Tuesday, July 23, 2013

"A lot of people would be thinking, 27, what have you got to complain about."

So commented a friend on the Silliest Ffourth entry, two down.

The sheer stagnation.

My own life seems to be going at a pace slowed to half the norm. My body is 27; that would put every other aspect of me to roughly 13½. I'm living in a small house with yappy dogs and parents that loudly and gracelessly snore, burp and obstruct. I have no job, and I have never had even a temporary romantic partner. All around me, everybody's getting married and having kids. Even this past day, the world, or at least the media, has gone gaga for royal goo-goo. (Why does America care? Hell, why does Britain care? Useless figureheads. Leave them alone! Man, this new baby's life is gonna be hell.) The rate I'm going, my body will be 35 by the time I get to be with somebody.

Everybody's getting married. One of my favorite old co-workers with whom I'm cyberfriends came up in my feed this past Friday as having her wedding; I'd known she was engaged, but I hadn't known the wedding date. Me, I managed to find a wedding that I could attend on Saturday, namely, that of my mother's best friend's daughter, whom I hadn't seen in rather a number of years. It was a small town wedding, just up 150 a bit, in a small church — low-key and fairly pleasant. Reception in the next town's American Legion post; food unremarkable but got the job done (I love me some pasta salad); cake curiously sweet and far too plain — no filling at all; music by and large horrendous. Also, I only got to talk to the bride and groom once. But other than the song that busted out with "LET ME SEE YOUR TITS", an overall decent and happy time. That feeling lasted through most of Monday.

So, back to jobless, isolated, lonely reality, wherein my new improved health insurance bill has arrived. I want to leave online social media for a while, but I have no place else to go. Dating sites require payment. I gaze helplessly at pictures of people with cats and food. I "Like" some of those pictures. One friend just found somebody. I dig that friend very much, and I hope it works for them. Somebody talks about all the frogs around. My mind produces a 404 page; I have never seen a frog in my life. Somebody else invites me to an "Event" at least a hundred fifty miles away from me. On Twitter, I follow Neko Case for some reason. She's single — yay — but all the posts about traveling do their best to persuade me to unfollow her. She and plenty of others speak of New York. Fuck. I put on something by the Diogenes Club and space out a bit. I play some obsessive rounds of Boggle against the computer; I win more often than I lose or tie. I destroy "bubbles" by matching three or more of the same color. I sign selected political petitions that have been e-mailed to me, never with my own name, address, or number. I play Freecell, in which I now have 940 wins and zero losses. I check in on this ... and its thread. It's gotten exciting. The music I'm playing is so dreamy as it's winding down. And then, from beyond the door to the room I'm in, the sound of another door opening. Skittering dog paws on the hard floor. Door closing. Human footsteps. Loud, repulsive burp. More doors. Fart. Piss. Decibels. Reality.

Or some semblance thereof.

4 comments:

Rebecca said...

Maybe you need to find some open mic nights in your area? Or even try busking? That seems to be the Seattle/Portland way of going about things. From there you join an artists collective and help put on multi-discplinary shows that get written up in strange newsprint weeklies with alternative comic strips and escort ads. I met Erik initially on a garage/punk music website and he thought I was unavailable because I had a photo with my deceased ex in my photo album. We started talking about old movie theaters, not music, and I was still grieving my fiancee. But it's always accidental, when you aren't looking you connect with someone who stands out among all the over-aggressive crazies with big phony acts.

I can't stand having people living above me in apartment buildings or motels even; I always seem to get the amateur clog dancer with the unclipped dogs. If you're not laffing you're banging your head, so you have to laff at the cruel absurdities, or better yet write more songs! There's always someone worse of than yourself too...

Cheshire Adams said...

(looks up "busking" in the dictionary)

Huh, there's actually a one-syllable word for that. Wicked.

If I were in Nashville or Chicago, it may seem doable. Alas, where I actually am, I can see myself failing to get through one song before some erection comes and tells me "you can't do that here" in some words or other. (I believe I tried it twice, in two separate places in town, with the same result.)

There used to be a good Tuesday open mic where I am. They might still do it; I'm not sure. It doesn't appear in the weekly free rag like it used to.

There's likely a lot more where this came from, but I'm rather tired, and my head wants to pound but is settling for a dull resonating after a pill.

Cheers. ♥

Rebecca said...

It's true that the land of opportunity ain't what it used to be. They are starting to sell busking licenses here, talk about a tax shift to the bottom! One great thing about Canada is you can still get pain reliever with codeine over the counter here. In my most hurting moments it has made a difference.

You have a lot of talent, I hope it 'wins out' for you soon! Not really sure about that old expression 'talent will win out' actually, I gave up believing in meritocracies some time ago (and probably the better for it).

Cheshire Adams said...

Indeed. Talent, politeness, and whatever else it is I have, are not valued here.

I can't remember if and where I've mentioned it; I have considered, but still not actually done, setting up either a Bandcamp or a Kickstarter. I haven't really felt that encouraged; my "raw studio 6-6-13" set fell in a deaf forest.

As the Live Five sang, Who Knows......