|Typewriter (or, Between a Rock and a Hard Place)
||[May. 25th, 2009|07:59 pm]
I went back to Springfield just yesterday.
The train ride was agonisingly long...no music seemed to fill the time adequately enough, emphasized by the pain the buds were starting to create in my ears. I was extremely hungry at some point...I drank more than I should have before embarkation, and adjusted my eating to suit, thinking that it would only interfere with my anebriation therefore not eating anything at all, or really drinking any water until at least seven hours later, the actual end of my day. The mentally handicapped person sitting next to me was completely abhorrent, or so I felt, which is probably telling of my intolerance toward people with learning disabilities...It's something maybe I should feel bad about, you know, this undue dislike of people who couldn't help being rejects that somehow stumbled out of the assembly line into the real world...I just feel upset or disturbed in close proximity to people like that. If that makes me a horrible person, then so be it. He smelt of children's clothes and stale fast food.
So, after about a million years had passed on the rails, I finally arrived in town. I don't know why I'm here. The ground was wet; it must have rained. I was originally going to apply and interview for this coffee shop gig (which I will most likely end up doing) in preparation for my anticlimactic return to Central (which will most likely end up happening). When making any decisions more effectively, it's counteractive to have someone like your mother assault you with phrases like, "When are you going to grow up?", "You're a failure", or the ever delightful, "Why don't you know what you're doing? For someone so smart, you're really an idiot", etc...
A lot of inspiring stuff, yeah?
Memorial day in Springfield means that nothing is open. Even Godless places like coffee shops are closed...Not that Memorial Day has anything to do with God, but seriously, who are these people remembering today? No one, that's who.
The only thing of note that really happened was that I lowered Ray's typewriter from it's closet-bound stasis and typed some things out on it. It felt good, tactily speaking. Words were prompted that wouldn't normally have been...I feel like I'm in good company in front of a typewriter, kind of a Shintoist thing, where my literary forebears are present on some level with me, conjured up by the humming energy of the machine.
I still have no ideas as to why, or wherefore, but I swear I have to do one thing, and do it correctly, because I'm very tired of fucking things up (speaking VERY generally).