I'm free.
There's more to say, and pictures to share, but for now I'll stick to driving stakes with stones and breathing in the coast. I'll be in Arcata for the rest of the week, before my family bails for Ireland for a month, and then it's on to who knows where.
My bed is obviously trying to kill me. If I wanted to die in my sleep, that would be fine, but I'm planning on dying from an agua fresca overdose. I know my life is on furlough for an indeterminate amount of time, a seemingly-perpetual vacation, but I'd like to wake up earlier than noon, please.
I would also be on the road right now, if it wasn't for Alabaman interstate murder tires and dark Aztecan magic, and I would rather be in the same position that I was last week: hurling across the country, sleepless on a liberating trajectory. Settling is a snare, and this goddamned bed is sapping my strength with every passing night.
Every. Passing. Night.
I would also be on the road right now, if it wasn't for Alabaman interstate murder tires and dark Aztecan magic, and I would rather be in the same position that I was last week: hurling across the country, sleepless on a liberating trajectory. Settling is a snare, and this goddamned bed is sapping my strength with every passing night.
Every. Passing. Night.
I find myself now on the periphery of my naval career, which followed an epic and protracted trajectory to absolutely nowhere (Charleston).
My efforts to vacate the apartment by Thursday are moving along at an unquantifiable speed, the process remaining wholly dependent on the initiative of complete strangers. Craigslist is effective up to a point: my offered wares are drawing attention and interest, and yet the inquiring parties lack the necessary impetus to actually come buy my shit after making a myriad of offers. This phase is only temporary, but it too is fucking dragging. And, like my time in the Navy, it will meet an abrupt end.
After a month of procrastination, a co-worker finally committed to purchasing my washer and dryer, a commitment that he immediately rescinded. He didn't have a preferable solution, and chose instead to continue his practice of buying new underwear, socks, and undershirts weekly. He also didn't have the hundred dollars I was asking for the pair. I didn't have any sympathy, and he can pay me later.
The truck was easy enough to rent and I had no problem unhooking the washer and dryer. I called the co-worker and told him to come help me move the machines. We were halfway back to his house when the storm erupted. When we reached his house, and the tempest was at full force, a decision was made. Forced to choose between two available routes, the co-worker decided it would be best to mount the lawn in lieu of using the driveway in order to avoid getting us or the machines doused any further.
Four hours later, after we unloaded and installed the machines, we had a couple of beers and watched the tow truck recover the rental from its rut in the flooded yard.
I was told today that my awards ceremony is being pushed back yet another week. After I agreed last Friday to stay in town until this Friday, I've been asked to stick around for another Friday. Apparently an admiral will be visiting the command next week and my Chief thought that I would relish the opportunity to receive the award from him. My initial reaction was surprise, because I was hoping to out of town by then, happily unencumbered by haircuts and shaving and uniforms. Surprise quickly turned into annoyance, though, because I can't not accept an award from a goddamned admiral. I understand that this is a tremendous opportunity, inopportune as it may be, but my excitement is attenuated by every shift in the schedule.
My buddy Schnieder was in a motorcycle accident a couple of years ago that put him into a brief coma and effectively ended his enlistment. A year and a half later, the Navy finally got around to removing him from service. He said that the accident was the easy part, and that dealing with the perpetuity of the separation process was what nearly killed him. It was that juncture, in that intersection, that his life was irrevocably changed, and yet it took years for the ramifications of it all to catch up with him.
In the midst of running errands today, I was caught by traffic at a crossroads. A motorcyclist had met an abrupt end in the side of a black SUV, and the police were shepherding traffic around the scene and a pool of blood unbelievably red. I called Schneider after I cleared the scene and asked him how he was adjusting to civilian life. "It's crazy, and it catches me off balance every day, but it's going to take more than that to bring me down," he said.
"Somebody buy this man another motorcycle!" I yelled. Nobody buy this man another motorcycle; he has a baby girl. He has moved on.
So here I am at the event horizon, ready to move on as well. This is my experience with time dilation. Ensnared in a phase that seems to stretch on forever, and yet it will be over before I know it.
Hopefully after I sell all of this fucking furniture.
This is my last update for a while. I'll keep in touch. See you guys soon.
My efforts to vacate the apartment by Thursday are moving along at an unquantifiable speed, the process remaining wholly dependent on the initiative of complete strangers. Craigslist is effective up to a point: my offered wares are drawing attention and interest, and yet the inquiring parties lack the necessary impetus to actually come buy my shit after making a myriad of offers. This phase is only temporary, but it too is fucking dragging. And, like my time in the Navy, it will meet an abrupt end.
After a month of procrastination, a co-worker finally committed to purchasing my washer and dryer, a commitment that he immediately rescinded. He didn't have a preferable solution, and chose instead to continue his practice of buying new underwear, socks, and undershirts weekly. He also didn't have the hundred dollars I was asking for the pair. I didn't have any sympathy, and he can pay me later.
The truck was easy enough to rent and I had no problem unhooking the washer and dryer. I called the co-worker and told him to come help me move the machines. We were halfway back to his house when the storm erupted. When we reached his house, and the tempest was at full force, a decision was made. Forced to choose between two available routes, the co-worker decided it would be best to mount the lawn in lieu of using the driveway in order to avoid getting us or the machines doused any further.
Four hours later, after we unloaded and installed the machines, we had a couple of beers and watched the tow truck recover the rental from its rut in the flooded yard.
I was told today that my awards ceremony is being pushed back yet another week. After I agreed last Friday to stay in town until this Friday, I've been asked to stick around for another Friday. Apparently an admiral will be visiting the command next week and my Chief thought that I would relish the opportunity to receive the award from him. My initial reaction was surprise, because I was hoping to out of town by then, happily unencumbered by haircuts and shaving and uniforms. Surprise quickly turned into annoyance, though, because I can't not accept an award from a goddamned admiral. I understand that this is a tremendous opportunity, inopportune as it may be, but my excitement is attenuated by every shift in the schedule.
My buddy Schnieder was in a motorcycle accident a couple of years ago that put him into a brief coma and effectively ended his enlistment. A year and a half later, the Navy finally got around to removing him from service. He said that the accident was the easy part, and that dealing with the perpetuity of the separation process was what nearly killed him. It was that juncture, in that intersection, that his life was irrevocably changed, and yet it took years for the ramifications of it all to catch up with him.
In the midst of running errands today, I was caught by traffic at a crossroads. A motorcyclist had met an abrupt end in the side of a black SUV, and the police were shepherding traffic around the scene and a pool of blood unbelievably red. I called Schneider after I cleared the scene and asked him how he was adjusting to civilian life. "It's crazy, and it catches me off balance every day, but it's going to take more than that to bring me down," he said.
"Somebody buy this man another motorcycle!" I yelled. Nobody buy this man another motorcycle; he has a baby girl. He has moved on.
So here I am at the event horizon, ready to move on as well. This is my experience with time dilation. Ensnared in a phase that seems to stretch on forever, and yet it will be over before I know it.
Hopefully after I sell all of this fucking furniture.
This is my last update for a while. I'll keep in touch. See you guys soon.
It was in the middle of texting "Happy St Patrick's day, you fucking racist" that my fourth Guinness arrived.
Did you know that the original color of St Patrick's day was blue?
I have to sober up immediately; tomorrow I will have to fast, soak in some concentrated radiation, allow myself to experience partial exsanguination, urinate in a cup, and regain enough strength to go to a rock and roll show. Next week, I will get felt up by my primary physician, inspected and graded for release into the civilian world. However, there will be no full-frontal nudity. Bummer.
Two things that I am hoping for: an acoustic encore from either band and Alkaline Trio playing Tegan and Sara covers.
I wonder if Matt still thinks Tegan's the cooler one.
All I have now is a thunderstorm boning a tempest in the small shitty city apartment that is my brain. The sounds of the elevated portion of the subway system roar through the window. The paint peels under the coercion of condensation as a cicadean cacophony occasionally wafts in from the periphery.
Granny Smith apples and natural peanut butter are a fucking amazing combination.
As I begrudgingly lurch from task to taxing task tomorrow, I'll work on finalizing the upcoming national tour. It will hardly be national, nor will it constitute an international tour. No Canada. Maybe Seattle, possible Minneapolis, but no Canada. Not until after May 15th, at least.
I'm starting to look back on the things that I'll miss about Charleston (short list), but one of them is already gone, and I miss him more than any list could dignify.
I'm going to be dealing with these motherfuckers on tax day. Pray nothing happens (to them).
You know what, fuck it. Canada, here I come.
Did you know that the original color of St Patrick's day was blue?
I have to sober up immediately; tomorrow I will have to fast, soak in some concentrated radiation, allow myself to experience partial exsanguination, urinate in a cup, and regain enough strength to go to a rock and roll show. Next week, I will get felt up by my primary physician, inspected and graded for release into the civilian world. However, there will be no full-frontal nudity. Bummer.
Two things that I am hoping for: an acoustic encore from either band and Alkaline Trio playing Tegan and Sara covers.
I wonder if Matt still thinks Tegan's the cooler one.
All I have now is a thunderstorm boning a tempest in the small shitty city apartment that is my brain. The sounds of the elevated portion of the subway system roar through the window. The paint peels under the coercion of condensation as a cicadean cacophony occasionally wafts in from the periphery.
Granny Smith apples and natural peanut butter are a fucking amazing combination.
As I begrudgingly lurch from task to taxing task tomorrow, I'll work on finalizing the upcoming national tour. It will hardly be national, nor will it constitute an international tour. No Canada. Maybe Seattle, possible Minneapolis, but no Canada. Not until after May 15th, at least.
I'm starting to look back on the things that I'll miss about Charleston (short list), but one of them is already gone, and I miss him more than any list could dignify.
I'm going to be dealing with these motherfuckers on tax day. Pray nothing happens (to them).
You know what, fuck it. Canada, here I come.
I may be stuck here longer than I anticipated. Apropos to the situation, my new glasses make me look like a convict.
Or a pedophile, apparently.
Or a pedophile, apparently.
Started work on the art for the new tattoo yesterday. It's messy, and incomplete, but I like where it's going.
Here's half of it:
I'm still hung up on whether or not it's going on the bum leg or on one of my arms. I mean, it's for the leg, but I'm starting to like the look of it. I guess it depends on the final draft.
There's other stuff that I have been doing, and plenty more that I should be doing. The furniture is ready to go (early), clothes destined for donation are packed (I kept some of my old uniforms to cannibalize), and all of my books and DVDs are boxed and ready to be handed over to somebody who needs something to read/watch (after I finish watching all the Cronenberg, natch). There are still appointments that need to be made (separation physical) and certain errands that need to be run (passport).
I'm starting to get a little (more) restless, but April 1 is still going to catch me by surprise.
I can't wait.
Things were heating up earlier this week, a preparation for precipitation. I knew it was headed our way, and the bugs knew it too. The cockroaches and ladybugs showed up before the clouds and the cold swept in. Can't sit on my porch in this tempest, can't eat my bacon and drink my beer. Of course, I also don't have to get dressed now, either.
And yes, it's finally here:
Here's half of it:
I'm still hung up on whether or not it's going on the bum leg or on one of my arms. I mean, it's for the leg, but I'm starting to like the look of it. I guess it depends on the final draft.
There's other stuff that I have been doing, and plenty more that I should be doing. The furniture is ready to go (early), clothes destined for donation are packed (I kept some of my old uniforms to cannibalize), and all of my books and DVDs are boxed and ready to be handed over to somebody who needs something to read/watch (after I finish watching all the Cronenberg, natch). There are still appointments that need to be made (separation physical) and certain errands that need to be run (passport).
I'm starting to get a little (more) restless, but April 1 is still going to catch me by surprise.
I can't wait.
Things were heating up earlier this week, a preparation for precipitation. I knew it was headed our way, and the bugs knew it too. The cockroaches and ladybugs showed up before the clouds and the cold swept in. Can't sit on my porch in this tempest, can't eat my bacon and drink my beer. Of course, I also don't have to get dressed now, either.
And yes, it's finally here:
