The house is finally back to its’ former glory. The exhaust pipes to my water heater and furnace have been replaced, the holes in the ceilings have been patched up, sanded, stippled, and painted.
This means a few things of significance:
- I get to dress based on mood again. I would come home and hang my clothes off the banister, then put the same clothes on in the morning, because my closet doors would be taped shut to prevent dust and errant paint/stipple from getting in there.
- I get to sleep in my bed again. The entire bedroom was a mess, so I had been sleeping on the couch for almost three weeks. It felt weird to go back to a big mattress, like I was sleeping on some sort of unlimited surface area.
- I get to use my photo/Tai Chi studio. Almost all my furniture was moved to the guest room. I haven’t been able to practice my Tai Chi, or take pictures of things against a drop sheet.
- I have the use of my main computer. Playing games on a laptop screen doesn’t cut it when you’re used to three 24″ monitors, and music sounds the way it’s supposed to when you have a decent subwoofer.
- No more time off work. I’m lucky in that I have such a short commute, but being there during construction still meant that I lost two days of pay.
I spent most of the weekend wiping dust of everything downstairs — walls, mirrors, decorations, counter tops. The splatters of paint were taken care of with a bottle of Varsol and a Q‑tip. A few paint touch-ups were needed too, but nothing too bad. Then the house got an overall cleaning, to get rid of the evidence of muddy boots, dirt, and random pieces of garbage brought in during the whole process.
My back and feet are still sore from rushing to get everything done, but it was oh so worth it to have the cozy comfort of my house again.
Sometimes, she reaches down and grabs a handful of my derrière. I laugh a nervous laugh, and she chides me.
It’s a reflex. None of my girlfriends have been so zealous in their pinching, or reveled in such an act. My laugh is one of surprise, and a good one at that.
This is what upsets her. But how should I react otherwise? I hardly consider this thin-framed body, a frail comparison to the physical conventions of a man, as being sexual or attractive.
This is why I think she loves me.
Otherwise, she’d see me as the rest of the world sees me.
A camera to mask my shyness, a lens to hide behind.
At Audra and Jesse’s I felt like I was back in university. Meeting people, learning names, throwing in for some pizza. Except this time, I wasn’t being dragged, kicking and screaming to the party. Maybe I was just feeling social, because I hadn’t seen my own friends in so long.
I learned that playing Punch Out on the Wii is as natural to you as it was back when you were in your room back in elementary school, crying because you were no one’s best friend. That watching Air Guitar Nation — when it’s hard to tell how seriously the contestants take themselves — is much more enjoyable with sarcastic comments applied liberally from the audience.
I want to know these people.
I want to find out what drives them. I want to know why they create, why they’ve chosen their mediums. Why they hang out together. Why they studied what they studied. Why they have the jobs they do.
They’re well-read, educated, opinionated, cosmopolitan. I felt somewhat out of place. Topics of conversation weren’t even close to my interests. Concerts aren’t my scene. Politics confuse me. Things are happening to other friends I’ve never met. But when there’s this much to learn, listening is just as good as taking part.
It was past midnight by the time I got home, but I had hard time falling asleep. My brain was buzzing, trying to take in everything I had just experienced.
I’ve been reading Andrea’s blog lately. Normally, I don’t read blogs of people I’ve never met, and even though I’ve met Andrea, I’ve never had a penetrating conversation with her, let alone gotten to know her. Andrea’s blog is a little different though. To the uninitiated, it’s a regular journal, but there are bits of insight and emotion scattered throughout that leave you feeling like you’re looking at someone stoned, naked, and through their kitchen window. The ordinary mixed with a dash of extraordinary is what truly gives one a sense of empathy, and it was this that drew me in.
It’s been making me feel so fucking nostalgic.
I remember being in that stage of life. Back in school. Getting drunk. Chasing girls. Unsure of anything but the way I was feeling in that exact moment.
It’s made me realize that I don’t write like I used to. My entries used to be so experimental. Aside from a single sentence as a last, concluding line, and a penchant for being a little too personal, I hadn’t developed a particular writing style. Back when I posted something almost three times a day because I had to. When my posts had no titles (the same way Andrea has nothing but an incrementing number and location stamp) because they were about everything and nothing in particular.
Now, there’s too much purpose to my writing. Carefully planned out posts, trying to express something specific, without the stream-of-consciousness I used to enjoy. Lost is the old whimsical nature, the ordinary mixed with the extraordinary. I never used to care whether something was significant enough to post, and would just write it and hit that publish button.
I miss it.
But I can’t tell if it’s the way I used to write, or my life back then, that I miss.