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House of Leaving
I am afraid this entry will be fairly long; to save everyone's friend pages, I have inserted a cut tag. The subject matter is that of moving, and specifically why and whether I am going to - precisely the sort of entry I do not usually write, but this is the best forum currently. Since I recognize that the debate may not be as entertaining to those of you who it does not directly affect, I will be simulcasting in the literary style of Hunter S. Thompson; these sections will be italicized for easy scanning.
Here are the cut-and-dry arguments for moving to Sherman or staying in Oak Cliff:
OC: Cooler.
Sher: Location of the majority of my friends.
OC: Can be a balm to my close friend Stretch.
Sher: Can be a balm to my old friend Alice.
OC: Free room and board.
Sher: Dramatically less money spent on gasoline.
OC: Max.
Sher: Patrick.
"They've found me!" I screamed into the phone. "You bastard! I'm in trouble!"
"Calm down," said Uncle Rex. "Just calm down."
BOOM. Flashing paranoia. Can he see me through the blinds? Vibrations pouring off the computer. . . and here I am with no attorney slumped in a chair with a broken lever that wheezes when I sit down. . . a signal to all the fuckers who tailed me from Boston. Since I figure things can't get worse, I swallow a blotter, then leap through the glass.
Of course, most of the actual arguments for and against are intangible and can best be presented in anecdotal form.
When I was a kid, I was in band. First chair symphonic percussionist if anyone's curious. In any case, this meant I was subjected to the horror of selling band candy.
I have always had severe problems asking for money, especially if I know the product's inferior and especially if I have any emotional connection to my client. It feels too much like blackmail. As a result, when other kids had their fathers take order sheets to work, I spent an afternoon each year going only to houses where I didn't know anybody. I never hit the same neighborhood twice, and I always made sure the people were wealthy.
Eventually, I was told I didn't have to sell candy anymore. That was after I gave the company rep an emotional breakdown by asking him what he genuinely thought of his products and whether this job was his childhood ambition.
But now - even before the entry got under way - there were signs that we might be losing control of the situation. Here we were in this fine Texas midnight, this cool wet night on the plains, hunkered down in some house with no foundation, squatting right on the dust about five miles out of downtown. . . and with the race about to start, we were dangerously disorganized.
Outside, the lunatics were playing with their cars, revving engines, kicking tires, swimming up and down the motorways, cruising the windows of closed shops. . . It was extremely exciting and we all went outside to watch.
I've moved a lot. I don't know how clear I've made that over the course of my journal, but I've moved a lot. By conservative estimates, I've lived twelve places in 22 years. It's actually more than that; I haven't counted the Boston places or months spent in hotels while house-hunting. I haven't counted the short periods I've been homeless, either.
The only location that's been anything like constant throughout my life has been Clinton House. Before it belonged to Uncle Rex, it belonged to my grandmother and my great aunt. When I was very young, it was also inhabited by my grandfather and great grandmother. With the exception of Aunt Pat, all of them died here, and their spirits chose to stay. (Especially my grandmother, who is the nicest anyway.) Moreover, the house itself is alive and gets a little angry when I speak ill of it; fuck you if you don't believe me.
I was brooding on this tale as I eased the roller back and forth down the center of the mouse. I refused to slow down until I was sure nobody was following me - especially the broad in the ripped-up nightshirt: that person was definitely dangerous, at least until she calmed down. There was simply no call, at this conference, for anything but Downers: Reds, Grass and Booze before the decent of a Seconal stupor.
My cousin backed away, keeping an eye on me as he edged across the living room. "Maybe you need another drink," he said nervously. "Jesus, that stuff got right on top of you, didn't it?"
Whether you agree with the principle or not, it must be admitted that I am something of a die-hard feminist. Besides getting worked up on subjects like name changes, the Equal Rights Amendment, and women in the military, I take great pride in things like my geek cred, my math skills, my stick shift, my sternum punch, and my tendency to be ballsier than anyone in the room - which includes foul language and liquor tolerance (drunk neat, not mixed with sugar, goddamnit). Likewise, I'll bloody the nose of anyone who downplays my cooking, cleaning, and/or needlework; I wear skirts and I play with children.
As a result of my feminism, I live in mortal terror that I will wake up one morning to find I've become a 1950s housewife. It is not difficult for me to imagine dropping my career to spend more time with my husband - I doubt I'd do it if it didn't make me happy, but what a waste of potential! This was one of the finest advantages to dating another woman - I never, ever had to worry about these things.
Friday evening. . . Memories of this night are extremely hazy. All I have for signposts are a pocket full of quarters, the stub of a play ticket, and three tamales in a styrofoam box - into which I have scratched an illegible symbol. Here is one line from my notebook: "Mail Copy of DL to Ins. Co!!!. . . glam rock . . . oriental fast food store . . . Front desk clerk."
Another says: "Ensuite=then. . . to care about; to be anxious to. . . SHALAHT . . . Exit after Crawford . . . Frackville. . . Get food. . . Between Girls (dir Julie Blumberg). . . atom films. . . gruntling king will keep samite? seal? seat? . . . short long long long short long long long at home with my will of iron."
[Note: These are actual excerpts. Honest to god.]
As far as I can tell, the best course of action is employment of my usual fluid timeline and further investigation of available jobs in both locations.
Here are the cut-and-dry arguments for moving to Sherman or staying in Oak Cliff:
OC: Cooler.
Sher: Location of the majority of my friends.
OC: Can be a balm to my close friend Stretch.
Sher: Can be a balm to my old friend Alice.
OC: Free room and board.
Sher: Dramatically less money spent on gasoline.
OC: Max.
Sher: Patrick.
"They've found me!" I screamed into the phone. "You bastard! I'm in trouble!"
"Calm down," said Uncle Rex. "Just calm down."
BOOM. Flashing paranoia. Can he see me through the blinds? Vibrations pouring off the computer. . . and here I am with no attorney slumped in a chair with a broken lever that wheezes when I sit down. . . a signal to all the fuckers who tailed me from Boston. Since I figure things can't get worse, I swallow a blotter, then leap through the glass.
Of course, most of the actual arguments for and against are intangible and can best be presented in anecdotal form.
When I was a kid, I was in band. First chair symphonic percussionist if anyone's curious. In any case, this meant I was subjected to the horror of selling band candy.
I have always had severe problems asking for money, especially if I know the product's inferior and especially if I have any emotional connection to my client. It feels too much like blackmail. As a result, when other kids had their fathers take order sheets to work, I spent an afternoon each year going only to houses where I didn't know anybody. I never hit the same neighborhood twice, and I always made sure the people were wealthy.
Eventually, I was told I didn't have to sell candy anymore. That was after I gave the company rep an emotional breakdown by asking him what he genuinely thought of his products and whether this job was his childhood ambition.
But now - even before the entry got under way - there were signs that we might be losing control of the situation. Here we were in this fine Texas midnight, this cool wet night on the plains, hunkered down in some house with no foundation, squatting right on the dust about five miles out of downtown. . . and with the race about to start, we were dangerously disorganized.
Outside, the lunatics were playing with their cars, revving engines, kicking tires, swimming up and down the motorways, cruising the windows of closed shops. . . It was extremely exciting and we all went outside to watch.
I've moved a lot. I don't know how clear I've made that over the course of my journal, but I've moved a lot. By conservative estimates, I've lived twelve places in 22 years. It's actually more than that; I haven't counted the Boston places or months spent in hotels while house-hunting. I haven't counted the short periods I've been homeless, either.
The only location that's been anything like constant throughout my life has been Clinton House. Before it belonged to Uncle Rex, it belonged to my grandmother and my great aunt. When I was very young, it was also inhabited by my grandfather and great grandmother. With the exception of Aunt Pat, all of them died here, and their spirits chose to stay. (Especially my grandmother, who is the nicest anyway.) Moreover, the house itself is alive and gets a little angry when I speak ill of it; fuck you if you don't believe me.
I was brooding on this tale as I eased the roller back and forth down the center of the mouse. I refused to slow down until I was sure nobody was following me - especially the broad in the ripped-up nightshirt: that person was definitely dangerous, at least until she calmed down. There was simply no call, at this conference, for anything but Downers: Reds, Grass and Booze before the decent of a Seconal stupor.
My cousin backed away, keeping an eye on me as he edged across the living room. "Maybe you need another drink," he said nervously. "Jesus, that stuff got right on top of you, didn't it?"
Whether you agree with the principle or not, it must be admitted that I am something of a die-hard feminist. Besides getting worked up on subjects like name changes, the Equal Rights Amendment, and women in the military, I take great pride in things like my geek cred, my math skills, my stick shift, my sternum punch, and my tendency to be ballsier than anyone in the room - which includes foul language and liquor tolerance (drunk neat, not mixed with sugar, goddamnit). Likewise, I'll bloody the nose of anyone who downplays my cooking, cleaning, and/or needlework; I wear skirts and I play with children.
As a result of my feminism, I live in mortal terror that I will wake up one morning to find I've become a 1950s housewife. It is not difficult for me to imagine dropping my career to spend more time with my husband - I doubt I'd do it if it didn't make me happy, but what a waste of potential! This was one of the finest advantages to dating another woman - I never, ever had to worry about these things.
Friday evening. . . Memories of this night are extremely hazy. All I have for signposts are a pocket full of quarters, the stub of a play ticket, and three tamales in a styrofoam box - into which I have scratched an illegible symbol. Here is one line from my notebook: "Mail Copy of DL to Ins. Co!!!. . . glam rock . . . oriental fast food store . . . Front desk clerk."
Another says: "Ensuite=then. . . to care about; to be anxious to. . . SHALAHT . . . Exit after Crawford . . . Frackville. . . Get food. . . Between Girls (dir Julie Blumberg). . . atom films. . . gruntling king will keep samite? seal? seat? . . . short long long long short long long long at home with my will of iron."
[Note: These are actual excerpts. Honest to god.]
As far as I can tell, the best course of action is employment of my usual fluid timeline and further investigation of available jobs in both locations.