I'm loose. I bought my freedom, got an apartment—though signed the lease about 4 months ago, I could barely wait. Don't need a job for months, either, I got it covered, sitting there at my mom's for an entire year, paying them rent even, saving everything else, refusing to spend money on anything, just sitting in that garret alone when not at the job than going out anywhere wasting money on junk, complaining, completely miserable. But that was, however, probably the most spiritual time of my life, how it all seemed to gel-together. It was a long winter. And somehow I was light-hearted about it all, just tickling my belly. Though with a real shit attitude, like condescending.
The apartment is 2 hours south of home, I've lived here before, twice. How I move in spirals. And graveyards. I like to go kick-round the rubble of crumbled lives, especially my own. And back I am here. We see our ghosts in memories inspired by familiar surroundings. Though I'm feeling differently than ever before, I can't quite place my finger on it. Though I'm not trying either, just enjoying. How this place should feel so familiar. But it doesn't. But it is. Something like that, I just can't describe. Like I forget where I am, eventhough I know exactly where I am.
It's been 4 years since I last left here. It feels like 14 though. Because 4 years is not very long really. But I see all these same, familiar faces round,—I've trouble making acquaintences wherever I go, I must work-on—and I feel a touch of sadness. You've been here all along? I just can't believe. Only 4 years? Which I only just realized, just writing now, I don't even think much about, 4 years, how long or short it's been.
And it's only been 4 days since I've been here. But it feels like 4 months. I left my mom's with all I have—I'd accumulated a bit of junk there, books and clothes. The Oxford comma I always use, mind you. And you can see its importance in the sentence above. I carted my 2 big bags of junk down here on the train. Had to walk about 3 miles though to catch the damn bus to the train, all these damn clothes and books. Only a few of each, even, really, pairs of clothes and books. My computer, of course. Which I've already spent about a day-and-a-half of these 4 days I've been here, coding, reading on how to put together an Asterisk sever, and then last night and to-day trying to put a Mastodon instance on my minimmill VPS, which was just sitting there taking up space anyway, that minimmill site, an experiment with ads, Adsence, damn Google, not even worth it. But of course, this Mastodon instance is being a pain in the ass. I'm not familiar at all with this Ruby gem non-sense and nodeJS. But I need to learn anyway. For Stripe, for later. Because I bought painting supplies the other day, out buying a few necessities. Which is a natural talent of mine, painting. I drew constantly as a kid. But I was never really good. I just liked it. But I painted once. A Christmas present. With acrylics. A mountain. It was a masterpiece, it scared me. And I haven't painted since. So, I got some oil paints, some brushes, and they had a huge sale on canvas. I scribbled—my drawing style anyway, like Todd McFarlane—a little sketch on one of those canvases already. Just needs paint now, I'm so nervous. I'm not as brilliant as I've always thought. Time to shatter the illusion, it's time to put to the test. I'll practice mixing the paints later to-night, the beginning touches. Got a big beer to loosen the nerves a bit, lose myself in creation. That damn Mastodon can sit there about finished, completely stuck, till it comes unstuck. If I had more RAM on the VPS, it'd be much easier. Might try this more lightweight option I saw, P-something. Of course I get shit cellular service in the apartment, which is my source of internet. But that's about all I got to complain about at the moment anyway.
About the apartment itself, I love it. I'd signed the lease without even seeing it, not even a picture. Just get me out of here, that's funny. Did that for Oregon apartment too, the place was a cupboard, but was just fine for me regardless. But this place is nice. In an old cut-up mansion, I like those. Got some character. A real garret, here, top-floor, like the attic, all finished, but kind of deteriorating still, slanted ceiling by the window, the room, a studio, and then the kitchen, and then the bathroom. First thing I did was go buy a screwdriver and took that air-conditioning out of the window, you better believe. Because the only other window is a tiny one in the bathroom. Got a little aloe vera plant. Looked kind of sick when I bought it, $5. But it's such a healthy bright green now. It likes me. It likes that window. Which faces the East. The best light, according to Burton. Whom I read here and there, when I wake in the morning, or whenever I do. And then when I don't feel like writing or coding. Still so nervous to paint. But I got a big beer. And after all this coding,—or, like system administrating it's more like, no programming language really required—what's painting? So, there.
Stocked-up on paper too, notebooks mostly, and some loose-leaf,—25 cents, you can't beat that—when I was shopping for a few of the necessities, the back-to-school sales. Filled about half of one already. Brought about 4 from my mom's too, that I had there, and the 4 I filled while there. Just to read through. I'm so boring. But the improvement I see keeps me moving. Eventually I'll be interesting. Maybe. It's all about the mechanics though. Can you write about a wall, for example, in—
Like Pessoa, I think it is. Though never read, because Portuguese. How he describes the inside of a house for 100 pages. Or was that Queiroz? Who knows? But how nice would that be? To live the life of a writer in Portugal, cafe-sitting. Anywhere near the ocean would be nice for me, though. And here I am, midwestern United States, right in the middle of the state. But at least the air here—I like to pretend anyway—is fresher. No refineries. Less traffic. It's not just Chicago, up there, but Chicagoland, an huge urban area, all the surrounding suburbs—all the traffic and pollution and concrete. This place is like Eugene. A micro-city, I seen it called. Like an oasis in the middle of nowhere, in the middle of cornfields—and soy, of course, alternating each year, they should be.
Alright, time to clamp the vein. I've put it in my mind to be more perceptive to ideas for blog posts. Since I have all this time now. But I just can't write like that, on topic, I need practice. So, I'll be writing more. Or, I have been. But I'll write more here, blog posts. Why not? I'll find some stories to write about, get some characters.