (as in national) gripes until much too late last night/early this morning. We're going to Turkey or Morocco or Algeria within the year, somehow or other. Your imagination is more qualified to fill in the gaps than is my ability to explain how we arrived at the conclusion.
I keep hyperventilating and yawning. That is an issue for the 'quitting' thread. Without having to see a doctor, I can pretty well infer that if this isn't walking pneumonia (somewhat unlikely, given my age), then it's chronic bronchitis, which is usually exacerbated, if not directly caused, by smoking.
The first problem with the obvious answer--'Quit smoking right-fucking-now, dumbass'--is that I am certain that the last time I had a lingering respiratory infection like this in April, the situation was actually complicated by my attempt to quit smoking at the same time that I was trying to purge the illness. It was too much for my cilia to handle without laying me up totally useless for a couple of weeks, even with the whole giving in to taking antibiotics thing.
That's exactly what happened. I became so sick that I could not possibly have done anything productive for several weeks, which made me really depressed and generally got me into a funk that took a long time to get over. This is something that I cannot afford right now. It is not that I don't believe quitting is worth my time and effort, it's just that I would have to plan for the inevitable illness that would ensue, unless, of course, I start the quit project when I am relatively healthy in the first place. I know that this logic sounds counterintuitive or plain silly to a nonsmoker, or maybe even a lightly-addicted smoker, but the people who know what I mean will know what I mean.
...Which brings me to the next thing I have to think about. I want to try Chantix this time. I could spend hours explaining how I got from my general anti-pharmaceutical stance to this particular conclusion, but I've already done the work of thinking really hard about it, and so I won't. Suffice it to say that the resolution stems from observation of facts about my past attempts to quit. The problem with making it happen is a money issue.
I have the prescription already. I got it when I still had insurance from the public school job, and the doctor was happy to give it to me, even when I explained that I was not sure if or when I would want to have it filled. However, in my current insuranceless situation, enough of the drug to get me started would cost at least $100. This is another expense that I will need to plan for, and that cannot happen right now.
Looking at the research I can find about treating whatever chest crap I have going on right now, it appears that I may have enough Cipro left over from the neurotic doctor, (different one from the Chantix lady, who was awesome) who gave me way too much of it before I left for Guatemala, to self-medicate in the event that I get desperate to breathe more easily. I don't think I will need it, because the whole thing seems to be on the outs, but this is still a small comfort. I need to get a little better before I can think about going through the taxing experience of quitting.
This has been a brain-dump about bumblebee comrades covered in white dust and microbes covered in smoke. It is not yet time to set a quit date. I'll let you know when I get the memo.
The Tranny Ecuadorian Soul of Bosch Returns, and Happy Birthday Anne
I'll start by directing you to a good thing. First, I have to say thanks to Grace of Design*Sponge, Peter of Blend Photography, and Rachel of School House for the permissions to use your work in this blog. I'll be posting about Peter and Rachel soon.
Back to the treats. Design*Sponge has released some free desktop wallpapers by Lena Corwin and Deanne Cheuk that are just precious (as my great aunt Sarah Jane would say). You can get them here. Check out this manic thing, which I think looks like a girly 'Busy World of Richard Scarry' type of landscape, or like bizarre, half-comprehending cave drawings made by a Cro-Magnon whiz kid after visiting the future...
The others from August are nice too. Very over-the-top decorative floral print jobbies that rather remind me of what might have happened if Hieronymous Bosch had had a queenish side. I can just see the decorating show potential there.
Speaking of art that can easily be mistaken for the products of heavy drug use, check out Helado Negro. David and I saw them play last night at a free production by WUAG at the amazing space over at Lyndon Street Artworks. It would be hard to catch me describing anything this way normally, but this is some groovy, spacious Latin soul. Of course, David and I were wishing that the improvised parts had been longer.
Off to teach some English. I'll let you know how our dinner date for Anne's birthday went. (That's my mother out-law.) I am going to be in trouble with my second class of the day if I don't manage to grade their essays before they get there, so it's bound to be a busy day with no breaks. Yikes. Off I go.
Back to the treats. Design*Sponge has released some free desktop wallpapers by Lena Corwin and Deanne Cheuk that are just precious (as my great aunt Sarah Jane would say). You can get them here. Check out this manic thing, which I think looks like a girly 'Busy World of Richard Scarry' type of landscape, or like bizarre, half-comprehending cave drawings made by a Cro-Magnon whiz kid after visiting the future...
Speaking of art that can easily be mistaken for the products of heavy drug use, check out Helado Negro. David and I saw them play last night at a free production by WUAG at the amazing space over at Lyndon Street Artworks. It would be hard to catch me describing anything this way normally, but this is some groovy, spacious Latin soul. Of course, David and I were wishing that the improvised parts had been longer.
Off to teach some English. I'll let you know how our dinner date for Anne's birthday went. (That's my mother out-law.) I am going to be in trouble with my second class of the day if I don't manage to grade their essays before they get there, so it's bound to be a busy day with no breaks. Yikes. Off I go.
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
A Few Bands I Miss Seeing
Living in Asheville was a kind of musical gluttony. It's not that there aren't interesting things going on in Greensboro, but I certainly miss being able to go see these bands play live.
- Tony Wain and the Payne. Nobody here seems to be into this kind of crunky tonk. I heart you, Andrew and Aaron. I mean, not just you, but...hey, this is my list.
- Anything that Shane, Ryan, and those boys ever touch, like Ahleuchatistas--here's their official site--(coming to play here at CFBG on September 26th, yeeeehaw) Ashes in Order, Lulo, and although I never saw them play together, Pilgrim. I may be missing a project or two. I never got to see Doom Ribbons or Mind vs. Target! but I know I would miss them too if I had. I might be more embarrassed to be so frank about my love for this group of musicians if it weren't for the fact that I have already made it clear--I get clumsy and starstruck around those guys. I nearly had a heart attack when one of them asked me to help him book this show at CFBG...and I think it showed on the interweb EKG. *Sigh* I'll never be cool.
- Body of John the Baptist. Nathanael is a doomy little lullaby bird, and Jamie is the master of wall-of-sound analog synth magic.
- Firecracker Jazz Band. Holy crap this band is fun to see live, especially at the Town Pump in Black Mountain.
- The Sexpatriates. The Tower of Bower is almost as sexy as he thinks he is, and they create utter balls-out (sometimes quite literally) rock and roll mayhem.
- The Reigning Sound. Like a fine, well-seasoned Cabernet. Of rock.
- Soft Opening. More of Jamie's autistically rigorous taste and geetar chops, and for fuck's sake, bring earplugs.
- All the street bands that play all sorts of gypsy punk fusions who are probably too cool to have their music up on the web. Please, Circus Band, correct me if I am mistaken.
Extemporaneous Falafel
Mmmm. Greek yogurt with pecans and honey. Black tea with milk and more honey. Perusing the blog I am wicked addicted to, Design*Sponge. The author's job is on my top ten list of things I might have loved to do with my life--right up there with documentary photography--if it hadn't been for this pesky desire to serve people. I sound bitter, but that's far from the truth. Teaching is where it's at...until it's not anymore, of course.
Soon I'll post links to a blog space that David and I are launching sometime later this month, which will document the first Ex.Tempo Series event. Here is the invitation we made:
Only a few of the people we initially invited made it this time, but I think it will take a few times before people realize that it really is a thing, and that it really is lots of fun. It seems that David has a new admirer, too, who wants to play more regularly.
I made fantastic falafel burgers for everyone. I have no idea if I'm doing it right, but it sure does taste good. I just mash up chick peas, a little flour, tons of garlic, tons of chopped parsley, and salt and pepper, then moosh them into patties and bread them with a mixture of flour and spices. Then I shallow-fry them in about 1/2" of peanut oil. The oil gets very dark and starts smoking, and I have to switch it out halfway through. My tzatziki doesn't follow any particular recipe, either. Nevertheless, them shits is good.
The next day, I made food again for the We Rock Collective guys, at which point I started hearing them call me 'Ms. Cooper.' Aurgh. Anyway, dinner was great: homemade tortillas with raw veggie salad tossed in lime blackberry vinaigrette and yogurt (collaborative effort on the sauce) with parsley and mint. I love food, and I love having people around me to feed, and I love having time to do it. I need to remember how happy it makes me to feed people as I navigate the career world--this could be a serious consideration, part of a healthy depression-avoidance plan. Of course, some day I may have little choice in the matter. If anything happens to dad, I might have to figure out what to do with the restaurant. I have thought about turning it into a happy, hormone-free pig sort of barbecue place, but somehow I think that the clientele would run screaming.
Today's pass-alongs:
- Check out these gorgeous spiders (and gorgeous everything) at the Montague Projects Blog.
- And remember, ladies, that if you're not having enough fun, you can always find some priests and do this... (c/o Chicks and Bikes)
Soon I'll post links to a blog space that David and I are launching sometime later this month, which will document the first Ex.Tempo Series event. Here is the invitation we made:
I made fantastic falafel burgers for everyone. I have no idea if I'm doing it right, but it sure does taste good. I just mash up chick peas, a little flour, tons of garlic, tons of chopped parsley, and salt and pepper, then moosh them into patties and bread them with a mixture of flour and spices. Then I shallow-fry them in about 1/2" of peanut oil. The oil gets very dark and starts smoking, and I have to switch it out halfway through. My tzatziki doesn't follow any particular recipe, either. Nevertheless, them shits is good.
The next day, I made food again for the We Rock Collective guys, at which point I started hearing them call me 'Ms. Cooper.' Aurgh. Anyway, dinner was great: homemade tortillas with raw veggie salad tossed in lime blackberry vinaigrette and yogurt (collaborative effort on the sauce) with parsley and mint. I love food, and I love having people around me to feed, and I love having time to do it. I need to remember how happy it makes me to feed people as I navigate the career world--this could be a serious consideration, part of a healthy depression-avoidance plan. Of course, some day I may have little choice in the matter. If anything happens to dad, I might have to figure out what to do with the restaurant. I have thought about turning it into a happy, hormone-free pig sort of barbecue place, but somehow I think that the clientele would run screaming.
Today's pass-alongs:
- Check out these gorgeous spiders (and gorgeous everything) at the Montague Projects Blog.
- And remember, ladies, that if you're not having enough fun, you can always find some priests and do this... (c/o Chicks and Bikes)
Re-vision Explained/Disclaimer
I haven't posted here in a long time, mostly because I could never figure out a unifying concept for this space, and I got discouraged along the way somewhere. Life has changed in significant ways since I tried blogging the first time, and it is bound to change a lot more. I have had a major move, a trip to Central America, an extended period of poverty, and a career shift since then, not to mention falling in love. But I think it is time to come back and try again. I have deleted a few things and changed the domain name.
This time, I intend to embrace miscellany. For example, the 'quit smoking' thread will appear alongside any other posts, but it is the expression of a separate writing goal. I may often want to use this space the way many do, as a list of stuff I like on the web. Sometimes it may be recipes or songs or relics from different projects (David and I have been very industrious little creatrons lately). I would also be interested in any participation, collaboration, or tag-team blogging that anyone may fancy, so do send me a message if you have ideas.
I also would like to be less shy about writing things I am scared the wrong people may read. Furthermore, people who touch the lives of chronic writers must understand that they may at some point be written about, and I must keep in mind that no one ever likes what anyone has written about them and say to hell with it. Maybe we could all stand to be a bit more honest with each other. Besides, it's not as if I won't give readers plenty of opportunities to judge me, if they choose. I can commit to be at least as harsh with myself as I am with anyone else.
Another issue entirely is the fact that I am a teacher, and anything I say could result in public crucifixion. There is a long cultural history in our country of holding teachers to puritanical standards of conventional morality. It doesn't help matters, I'm sure, that I happen to be an unshaven anarcha-feminist who enjoys her sexuality and thinks that the word 'fuck' is one of the most useful terms in our language. So, if any of my students have ended up here, enjoy it at your own risk, and try to have a bit of perspective. Keep in mind that freedom of speech is a delicate abstraction that we have to actively defend and exercise, and that I am a real person with a home and a life and some not-so-tidy thoughts, just like you.
It's great to be back. Fall should be very interesting this year.
Ciao,
A. C.
This time, I intend to embrace miscellany. For example, the 'quit smoking' thread will appear alongside any other posts, but it is the expression of a separate writing goal. I may often want to use this space the way many do, as a list of stuff I like on the web. Sometimes it may be recipes or songs or relics from different projects (David and I have been very industrious little creatrons lately). I would also be interested in any participation, collaboration, or tag-team blogging that anyone may fancy, so do send me a message if you have ideas.
I also would like to be less shy about writing things I am scared the wrong people may read. Furthermore, people who touch the lives of chronic writers must understand that they may at some point be written about, and I must keep in mind that no one ever likes what anyone has written about them and say to hell with it. Maybe we could all stand to be a bit more honest with each other. Besides, it's not as if I won't give readers plenty of opportunities to judge me, if they choose. I can commit to be at least as harsh with myself as I am with anyone else.
Another issue entirely is the fact that I am a teacher, and anything I say could result in public crucifixion. There is a long cultural history in our country of holding teachers to puritanical standards of conventional morality. It doesn't help matters, I'm sure, that I happen to be an unshaven anarcha-feminist who enjoys her sexuality and thinks that the word 'fuck' is one of the most useful terms in our language. So, if any of my students have ended up here, enjoy it at your own risk, and try to have a bit of perspective. Keep in mind that freedom of speech is a delicate abstraction that we have to actively defend and exercise, and that I am a real person with a home and a life and some not-so-tidy thoughts, just like you.
It's great to be back. Fall should be very interesting this year.
Ciao,
A. C.
Monday, September 7, 2009
Decision Day: A Smoker's Story
I will try to be as prosy about all this as my English major constitution can handle. I am going to try to quit smoking (again). There, I said it. I have this diary going now, so that I can do things differently this time. The ways I have already tried don't work, and God is made up so he can't help me either.
I don't know anyone who once was as much of an addict as I am and has become a successful quitter--only lots of people who have quit many times, or who don't even think about quitting. Be back soon--gotta cook dinner after I smoke a cigarette. *Groan*
--------------------------
Damn, that was some good kale and butternut squash. Too bad you weren't very hungry, David.
So here's the deal. My mother is a cancer survivor. My father is an asthmatic. They both smoke--a lot--and have since I can remember. I know mom did not smoke while she was pregnant with me, but she may as well have, since by the time I was three or four they were smoking in the house. I grew up in rural-as-fuck eastern North Carolina, where the entire local economy is based on tobacco and people sport bumper stickers that say, "Tobacco farmers are survivors, not killers." And you know, on a very important level, that is true.
Anyway, back to the sordid family medical history. I never met my aunt, my dad's sister, because she died of skin cancer before I was born. My dad's father, Grandpa Zeke, died of a heart attack when I was still a toddler. His bereaved wife, my grandmother, is currently incapacitated by a stroke, the function of which (we all know but cannot say) was to make manifest her despair, as our bodies will do. My dear, dear grandfather on my mother's side died five years ago of gut cancer while reading in his favorite white recliner after a full day of work. He was a doctor--and not some specialist either, but a military medic turned goddam bona fide family practitioner. I loved him. Shit, I loved him. Anyhow, his wife, my grandmother, had died of encephalitis when my mom was seven. Suddenly. Bam. Dead. Three young children left behind with a bunch of pretty pictures in sepia of this magical woman who had made paper dolls and written songs for money during the war...
Gus's dad and Gus are both loonies. That's my distant cousin, my former kissin' cousin. But to look at us, I wonder if there isn't some doubling back in the family tree somewhere. Anyhow, those two are totally crazy, and Gus is bound to end up in a place with clean white walls like his dad, if he doesn't off himself first.
Point being, the prognosis is not good for me. The problem with this is that I want to live to be old. Preferably really, really old--as long as I can remember my name and go to the bathroom alone. With all the genetic shit I have to worry about, it's unlikely that smoking is a sustainable part of my eighty-year plan.
I have to set this aside for now, because David and I have an after dinner date to arrange a country punk version of "Hard to Be Human" by The Mekons...
----------------
Back again. I am on a roll this evening. It feels like bloodletting that needed to happen. Songmaking went well. I had practiced this simple little bass line so many times that I almost had it, so David seemed impressed. He is the soul of patience and other virtues. But I'll get back to him.
My little home village in eastern North Carolina was, shall we say, a tobacco-positive environment. It was expected of youngsters to pick up smoking at some point, and although I rarely hung around immediate neighbors--they tended to end up married and with child within a year of graduating high school, so I rarely found much in common with them--the force of the particular smoker-y aspect of local culture had its effect on me. I have trouble thinking of anyone from that town who isn't a smoker. And there I grew up, climbing magnolia trees, watching ants, riding horses, reading books, and often watching entirely too much television. (Once I moved out of my parents' home, I would not have a TV around me. I still haven't owned one in seven years, and have no plans to revisit that mind-suck.)
Around age thirteen, I started hanging out with older boys. I mean, to be fair, there were girls around too, but all those girls ever talked about was the boys we hung around. My cousin Derek initiated me into this weird world of future high school dropouts where guys sat around in their bedrooms, smoked pot, played video games, and stared at their tie-dyed curtains. And being thirteen, I thought that these practices must be very cool. It took me until college to enjoy smoking pot, but while associating with those boys, I certainly started (socially) smoking the occasional cigarette like I had been born to do it.
I loved the screen it provided between me and the world, me and my boredom, me and the crashing disappointment of The Other. Once I started making friends who were old enough to buy me cigarettes, it was on. I never had to be bored or anxious again! No more waiting, scratching my elbows, trying to figure out what to look at without being noticed by the wrong people in the wrong way. No need to come up with some lame excuse for why I want to go outside and get away from all these people; "I need a cigarette" is such a perfectly acceptable excuse! I never had to feel uncomfortable during those long, awkward waiting periods between the time when we arrived at some punk show (the youngest people there, and invariably, my friend trying to hook up with some boy) and when it actually started, or between sets, or on the drive home when there were way too many people in the car! I would always have something to do with my hands, a little glowing point to stare at, a slightly harsh sensation in my lungs to keep me rooted in the present spatio-temporal matrix. Or something like that.
It may not fit into this tidy narrative I am weaving. I am suspicious of my own story, because I know that nothing is so simple. Perhaps over time I will tell fifty conflicting stories that are all true. And I still haven't gotten past middle school/early high school! So many half-lies to tell to arrive back at the conclusion: it's nearly time to quit. And that's the truth, Routh. Until next time.
I don't know anyone who once was as much of an addict as I am and has become a successful quitter--only lots of people who have quit many times, or who don't even think about quitting. Be back soon--gotta cook dinner after I smoke a cigarette. *Groan*
--------------------------
Damn, that was some good kale and butternut squash. Too bad you weren't very hungry, David.
So here's the deal. My mother is a cancer survivor. My father is an asthmatic. They both smoke--a lot--and have since I can remember. I know mom did not smoke while she was pregnant with me, but she may as well have, since by the time I was three or four they were smoking in the house. I grew up in rural-as-fuck eastern North Carolina, where the entire local economy is based on tobacco and people sport bumper stickers that say, "Tobacco farmers are survivors, not killers." And you know, on a very important level, that is true.
Anyway, back to the sordid family medical history. I never met my aunt, my dad's sister, because she died of skin cancer before I was born. My dad's father, Grandpa Zeke, died of a heart attack when I was still a toddler. His bereaved wife, my grandmother, is currently incapacitated by a stroke, the function of which (we all know but cannot say) was to make manifest her despair, as our bodies will do. My dear, dear grandfather on my mother's side died five years ago of gut cancer while reading in his favorite white recliner after a full day of work. He was a doctor--and not some specialist either, but a military medic turned goddam bona fide family practitioner. I loved him. Shit, I loved him. Anyhow, his wife, my grandmother, had died of encephalitis when my mom was seven. Suddenly. Bam. Dead. Three young children left behind with a bunch of pretty pictures in sepia of this magical woman who had made paper dolls and written songs for money during the war...
Gus's dad and Gus are both loonies. That's my distant cousin, my former kissin' cousin. But to look at us, I wonder if there isn't some doubling back in the family tree somewhere. Anyhow, those two are totally crazy, and Gus is bound to end up in a place with clean white walls like his dad, if he doesn't off himself first.
Point being, the prognosis is not good for me. The problem with this is that I want to live to be old. Preferably really, really old--as long as I can remember my name and go to the bathroom alone. With all the genetic shit I have to worry about, it's unlikely that smoking is a sustainable part of my eighty-year plan.
I have to set this aside for now, because David and I have an after dinner date to arrange a country punk version of "Hard to Be Human" by The Mekons...
----------------
Back again. I am on a roll this evening. It feels like bloodletting that needed to happen. Songmaking went well. I had practiced this simple little bass line so many times that I almost had it, so David seemed impressed. He is the soul of patience and other virtues. But I'll get back to him.
My little home village in eastern North Carolina was, shall we say, a tobacco-positive environment. It was expected of youngsters to pick up smoking at some point, and although I rarely hung around immediate neighbors--they tended to end up married and with child within a year of graduating high school, so I rarely found much in common with them--the force of the particular smoker-y aspect of local culture had its effect on me. I have trouble thinking of anyone from that town who isn't a smoker. And there I grew up, climbing magnolia trees, watching ants, riding horses, reading books, and often watching entirely too much television. (Once I moved out of my parents' home, I would not have a TV around me. I still haven't owned one in seven years, and have no plans to revisit that mind-suck.)
Around age thirteen, I started hanging out with older boys. I mean, to be fair, there were girls around too, but all those girls ever talked about was the boys we hung around. My cousin Derek initiated me into this weird world of future high school dropouts where guys sat around in their bedrooms, smoked pot, played video games, and stared at their tie-dyed curtains. And being thirteen, I thought that these practices must be very cool. It took me until college to enjoy smoking pot, but while associating with those boys, I certainly started (socially) smoking the occasional cigarette like I had been born to do it.
I loved the screen it provided between me and the world, me and my boredom, me and the crashing disappointment of The Other. Once I started making friends who were old enough to buy me cigarettes, it was on. I never had to be bored or anxious again! No more waiting, scratching my elbows, trying to figure out what to look at without being noticed by the wrong people in the wrong way. No need to come up with some lame excuse for why I want to go outside and get away from all these people; "I need a cigarette" is such a perfectly acceptable excuse! I never had to feel uncomfortable during those long, awkward waiting periods between the time when we arrived at some punk show (the youngest people there, and invariably, my friend trying to hook up with some boy) and when it actually started, or between sets, or on the drive home when there were way too many people in the car! I would always have something to do with my hands, a little glowing point to stare at, a slightly harsh sensation in my lungs to keep me rooted in the present spatio-temporal matrix. Or something like that.
It may not fit into this tidy narrative I am weaving. I am suspicious of my own story, because I know that nothing is so simple. Perhaps over time I will tell fifty conflicting stories that are all true. And I still haven't gotten past middle school/early high school! So many half-lies to tell to arrive back at the conclusion: it's nearly time to quit. And that's the truth, Routh. Until next time.
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