Relocating. It’s exciting, but once the boxes are unpacked, the figuring out the lay of the land is done and the maps have been drawn, what a terror.
I guess getting out of a city I came to loath, (much like Thompson in his accounts on Las Vegas), should feel good. But alas, One still gets homesick for the familiar. As shitty as it may be.
I’ve been on the nomadic path for 13 years now, you’re probably thinking, “Bitch, you should be used to it.” And I suppose I should, at least that’s what I tell myself. But in every move, as hasty as it may have been in the past, I’ve had something lined up. People, places and things.
I went into this blind, let up the reigns of control I so carefully hold on my life and decided to take a risk. Move someplace I had never been, not knowing any persons and to retire to a more spacious dwelling to write. Who knew that would lead to crying jags, rabid searching online for plane tickets and looking up the legalities of trying to break a lease?
New York was the first place I had put down roots, and while I thought they were shallow and rotting, I guess they ran deeper and were stronger than I thought. I’d never stayed in one place longer than six months after my young adolescence.
Granted I stayed in the same apartment in New York because moving in that city is a bother and everybody has their hand out. It’s not cheap nor easy, so there I stayed. Roots planted.
Liking to think of myself as the borderline sociopath that I’ve been labeled as, I find it hard to deal with feelings when they do come. What is this? Happiness, fear, sadness? I guess I had always drowned their shards with drugs and booze before. So here I sit with them. Staring them in the face and wishing I could extinguish them like a candle that is no longer needed to light the way. Maybe I just need a bigger candle.
I also underestimated the importance of the few friendships I had back home. There were only a few. And one only visited from a foreign country. I truly cared about them and it was nice to get out once and a while and have someone to talk to. And seeing as I don’t like going out much, it was just nice to have the choice to turn down an outing. Now there are no choices. It’s quiet. It’s foreign and it’s strange.
At least today I am able to write, my muse has slowly crept back in and maybe relit the candle. I can turn away from the faces of the ugly half-hearted feelings and put my thoughts down on the proverbial pad of paper. Fucking electronics, but there’s no use for that rant in here.
New York is circling the drain and yes, in my heart I know I made the right choice to take flight, but I have yet to call Seattle home. It’s nice here, sunny or raining. My two favorite things. They seem...productive.
I searched out the area yesterday, not having any errands to run. I went to the art museum. It was indeed, in fact, pathetic. So that dampened my mood even more. I had to fight back the urge to either cry or vomit, because I would have done anything to be zipped back to the MET, standing in my favorite period rooms. Pre-French Revolution.
I went shopping on my way up the hill to home, and bought some new lingerie. “Never underestimate the power of new drawers,” my friend in New York had told me once. So I bought a few bras and new panties and thought that might fix it.
Unfortunately my mental state was too far gone and the self-wallowing had already commenced. I got home and fell apart. Hatefully and sadly I fell to pieces.
After several hours of this and messages to my friend back at my previous home in the East, I thought it best to shower and get dressed.
I put on my new lacy bralette and looked at myself in the mirror. I may feel like shit, but at least I didn’t look it. It’s always the little things that save us from total and utter insanity. Even if it is out of pure narcissism.
The thoughts of whiskey had previously danced through my head, it had been almost a year since that beast showed up. But I covered it in black lace and dried my hair. My attempt was to pretty up the exterior and see if it didn’t rub off on the interior, and by god, (for lack of a better term), it did.
Today my face is swollen and I feel like a total idiot for letting homesickness for a dying and tragic place get to me. It seems folly. I feel somewhat ridiculous and my snake’s mind is annoyed with me. I just keep telling it, “sometimes I have to be human, I can’t always be the top predator in the game,” which seems to help.
Fucking adjustment to change. Somewhere, somebody said, one of the theys, that change is one of the main things our species doesn’t adapt well to. Moving, being on several of the internet’s top five stress the fuck out lists. I guess I’m not immune to the norm. Dammit.
But. Through all this pissing and moaning, which seems a bit much, my inner gypsy is dancing. New times, new adventure, new episodes to be written. I’ve never had an issue with change before, in moving, it has always excited me.
But this was a gamble, a risk. Going all the way into the unknown. And frankly, I don’t think anything lessor of a feat would have satisfied her.
So here I am, and here we are. All the voices in my head gathering around the meeting table trying to figure it the fuck out. The jury isn’t hung yet, it’s still in debate. No kangaroo court, just working on the verdict, slowly but surely.
It’s just a matter of time now.
The moral of the story? Never underestimate the power of a new, nice set of underwear. It will save your ass every time. No pun intended.
Get good on the outside and the inside will follow suit. One’s wings will unfold and tail come out from between the legs. Again, it's only a matter of time. And for those of you who have read my work before, you know that patience is not a virtue I bestow.
But here’s to trying. Fucking Hell. Here goes.
For further reading:
Hi, Have You Met Me? on Amazon/Kindle http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00B009W1M
and
There's No Good Campfires Left In Hell on Amazon/Kindle http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00H7CZ590
Or Paperback at http://www.lulu.com/shop/kate-monahan/theres-no-good-campfires-left-in-hell/paperback/product-21276242.html
I guess getting out of a city I came to loath, (much like Thompson in his accounts on Las Vegas), should feel good. But alas, One still gets homesick for the familiar. As shitty as it may be.
I’ve been on the nomadic path for 13 years now, you’re probably thinking, “Bitch, you should be used to it.” And I suppose I should, at least that’s what I tell myself. But in every move, as hasty as it may have been in the past, I’ve had something lined up. People, places and things.
I went into this blind, let up the reigns of control I so carefully hold on my life and decided to take a risk. Move someplace I had never been, not knowing any persons and to retire to a more spacious dwelling to write. Who knew that would lead to crying jags, rabid searching online for plane tickets and looking up the legalities of trying to break a lease?
New York was the first place I had put down roots, and while I thought they were shallow and rotting, I guess they ran deeper and were stronger than I thought. I’d never stayed in one place longer than six months after my young adolescence.
Granted I stayed in the same apartment in New York because moving in that city is a bother and everybody has their hand out. It’s not cheap nor easy, so there I stayed. Roots planted.
Liking to think of myself as the borderline sociopath that I’ve been labeled as, I find it hard to deal with feelings when they do come. What is this? Happiness, fear, sadness? I guess I had always drowned their shards with drugs and booze before. So here I sit with them. Staring them in the face and wishing I could extinguish them like a candle that is no longer needed to light the way. Maybe I just need a bigger candle.
I also underestimated the importance of the few friendships I had back home. There were only a few. And one only visited from a foreign country. I truly cared about them and it was nice to get out once and a while and have someone to talk to. And seeing as I don’t like going out much, it was just nice to have the choice to turn down an outing. Now there are no choices. It’s quiet. It’s foreign and it’s strange.
At least today I am able to write, my muse has slowly crept back in and maybe relit the candle. I can turn away from the faces of the ugly half-hearted feelings and put my thoughts down on the proverbial pad of paper. Fucking electronics, but there’s no use for that rant in here.
New York is circling the drain and yes, in my heart I know I made the right choice to take flight, but I have yet to call Seattle home. It’s nice here, sunny or raining. My two favorite things. They seem...productive.
I searched out the area yesterday, not having any errands to run. I went to the art museum. It was indeed, in fact, pathetic. So that dampened my mood even more. I had to fight back the urge to either cry or vomit, because I would have done anything to be zipped back to the MET, standing in my favorite period rooms. Pre-French Revolution.
I went shopping on my way up the hill to home, and bought some new lingerie. “Never underestimate the power of new drawers,” my friend in New York had told me once. So I bought a few bras and new panties and thought that might fix it.
Unfortunately my mental state was too far gone and the self-wallowing had already commenced. I got home and fell apart. Hatefully and sadly I fell to pieces.
After several hours of this and messages to my friend back at my previous home in the East, I thought it best to shower and get dressed.
I put on my new lacy bralette and looked at myself in the mirror. I may feel like shit, but at least I didn’t look it. It’s always the little things that save us from total and utter insanity. Even if it is out of pure narcissism.
The thoughts of whiskey had previously danced through my head, it had been almost a year since that beast showed up. But I covered it in black lace and dried my hair. My attempt was to pretty up the exterior and see if it didn’t rub off on the interior, and by god, (for lack of a better term), it did.
Today my face is swollen and I feel like a total idiot for letting homesickness for a dying and tragic place get to me. It seems folly. I feel somewhat ridiculous and my snake’s mind is annoyed with me. I just keep telling it, “sometimes I have to be human, I can’t always be the top predator in the game,” which seems to help.
Fucking adjustment to change. Somewhere, somebody said, one of the theys, that change is one of the main things our species doesn’t adapt well to. Moving, being on several of the internet’s top five stress the fuck out lists. I guess I’m not immune to the norm. Dammit.
But. Through all this pissing and moaning, which seems a bit much, my inner gypsy is dancing. New times, new adventure, new episodes to be written. I’ve never had an issue with change before, in moving, it has always excited me.
But this was a gamble, a risk. Going all the way into the unknown. And frankly, I don’t think anything lessor of a feat would have satisfied her.
So here I am, and here we are. All the voices in my head gathering around the meeting table trying to figure it the fuck out. The jury isn’t hung yet, it’s still in debate. No kangaroo court, just working on the verdict, slowly but surely.
It’s just a matter of time now.
The moral of the story? Never underestimate the power of a new, nice set of underwear. It will save your ass every time. No pun intended.
Get good on the outside and the inside will follow suit. One’s wings will unfold and tail come out from between the legs. Again, it's only a matter of time. And for those of you who have read my work before, you know that patience is not a virtue I bestow.
But here’s to trying. Fucking Hell. Here goes.
For further reading:
Hi, Have You Met Me? on Amazon/Kindle http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00B009W1M
and
There's No Good Campfires Left In Hell on Amazon/Kindle http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00H7CZ590
Or Paperback at http://www.lulu.com/shop/kate-monahan/theres-no-good-campfires-left-in-hell/paperback/product-21276242.html