in the belly of a whale

To be honest, I've been ignoring my blog, consciously deciding not to update, because I've been intimidated by it. Scared, even. Life's been interesting these past months. It's autumn, now. Evan and I are settling into our home and the lives which we've become. Finally, after so many years on the road, ugly, insane, mesmerizing -- I find myself living in a home which is half mine. And in the morning, a man I've come to know in 2.5 years more than I've known of myself in 27 pulls me an espresso shot before work, in our kitchen. And before I leave for work, or before going out at night, I do yoga and aerobic exercises off cable television. My books overflow and I am catching up on all the ones I've collected between the years of then (when I previously purged myself of all belongings) and now (that I've somehow amassed enough "stuff" to justify purchasing a house for them all). I still work at a bike shop but with even less gusto than when I was depressed and on painkillers back in New York. Subtle things seem to be spiraling out of control while the big ship sails steady, regardless. A complete opposite of what I've known and I'm still not sure which I prefer, which is an interesting thing to admit in a public forum but life is hard, whether or not we're afraid of that word ("life" or "hard," take your pick).


What an awkard place to be in, to miss the freedom of the world, the road, the stranger's livingroom floor or spare room....and to also know I've lost that bit of myself, and get tired more easily, and more easily frustrated, or maybe I've set the bar too high for myself and I just can't reach it the way I thought I ought to by now.


A recent trip to Boston helped put a lot of things into perspective, though it didn't quite rest my feet. Seems a lot of friends are starting to settle down, resentfully of otherwise, because what else is there to do? The bright side is the stability, that I'm relatively healthy and isn't that an odd feeling. Evan and I were looking at photos of myself from summer 2006, the pale and bloated skin, big dark red circles under my eyes. I still love that haircut though, I suppose as I love the grotesque in a sense. Perhaps a small part of me still pines unhealthily for the ability to be (not ugly but) grotesque and wander freely amongst the streetly, angrily, stompishly. There is a weird joy to that, right?


Still, despite the restlessness and the eternally blazing asshole flame in the pit of me that refuses to let me just sit and be happy, or move and be happy, or move amongst people and be happy or stay in hermitude happily...I am drinking a Troegg's java stout, writing in an office that is just for writing, in a house that's just for me (and Evan), and my feet are bare and I'm wearing grey pajamas and what else could I ask for, as a writer? Perhaps that some friends would come visit for dinner tonight, which they did, or that tomorrow I only work six hours and saw friends after? Or that I got fitted for my bike today? I could go on. Life is pretty great. Perhaps the reason I didn't write for so long is (as the java stout goes down) that there's no real drama or stress. Any thing going on worth writing about is the deep pit of me, that is not appropriate for the blog, sadly. Or maybe not gutted properly to express. Everything feels bubbling. The flat is easier to express. The bubbling is harder to catch, understand, set loose.


Every day is a changing rhythm. Every year, feels like a different genre. Steady forward, because there's no rewinding I guess.