July 30th, 2010
I am not a romantic. I am not a romantic. I am not a romantic. I keep telling myself this, hoping it will stick. But if I’m not a romantic… why did I just join an online dating site? Why do I get giddy when I walk a happy couple to their lovely anniversary suite at the hotel? Why do I get a little lump in my throat everytime some beautiful man checks in and mentions his WIFE?
I have, in the past, eschewed marriage as not for me. Why? I’m not sure. I consider myself the monogamous type, certainly. But weddings turn me off in a major way… And so do divorces.
But as with all things, I am influenced a lot by my heroes and I wonder about their relationships. Gandhi. David Foster Wallace. Tina Fey. All married… Does this mean there’s something to it?
There’s something just sad about an eternal bachelor. I was just reading an article in People (don’t judge me) about George Clooney. A source said, “If you know and care about George, you don’t say the word marriage around him.” Ummm… why?
For years I have considered my life to be a track towards career success. But I am realizing more and more that the happiness of life is derived really from sacrifice and love for others. This makes me want to fall in love, naturally…
And then I think, well, not now! I’m too young for all that. But if not now, then when? What if I wake up one day and I smack myself in the forehead for forging blindly past romantic opportunity for years in pursuit of something supposedly more important… a job, a new adventure, etc.
If you’re out there reading this, please weigh in. I’m listening.
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July 18th, 2010
Today I have been thinking so hard about my life here in San Antonio. Since I moved back in December, I have been loudly plotting my escape. But as the pages slip off the calendar, I find myself less anxious to just get up and go. Maybe it was my recent globetrotting (Mexico, Poland & Germany, one after another), but at this moment I am in no hurry to move away from this darling little big city—which is unlike any place in the world. Its denizens have perfected a balance of self-deprecation and swollen-hearted pride, and something in the water churns out these masses of spiky, patchwork individuals in a caste all their own. My new job at the radio station has only enforced this notion. The city itself, a busy machine full of cholesterol and ballast, has no real industry to speak of yet somehow provides bustle for all its hungry-mouthed children. The place is just relatively bizarre.
And for me personally, I have my reasons to stay.
- I love my job. Everyday, all day, I’m in the center of the action. I gossip with the housekeepers, burn incense, sweep stairs, deliver trays of coffee, GET TIPS, fold sheets, light candles- frankly, I could go on. Everyday I’m exposed to and learn more about the human race.
- I don’t pay rent. Or car insurance.
- Having no social life helps me be super-productive.
- I write, and get paid for it.
- I have my own radio show, Fridays 10 to midnight.
- I see my family whenever I want.
- I’m saving up lots of money for my eventual power move (top secret)
- I have a crush!
- I live an hour’s drive from Austin.
- Stuff is cheap.
But mostly, my hometown inspires me to write. Almost daily, while driving, I bump into some craggy flashback that stuns me with its dreamlike intensity. The familiar geographic cues set my unconscious reeling. I’ve never experienced this anywhere else—maybe because I’m so comfortable and unsurprised by the territory here that my deeper mind is free to wander through its own closets, flicking on lights and discovering dusty cases full of bloodied handkerchiefs and snot-haired Troll dolls.
In addition to the meta-amazing memory flicks, I simply enjoy standing by and watching San Antonio become cooler and better everyday. But the people haven’t changed—our culture is still ultimately a death-obsessed, morbidly cheerful one. There is a graveyard-Morrissey sadness that seeps into the music (Pantera & Megadeath are required listening), the style of dress (Xicana/rockabilly rules) and the dark humor we all share. It all contrasts pleasantly with the self-congratulating, faux-Earth Mama yoga brats one encounters far too often in Austin.
Speaking of Austin, I’m puzzled by the spiteful attitude I’ve developed since moving away from my college town and San Antonio’s closest relative. The two places are just so, so different, but they’re each amazing in their own ways. What I love about Austin: the Greenbelt, Barton Springs, the grungy clubs. My best recollections of the place are sun-spotted, out-of-focus tracts of bike rides with backpacks full of beer and carefree strutting. We spun havoc and casually appreciated the abundance of nature and music. I lived some of the best memories of my life there. But now I’m here and I’ve dug in my heels—it’s time to start something from scratch.
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July 10th, 2010
In the hot afternoon I watched her sleeping in my bed, half-twisted out of blankets. I glimpsed a familiar purple polka dot pattern on her thigh. Bitch is wearin’ my underwear, I think to myself, but my heart is soft with contentment because my best friend is with me, and soon she will be gone.
We’ve been sharing my one-room box for the past week or so. We go to work, we come home, and whittle the nights away with conversation. Sometimes we plan to go out but end up trying on clothes and dancing alone until the bars have already closed.
Lina’s always trying to turn me on to a new band, a new book, something on NPR… Last night around 4 a.m. she explained to us all, in detail, the inner workings of celestial rotation. In this mediocre town, she magnetizes and intensifies. She makes this place interesting.
We’ve been co-dependent since senior year of high school. When I was away at college, we didn’t get to see each other often but in the past six months, living in the same town, we’ve melted together into one ball of wax. We pick lint off each other and laugh at the dog. I am terrified of her leaving, although she’ll be just (gulp) five hours away by car. I am guilty of the fear of pain. I know that time and space do strange things to relationships.
With the clock ticking and her departure for Denton in seven days, every minute feels important- which is why we just never decided to go to sleep last night. We squeezed every drop of life out of that party and just kept going.
We’re planning a road trip for next weekend, heading south to Brownsville and South Padre Island. Packing up for adventure and sandy shores. Everything now has an air of finality about it, like we can’t get this back. And I know it’s true.
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July 9th, 2010
When I started this blog, I was obsessed with frugality and my patron saint Benjamin Franklin, author of Poor Richard’s Almanack and spouter of proverbs praising industriousness and know-how. But I was also living a completely expenses-paid existence (thank you so much to my mom) and I spent my nice, big Daily Texan editor paychecks on, shall we say, dumb shit.
And now, I’m back in my hometown, living it up in good old San Antonio. Times have changed, and I am becoming “independent.” As soon as I graduated college, I hit the ground running. I started freelancing for the SA Current and began my first full-time job the same week. When I got laid-off from that job due to industry problems, I found a new one the same afternoon and I work 30-40+ hours a week here.
What’s more, I actually LIKE my new job. Yes, I love it. Working at the front desk of a cool new hotel brings me into face-to-face contact everyday with interesting out-of-towners and locals in the know. The place itself is beautiful, and I love getting to know my co-workers more and more each day. They’re my friends and I need them as much as I need this job.
As a writer, I need alone time and escapism but I hate isolation. My nightmare is being trapped at home all day & night (No offense to SAHM Sam, you are still an idol to me). Working at the hotel gives me a reason to get up, put on my face, and maybe even shave my legs if I am feeling so inclined.
The latest addition to my activities is my very own weekly indie rock radio show on KRTU 91.7. The station broadcasts from Trinity University: jazz in the day, college alternative from 10pm-5am. I’ve always wanted to be a DJ… But I never thought I’d be spinning “indie rock,” a term that I find to be pretty ridiculous but wide enough to provide me lots of latitude in my choices. Even though I mostly listen to electronic & hip hop beats in my free time, this new show has given me a reason to dive headfirst into the world of rock, of course with a little help from my friends
I’m also in the process of saving mad, mad money. I pay no rent. For a car, I bought my dad’s 1987 Mercedes Benz diesel station wagon for a song- $2,000- and he pays the insurance. I don’t have health insurance but via work, I soon will.
The long-winded point I’m trying to make is that the things that are bringing me the most joy- playing with our new dog Abby, fixing up my little studio, meeting new people at work- are free activities, and my jobs- at the hotel, at the radio, writing for the Current- make me happy and bring me exposure and cash.
On the other hand, I went to the mall today to have my 2+ year-old iPhone checked out, and afterwards I went store to store, trying on a lot of cute things, but I walked out empty handed. (That’s not true- I had a Styrofoam box holding leftovers from my under $7 lunch.)
And I felt really dead inside. Grumpy. Angry at having wasted time walking around the same old stupid stores, and nearly succumbing to retail. The mall does this to me. Realizing that, I want to spread the message to anyone reading this that yes, sometimes you do need those shoes, but usually you don’t. Chase something that’s going to make you happy in the long run instead, and put those dollars back in the burning wallet. Thanks for reading, and I’ll be right back.
Posted in Dear Diary, Inspiration | 1 Comment »
May 27th, 2010
Not to be somewhere else, but to just take in every single moment.
It’s long past midnight and I’m driving down Blanco, through the orange construction signs and arrows, not a soul on the road besides us, in this white car, me and my best friend by my side. We’re not talking. We’re listening to music and I’m thinking about my dad restoring this car, as old as I am, to its pristine state of engineered motion.
It’s not perfect- the driver’s seat has a gash spilling stuffing, the windows in the backseat can roll down but not up and a long-dried stain of woodglue mars the plush blue upholstery in the back but when I sit down and turn the ignition halfway and wait, somewhere a single glow plug grows hotter and hotter and then I turn the engine over and the diesel growls alive. I push the pedal and the acceleration mounts slowly up and up and over the hump into the next gear and then I’m cruising down the highway effortlessly. The imitation blue leather shifts under my weight as I lean back fully, hands resting on the steering wheel.
The world beyond my little room, our small street, this tiny hotel, all seems interesting but irrelevant. Right now I just need to feel rooted to some place. My dad left his country and never went back- a passed-down history that I’m afraid to repeat but drawn ever towards. I cling to my hometown because I know how close I am, steps away, from falling forwards into uncertain lands where I can’t speak the language and I live alone, always, in my own head, dreaming in another tongue.
I don’t pretend this place understands me, but when I close my eyes I can see the highways, the junk stores, the grassy ditches full of trash and I can pretend that this, we, are one reality undisturbed by time. If life is a brutal march forward, waves of change crashing over and over us, am I wrong to hide out here, in my cocoon of familiarity?
Any given drive from Point A to Point B is impossible without tripping over tumbleweeds of the past, blown into my headspace where memories of all different colors and shades are indistinguishable from the present. A crumpled sheet of paper. Same as it ever was.
Posted in Dear Diary, Homeslice | No Comments »
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