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Wednesday, July 1, 2009

Can I get you some more crock pot food?

I might be breaking some blogging commandment that states:

"Thou shalt not blog about blogging"

Or, at the very minimum I may rile up your pet Peeve, making him bark and chase his tail until he barfs up your missing shoelaces.

But I feel I must explain because when you have a friend that usually calls and then they just stop, well, you deserve the courtesy of them stumbling like an idiot through an awkward excuse as to why they haven't called. Actually, you deserve them to buy you like five rounds of beer, but anyway, we'll start with the clumsy excuses.

My problem has been that for weeks now thoughts have come into this very confined head-like crock pot sitting on my shoulders where they have simmered, marinated, and tenderized, and then finally dried up and turned into the beef jerky version of thoughts. But I waited and waited in hopes that they would turn into a lovely curry instead of the same ole run-of-the-mill dried-the-fuck-up-crock-pot-pot-roast.

Fucking crock pots. Everything tastes the same when cooked in a crock pot. And don't go telling me I need to add a can of cream of mushroom and everything will be okay. Please, that is some sick shit.

Rather than serving you the crock-pot version of my thoughts, and instead of reading which just reminded me that I had this unbearable urge to force feed someone a nasty pot roast for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, well, I stayed away.

So what have I been doing?

I've been filling my free time with the opiate of lazy Internet play: planning trips to Sardinia I may never go on, searching for apartments I may never live in, looking up recipes for Lasagna I may never make, drooling over jobs I may never apply for, or PhD programs I'll never submit an application to, reading economic forecasts that may never materialize into reality.

I can fill my days and weeks with this Internet narcotic, a vacation of sorts from a mind that I can open up and pick words from like there's a god damned pot luck going on up there. And I spend my days in that drugged state because the words annoyingly string together in the same damn way and I'm just so bored of it all– telling the same story I keep hearing on repeat again and again inside me. And I'm just staring at this paper plate full of shitty crock pot casseroles and stabbing my plastic fork into something and watching it jiggle as a solidified blob of cream of mushroom and bump into the wiggly jello-inertial-mass dessert from hell and I'm thinking....Oh, fuck this shit, let's go to McDonald's.

These fantasy vacations into the online world of Your Potential fill my mind with purposefulness, and attempt to confirm in me that my life can be, must be, meaningful in some way. I remind myself, no, I beat myself over the head with the argument that I've traded something for experience; loved-ones for a life less ordinary, where I can hop on a flight to anywhere in Europe, maybe live in an apartment that looks onto a quaint Spanish plaza, dulling the dreaded realization that no matter what the fuck I fill my days with, Father's Days and birthdays and 4th of Julys are passing me by and I'm. Not. There.

This brainless virtual wandering allows me to not have to think, especially about my upcoming trip home with all of the familiar anxiety that it entails.

The visiting with loved ones is nearing, which must be good, right? because I miss them so. But as Noble Savage alluded to, the good can only be experienced as such because it is defined by what it is not -- the bad; 'visiting' as the inversion of 'missing', 'home' as opposed to 'distance', utterly incomprehensible as concepts now on their own without the stark awareness attached to them of what they are framed by -- what they are not.

I long for a time when I didn't have to juxtapose happiness with its opposite; when there was the hazy in between, when definitions could be somewhat fuzzy or at least I didn't always see the dialectic staring me in the face, where 'togetherness' didn't make me so in tune to its ultimate undercurrent and its ever-present antonym 'apart'. I miss the gray area of 'potential togetherness' – that my mom might call at anytime for a quick lunch on a weekday, or my cousin might call because he's in the neighborhood and lets go grab a coffee at the Lux on Central. It is not the pure form of togetherness that erases the sad separation anymore, it is only potential togetherness that can erase the awareness that togetherness is always always always the opposite of a life spent without each other. And it's this potential togetherness that I don't have anymore.

So you see, I stay away because I myself tire of this broken record I hear when I click clack cluck away at this keyboard; the repetitive, dulling, unoriginal sound of a heart sick with longing for, not a place, but a state of mind I had once upon a time that I'll never get back, no matter how often I visit. Surprisingly I am all the more heartsick as my holiday nears, as the summer heat beats down on me and I try to find shade in the sparse palm trees of this city which reminds me so much of 'home'. The awareness gets nearer and nearer with every unit increase on the centigrade scale that my body feels when I step outside, or as I fall asleep listening to the familiar sound of the air conditioner, with every day that passes bringing me closer to August and to my trip.

You guys used to be my virtual escape but now I know that some of you get me, and all of you have real pulses that still really beat when I close my laptop and your realness makes you become like the other friends and family that I just don't pick up the phone to call for some reason that I can only explain by stammering my way through something that always sounds the same. In your case though, I'm honest and don't say I've been busy.

Cause I haven't. At all.

So here I am, on a limb. Hoping you'll forgive that my fingers won't stay away from the same keys, forming the same words I have asked you to read too many times now. Hoping you'll forgive me for making crock pot food for the millionth time that you've come over for dinner.

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jen July 1, 2009 at 1:53 PM  

that "potential togetherness" is the single thing i miss most. that ability to take people for granted because even if they're not right there, they *could be*.

Brits don't just pick up the phone to chat, or just pop by to see if you want to go catch a movie. they just don't - i had no idea how American that kind of casual potential togetherness was until i didn't have it any more.

Anonymous July 1, 2009 at 3:45 PM  

Beef jerky thoughts. Man, that's quite an image.

Even when you're writing about not writing, you write well.

It'll come . . .

A Free Man July 1, 2009 at 7:01 PM  

I have the same commandment and I've been breaking it myself lately. You blog when you need to, man, and I'll be around to read it.

Crock pots suck. My Mom cooked almost everything in a crock pot and it all tasted the same - like shit.

flutter July 1, 2009 at 8:59 PM  

crock pot food sounds delish to me, wanna make me some?

neil wykes July 2, 2009 at 1:49 AM  

It's happened to me too. could it be the heat? Actually, I know it isn't the heat, but that'll do as my excuse

Gwen July 2, 2009 at 5:51 AM  

Yes, I'm real. Yes, I care when you don't blog. That's only because you matter to me. I don't expect anything from you in terms of your blogging. It just so happens that what you put to paper (well, figurative paper) is nothing short of amazing, this piece included.

When I see that Blues of a Waxwing has posted a blog, I feel excitement. I know that I am in for an emotional and intellectual treat. I am never disappointed. You could serve me dried up old crock pot goo and it would still be wonderful and delicious to me. That is because you are wholly special and interesting. Maybe that's corny or creepy or whatever. I don't want you to feel weird about that. I just get attached to certain people because of their words and the essence of them that I capture from their words.

Blog when you want or need to blog. I will be here to read it. No matter what.

Xbox4NappyRash July 2, 2009 at 12:16 PM  

Mmmm, love this just a little actually.

Ellie July 2, 2009 at 1:28 PM  

You're too hard on yourself. Because your fucking pot luck casserole ROCKS.

Gypsy July 6, 2009 at 6:53 AM  

Girl, I've been writing almost nothing but "I miss Lancelot" for months now. It's ok. I forgive you; and I forgive myself. And even when you write about the same feelings it's fresh because your talent makes it so.

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