I'm force-feeding myself impatience and looking for jobs to hire me immediately in cities far from Sacramento, like I'm expecting that in two weeks I'll know what I'm going to do with all my shit. I'm groping for straws. I'm sending out resumes like I'm unemployed.
Went with Kirsten out to Joe's apartment night before last. Jack was there. We showed up just as Joe's kid was being put to sleep by his girlfriend, Jessica, and afterward we went into Jack's room and passed around a joint. "Wow, this feels like college!" I said, or at least the closest to it I've felt since 2008. All circled around, talking nonsense. I'm pretty sure I conceptualized the eventual evolution of hands-free cellular devices and that it was mind-blowing.
I'm running from my fear of settling.
But that's what I want, isn't it?
Celena wandered back into the picture tonight. Came in to do some job searching, made sure to get my number again after losing her phone at Home Depot. This explains why she didn't call me the other night, at least. We make plans to maybe go to The Townhouse (with her boyfriend, Chris, of course) after I get back from dropping off Kirsten. A few hours later, she's here with Chris and we smoke grass and watch Planet Earth, followed by Animal House, and all the while I'm trying not to focus too much on Celena when Chris is watching while sneaking a few extended glances her way hoping to catch her eye, curious, honestly, how she could stand to be dating this guy. He's not a total asshole, but he's inattentive and rude and socially awkward, which makes him a prick. I'll be frank enough to say he might even have a crush on me. Not an altogether terrible night, but strange and frustrating. Feels like a love-story storyline I'm not exactly ready for, but the string is there for me to follow and it's tempting to take a swing.
Time will tell.
I want to see things and do things--everywhere else. Anywhere else, all the time. I want to sell all my stuff--except for Holmes, my TV, my books, my typewriters, my videogame consoles, my art, some clothes and a mattress.
Sean's coming down tomorrow.
Had Kimberly read the beginning of my robot story. She just finished the first draft of her non-fiction tale about her late husband's death. I haven't felt this vulnerable since Jaffe's writing workshops at Sonoma State, and thankfully Kimberly enjoyed what she read, said she was "pleasantly surprised." I like showing people I can talk the talk and walk the walk. "Love the voice," she said. "Great pacing." Hopefully she'll let me read some of her stuff, too.
The trouble is that I don't have a good reason. I don't have a reason at all. I just want to. I just want to see what happens. I hate that I need to waste so much effort on gathering funds, but it's the only buoy available in the big sea of things. Someday soon I'll have enough to go, for whatever reason, and just see if I find that answer in another place. A constant dream for other things.
Kirsten is still limping. She's been staying over the past few nights, half out of convenience, half out of habit. It's the habit part that's bothering me. What's worse is I'm sensing the rest of Old Soul growing weary of her, and I think her transfer to Weatherstone might have something to do with that. Tim and Jason sense the vibe of the place. They know who belongs where. I have to respect that, and also acknowledge that it's coming at a good time.
What I want to see are tropical beaches and waterfalls, snowy mountaintops and volcanic craters. I want to see the Eiffel Tower and Mount Rushmore and the World Trade Center memorial. Faces of every color, leaves of every season, the rise of every ocean's tide.
Met a girl named Cayla who will be working at John's bike-valet shop next door to Old Soul. Felt indifferent about how my first impressions went, but she definitely had me at "three-month internship in Ecuador." Found out Ciera's 21st birthday is next month. Just sayin'. Then Sierra (not Ciera, the baker girl), a customer told me she'd be at Townhouse later. I ended up not going, but will probably go see her at Jack's tomorrow before Sean gets here, since she seemed genuinely interested in hanging out soon. Time will tell.
So I sleep the night away while my resumes wait restlessly in distant inboxes, probably to be ignored, perhaps accepted. I may get a call tomorrow. An e-mail. An inquiry. But probably not. I don't know if Royal Caribbean Cruise-lines will find my work history up to par.
- Left to Fry
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