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6 April 2018

Not as Interesting as Goldmund Unleashed

by Andrew

I dozed-off there for a bit. My sleep is such a mess. I work at night, at the job, a reverse-9-to-5 almost. Thursdays I have off. So I was awake all night, just sitting here.

Last week, I got a 6 pack of beer and drank on my Thursday off. I think I only managed to drink 4 of the 6 beers,—if that—and I was drunk, I so rarely drink. I finished the other 2 beers Friday when I woke, right before I left to walk back to the job again—the hour-and-a-half it takes.

It was a bit sad, thinking about it now, further, my last Thursday off. I just sat in the little garret I have here at my mother's, my room, and drank. The best part of the night was the hour walk to get the beer, to buy it, and then the hour walk back. The weather was warmer last week. It was a very pleasant walk, I remember. Or now that I think of it, it was raining a bit actually, a very light drizzle. But the temperature was warm at least.

And that's about as far back as I can think, my Thursdays off. Since August I've been working at this job too.

But it's been a long Winter. I've been all couped-up since about December. Though I walk to the job and back every night and morning. On my days off, I've been trapped inside, unwilling to face the Winter weather if I don't have to, so sick of being forced to otherwise, only in order to get to that damn job.

But Spring has finally arrived. About 3 weeks ago, now, I noticed. The snow is gone. The air is warm at 0 degrees Celsius.

And back to life I've seemed to come, out of hibernation. And it feels like that too. The old bear shakes the sleep off his bristled fur.

I've written a few posts this year. I've tried anyway. And the good news, I see improvement, compared to my posts from last year.

But I've really not been writing much at-all since about the middle of November. I was tapped-out. And Winter had arrived just then. So it was even more difficult to get motivated.

So I've not really been writing since November—much anyway. And it's been a long, cold Winter. Which all sounds so terribly depressing. Because writing is usually my release from the depression. And I wasn't even writing. But I really wasn't even so depressed, I'd say. I was just kind of blank. But I wasn't blank either. My mind was solidifying, let's say.

Since I've been back home here,—after having returned from some months in Europe wandering round homeless, and before that a year in Oregon freezing in my tiny cupboard of an apartment with barely a dime to my name, and year of driving and living in the truck before that, and almost a year of homelessness before that, and 2 years at university before that, and year and a half at the junior college here before that, where I lived at home, here at my mother's, though was never home, working when I wasn't in class, saving for university—I've felt raw, let's say. Like a wound completely ripped open. And I was back here again, home, where I know so well. But it was with new eyes I was looking at everything. And since I've returned, that wound has been scabbing back up. Something like that I've felt.

And from August to November, I wrote. Which is like scratching raw the wound again and again, writing. From actually about May till November I wrote. Because I started writing in Europe with nothing else to do and no money to my name, and time to kill.

Where am I going with this?

I dozed-off for a bit earlier tonight—or this morning, or whatever it was, a few hours ago. It's morning now. The sun is just rising, I see through the blinds, the light blue light. Probably for only about a half hour I dozed-off. But the dream that woke me haunts me still.

It was all distorted, this dream. I heard my sister's voice—who's been dead for a few years now. And then, still dreaming, I told my mother, that I'd heard her voice, like I wasn't dreaming, like I was telling her this in real life, my mother, but it was in the dream. And then everyone was outside at the beach, my entire family—aunts, cousins, everyone. I kept looking out at them, out there on the beach, from inside. I was in my aunt and uncle's house I suppose. Who live nowhere near a beach. Nor did I recognize the house in my dream. But it was their house, I knew. And then I was in the basement, packing up my life,—like I do, all in a backpack, sprawled out all on the floor before me—at the last possible minute. I must have been living at my aunt's. And the entire family was there outside swimming and splashing on the beach. The last ones I saw were my dad and sisters all there splashing in some stormy-skied corner of sand, green sick sea. But they were happy. And it was inevitable now. It was 22:00. I had a train or bus or plane—or boat or camel, or whatever—to catch at 23:00. I had to go. I had to pack now. No longer could I spend any more time with them, my family. Which I'd done, to the very last minute possible. But which I feared I'd remember only like this, looking out the window while I packed, wasting precious moments that could actually have been spent with them instead.

And I woke—but in the dream. And I had to ask myself seriously and think—like I do—"where am I?" And sometimes it takes a long time, a minute or so, to remember. And it did. I was here at my mother's, I finally came-to, in the garret I have here, I remembered. But in the dream. And then I woke for real.

I was shook a bit, the images in that dream. My dad and sisters swimming in that sick ocean and overcast skies, but happy together. And I had to go. And then waking like that, I'd completely forgotten about, having been comfortably here at home since August. How traumatizing that is really, to wake and not remember immediately where you are now. And then to have to get up and begin moving again regardless, wherever you are.

I got the phone and went on Twitter. But it was like 3:00 here. So Twitter was dead. A couple of the Europeans were awake. But they barely tweet anyway.

So I checked my email. I'd signed-up for a few newsletters. I read Goldmund's, most of it, about his night out. And I was like, "damn." That guy is interesting, that Goldmund. He does interesting stuff—out at bars and such, in Mexico, in New York, doing shots of whiskey, overhearing crazy conversations, taking home beautiful women.

So I got the jacket. Which I've fallen in love with,—the long, cold Winter—my great coat that I got like 8 years ago for my Grandpa's funeral outside, the dead of Winter, all wool, all warm. I threw on the cap. And I went for about an hour-and-a-half spin round and round that damn church. Which is probably a good 3 or 4 miles, I'd say—at least. That damn sign still says, "welcome home."


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