I have grown extremely possessive of my free time. But it's such false possession; I'm letting my need for sleep own me. Sunday events that require getting up at a particular hour (in the morning!) and driving many miles? I say maybe; maybe becomes yes by default, but in my mind, maybe always meant something more like, "maybe if I happen to wake up on time." In my mind, it's always, "MY weekend! MINE!!" I know there's no sleep bank, but I like to feel that I'm making up for all those six-hour nights during the week.
Oh, and how I yearn for a long, stirring courtship (and the crinkling of an eye, as well, as long as it's a lovely one). I've been wondering for years now why no one seems to go on dates. And why I never get asked on dates. And then I realize that I do get asked on dates, but the askers are invariably either Random Guys in Bars Who Are Drunk, or Brennan Ogden Kaye, who creeped me out even before he showed me his Prince Albert when I asked him not to. So yes, painful, heart-wrenching, extended unrequited longing shall hereby be replaced by forthrightness among those shy boys that I favor. But then they won't be so charmingly shy anymore. Wait, I never liked shy boys anyway. I go for those hott philosophers who have such amazingly sexy minds and won't let me get a word in edgewise. Wait, no, I like when they actually want to engage me in a discourse on La Gaya Scienza, which I'm trying to carry around as conspicuously as possible. The ones who want to talk about soul music and its relation to country music. (Damn that movie, Ray, for bringing this connection to the forefront of the minds of the youth! But bless it too, I suppose, for it may bring these disparate minds together, in time. Or it may just cause overgrown frat boys on BART to butcher Hit the Road, Jack while I seethe over the crossword.) The ones who want to play outside. The ones who don't contend that they are smarter than I am, because anyone who is actually smarter than I am is smart enough not to say so. The ones who are sharp but not snide. The ones who swing between sarcasm and sincerity in unselfconscious ways. The ones who won't stop speaking to me over what they stupidly perceive as "that clinic bullshit."
But hm, am I ready to move to the big city? Am I? I say I want to live somewhere pretty, yet central to many forms of public transportation so that I can still have those enormous, self-centered gatherings that I crave. But these too shall pass, as people go their separate ways. And perhaps instead of moving to the City, I want to move further, to LA, Chicago, or a farm in the middle of nowhere. Do I waste a move now? Sign a year lease and risk another year of stagnation? Or do I keep the lovely front porch, the month-to-month, the hippie landlord, and moldy bathroom ceiling? Will I ever be as flighty and impulsive as I leave myself room to be?
2 comments:
yes, let's move to the city. Waste a move. it's time. remember the afternoon bar?! while it's still afternoon, we must move!
This post, by the way, was in response to this post on sexpigeon:
I offer this as a plaint; you see, I have trouble hanging out with you, girl, because of the sleaze which runs through—and fuels—your subculture. I am sorry, I am a romantic. The gas-bag cackling you all do over each other's fuck-lives, it makes me sad, bored, uncomfortable. Ah, I don't know. Doesn't anyone else enjoy a long, stirring courtship and the crinkling of an eye?
Look here, compatriots: I recommend the city. For you are developing a cash flow and nearing the tail-end of your reckless youth all at once. The city is made for you. Come, relax, have a crêpe. Let's walk around smoking, let's stop in an afternoon bar. The light is so diffuse and I want to kiss your forehead. Look: You will likely never live in a city if you don't bother to now. From Oakland to the suburbs—are you ready for that? I can only hope not. Look at you, you're already getting dumpy, your taste for well-cut jeans slackens every year. Come, we'll go shopping. You feel better when you look better. Honestly. We'll take a train out to the beach, it's only $1.25. We'll stop in the fruit stores and eat free samples. Blood oranges. Come. Stay. Out gaits with lengthen, our appreciations deepen. Look: If you don't move soon, you will keep running around like this. You will prowl for the saddest sort of sex and you'll never know, you'll never know—you'll never know anything about magic.
Look: When you've gone and fucked your final friend, to where will you turn? I offer you the city. Please come.
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