I got out! I am now in Albuquerque, New Mexico with my sister and her family. I arrived here last Wednesday after driving my car, Theo, for like 15 billion hours, only 3 of which were in New Mexico. Seriously, Texas is massive. The Black Hole is about an hour from the Louisiana border, so basically I drove across the entire state at a slightly northern angle, and it took forever. I consoled myself by blasting country music...it seemed fitting.
I stopped in Lubbock for the night, thinking I'd wake up the next morning and hit the New Mexico border within an hour. I was mistaken. First, I had to make my way out of Lubbock, and let me tell you that was not an easy task. Yeah, yeah, I know..."Lubbock is a basic grid system of streets with numbers and letters and blah blah blah." It doesn't matter. Even my handy dandy gps named Madam doesn't like Lubbock.
Madam: Turn left to blah blah street.
Me: There is no left!
Madam: Rerouting. Make a legal u-turn when possible.
Me: Grr. Fine. (I turn around.)
Madam: Rerouting. Turn left. Rerouting. Make a legal u-turn.
Me: Fuck you, Madam!
So, anyway, I managed to get myself out of that place without throwing Madam out the window (which is lucky since Madam is also my cell phone.) Then, I was on the road to New Mexico, and I thought it was gonna be an easy 5 hour drive. Until I slid into Farwell, TX. If you are not incredibly knowledgeable about Texas geography or don't know how to work Google Maps...that tiny ass town is precisely on the border between Texas and New Mexico. I came to a complete halt sandwiched between an 18-wheeler and a pick-up truck. You know the big kind, the ones that seems to be seem to be compensating for something else. I leaned my head out the window to get a look. I mean, what could cause a traffic jam at 11am in Yup, a train at a dead halt. Not moving at all. And it seemed to be laughing at me..."Hahahaha Natty, you just THOUGHT you could escape the Black Hole!!" I sat there thinking that I really was going to have to turn around and drive the 18 billion hours back to the Black Hole where I would waste away my life as a house sitter allowing my accent to slowly creep back in. This train was going to ruin me.
But then I followed an RV down some side roads and country roads and found myself back on the highway, delayed an hour, but back on track to Albuquerque. The train only THOUGHT it could thwart me. Muahaha! (Also, thanks, RV driver who had a better gps.)
Basking in my victory over the mocking train, I decided to open Theo's windows and sunroof. I was excited to find that I had also escaped the humidity of the Black Hole, and I blasted my music in celebration as I sang my way through the deserty countryside of New Mexico. I also played the game, "Hey Cow!" This is where you yell out the window, "Hey Cow!" as loud as you can and see if any cows look at you. I'm pretty positive I didn't do anything but freak out the cars around me. I mean, it must have looked odd...this brunette girl leaning her head out the window to scream with her hair blowing every which way. No cows looked. And I'm pretty sure that game was way more fun with other people in the car.
Anyway, after my journey, I finally made it to Albuquerque where I have not driven anywhere since. I spend my days going for walks and reading until my sister comes home with my 10-month-old nephew whose picky self still won't let me hold him. This is the life I lead.
Tuesday, June 28, 2011
Saturday, June 18, 2011
Must Get Out
The Black Hole seems to be sucking away my creative fervor. I can feel my ideas leaking out of me like spilled gasoline. All I need is for somebody to strike a match and I, along with all my creativity, will explode and be obliterated into smithereens. That's a weird word...smithereens. I've never typed it before. Anyway, I've been staring at my computer for like three hours now, and I got nothing. My life as a nomad seems to be failing me at the moment...it's not exciting at all.
Regardless, I have to write something because the point of this blog is not only to feel some sort of connection to whoever is reading but also to keep myself writing semi-regularly. I've been journaling too, but that fake leather-bound book is full of self-loathing and melodramatic shit about how unqualified I am to do anything remotely important. And no one wants to hear about that.
It has come to my attention recently that I have been quite harsh on the Black Hole. I feel like I've given it a fair treatment here online, but it seems my bitterness is seeping into my spoken language. My friend pointed out that I've been fairly negative about people who choose to come back here. I know people I went to high school with who are coming back to teach or otherwise employ themselves, and I just don't understand their choices. I've spent my whole life trying to run away from here, and they are doing just the opposite. Hence, my rendering of the town as the "Black Hole." Even my best friend would not mind getting married and settling down here, succumbing to everything about the Black Hole that I've been trying to avoid my entire life. There's nothing wrong with this...it is just not the life I would choose. Then again, what I'm doing right now - bumming around - isn't my lifestyle of choice either.
Anyway, let it be said in writing, that the Black Hole is not a nightmare of a town straight out of some horror movie. In fact, it is quite a lovely place to grow up. And it has a very nice zoo, if that counts for anything.
I got my haircut on Thursday by Whitney. This may seem odd to some of you, but my hair has been cut by a total of 2 people in my entire life (maybe 3 if there was somebody before Whitney). Whitney has cut my hair for as long as I can remember, and I would rather go a year without a haircut than have it even trimmed by somebody else. I just don't trust anybody else with scissors. Same idea with my dentist. It's something weird about growing up here - something about the comfort of the dental hygienist, Joyce, asking me about my best friend's family vacation. Or Whitney asking to see pictures of Ryan, my nephew because she was just looking at his birth announcement the other day. That is something I really don't mind about the Black Hole.
Despite all of this, it is about time for me to be moving on. Like I said, my creative spirit is slowly dying. Come Tuesday, I will be saying goodbye to the Black Hole and moving forward in my nomadic life which will hopefully become increasingly more exciting (and perhaps have pictures).
Regardless, I have to write something because the point of this blog is not only to feel some sort of connection to whoever is reading but also to keep myself writing semi-regularly. I've been journaling too, but that fake leather-bound book is full of self-loathing and melodramatic shit about how unqualified I am to do anything remotely important. And no one wants to hear about that.
It has come to my attention recently that I have been quite harsh on the Black Hole. I feel like I've given it a fair treatment here online, but it seems my bitterness is seeping into my spoken language. My friend pointed out that I've been fairly negative about people who choose to come back here. I know people I went to high school with who are coming back to teach or otherwise employ themselves, and I just don't understand their choices. I've spent my whole life trying to run away from here, and they are doing just the opposite. Hence, my rendering of the town as the "Black Hole." Even my best friend would not mind getting married and settling down here, succumbing to everything about the Black Hole that I've been trying to avoid my entire life. There's nothing wrong with this...it is just not the life I would choose. Then again, what I'm doing right now - bumming around - isn't my lifestyle of choice either.
Anyway, let it be said in writing, that the Black Hole is not a nightmare of a town straight out of some horror movie. In fact, it is quite a lovely place to grow up. And it has a very nice zoo, if that counts for anything.
I got my haircut on Thursday by Whitney. This may seem odd to some of you, but my hair has been cut by a total of 2 people in my entire life (maybe 3 if there was somebody before Whitney). Whitney has cut my hair for as long as I can remember, and I would rather go a year without a haircut than have it even trimmed by somebody else. I just don't trust anybody else with scissors. Same idea with my dentist. It's something weird about growing up here - something about the comfort of the dental hygienist, Joyce, asking me about my best friend's family vacation. Or Whitney asking to see pictures of Ryan, my nephew because she was just looking at his birth announcement the other day. That is something I really don't mind about the Black Hole.
Despite all of this, it is about time for me to be moving on. Like I said, my creative spirit is slowly dying. Come Tuesday, I will be saying goodbye to the Black Hole and moving forward in my nomadic life which will hopefully become increasingly more exciting (and perhaps have pictures).
Sunday, June 12, 2011
Warning: Harry Causes Uselessness Disorder
I wish I had something more exciting to tell you about, but after my lunch-debate last week, I was overcome with the need to read Harry Potter. To make matters worse, I watched Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows with my friend, Megan, and suddenly, the urge was irresistible. So,I have spent almost every waking hour since my last post devouring Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire. (I've read the first 3 so many times, it seemed pointless to start from the beginning.) I holed myself up in my most recent house-sitting job with frozen dinners, lunchables, and mini-bottles of wine. I haven't shared the company of a real human being since Friday lunch, and I have been perfectly content.
Now that I've finished the last page and wiped away the tears, I realize now why my mother hated me so much when I was reading Harry. I've always been a reader, but for me, reading Harry has always been a binge. Every time a new book was about to come out, I would set down to read all the preceding books, basically in one sitting. This meant, that every year or so, I would become completely useless for a week. If forced, I think I would empty the dishwasher one-handed while continuing to read Harry out of my other hand. When Deathly Hallows came out, I read it in its entirety on my 18-hour plan ride from South Africa on my way to college. The outside world has just never seemed to matter when it comes to reading Harry.
I know a lot of people, including a LOT of fellow English majors, will disagree with me, but it seems difficult to deny that there is something really magical about the books. In elementary school, there were a handful of other kids who liked to read as much as I did. Everybody else, just seemed to read enough to meet their quota of Accelerated Reader points. But when Harry Potter was released, I suddenly could talk about books with almost every kid in my class. Suddenly, they were not only reading, but they were reading the same books I was. A professor of mine once called Harry the savior or superhero of my generation, and I think it might be true. My late grandfather suffered a stroke 5 or 6 years ago. Once an avid reader, he suddenly was incapable of doing so anymore. Yet, somehow, Harry Potter was the only thing he could manage to focus on long enough to read. If that's not magic, I don't know what is.
So, yeah, I'm a Harry fan, big deal. I overindulge. I cry and laugh and sometimes even call him an idiot. And it's going to take a lot of will-power to read the other 5 (more on my reading level) books I'm in the middle of, rather than start Order of the Phoenix. Anyway, the point of this post is - I think somewhere in the middle of my mini-binge, I rediscovered a little piece of myself. Reminiscing about the Nate years and stuff is all fine and good, but I think I found some sort of essence of Natalie hidden in the pages of Harry. I remember I read Goblet of Fire for the first time in the summer before 6th grade. And that girl, well, she was shy, quiet, and content to be by herself, happy even, with the lack of any entertainment other than a good book. I've strayed a bit from that Natalie - in fact, it has been pointed out that I'm definitely not an introvert anymore. And while I'm very happy to not be quite as shy, it was kind of fun to be 12 again (but with wine!) for a weekend.
Now that I've finished the last page and wiped away the tears, I realize now why my mother hated me so much when I was reading Harry. I've always been a reader, but for me, reading Harry has always been a binge. Every time a new book was about to come out, I would set down to read all the preceding books, basically in one sitting. This meant, that every year or so, I would become completely useless for a week. If forced, I think I would empty the dishwasher one-handed while continuing to read Harry out of my other hand. When Deathly Hallows came out, I read it in its entirety on my 18-hour plan ride from South Africa on my way to college. The outside world has just never seemed to matter when it comes to reading Harry.
I know a lot of people, including a LOT of fellow English majors, will disagree with me, but it seems difficult to deny that there is something really magical about the books. In elementary school, there were a handful of other kids who liked to read as much as I did. Everybody else, just seemed to read enough to meet their quota of Accelerated Reader points. But when Harry Potter was released, I suddenly could talk about books with almost every kid in my class. Suddenly, they were not only reading, but they were reading the same books I was. A professor of mine once called Harry the savior or superhero of my generation, and I think it might be true. My late grandfather suffered a stroke 5 or 6 years ago. Once an avid reader, he suddenly was incapable of doing so anymore. Yet, somehow, Harry Potter was the only thing he could manage to focus on long enough to read. If that's not magic, I don't know what is.
So, yeah, I'm a Harry fan, big deal. I overindulge. I cry and laugh and sometimes even call him an idiot. And it's going to take a lot of will-power to read the other 5 (more on my reading level) books I'm in the middle of, rather than start Order of the Phoenix. Anyway, the point of this post is - I think somewhere in the middle of my mini-binge, I rediscovered a little piece of myself. Reminiscing about the Nate years and stuff is all fine and good, but I think I found some sort of essence of Natalie hidden in the pages of Harry. I remember I read Goblet of Fire for the first time in the summer before 6th grade. And that girl, well, she was shy, quiet, and content to be by herself, happy even, with the lack of any entertainment other than a good book. I've strayed a bit from that Natalie - in fact, it has been pointed out that I'm definitely not an introvert anymore. And while I'm very happy to not be quite as shy, it was kind of fun to be 12 again (but with wine!) for a weekend.
Thursday, June 9, 2011
I'm a Ravenclaw
You would think I'd have something more interesting to write about since I escaped the Black Hole and went to Houston yesterday. Hello, small town girl in the big city! But that would mean I'd have to describe in full detail the embarrassing amounts of giddiness I experienced upon spending nearly two hours in Barnes & Noble browsing and buying books. Call it a brain orgasm, call it soul therapy, call it a major nerd attack - it's all the same to me. It would also mean relating the extensive conversation I had with a few college friends over lunch. We've been debating the same thing since February: who belongs in Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw or Gryffindor if we were hypothetically going to school with Harry Potter. I don't know why, but my friends have serious qualms about being Hufflepuffs. The whole conversation was, well, ridiculous, especially for college graduates, and I just wonder if there was some writer listening to us from the next table over and scribbling away. Perhaps, if done correctly, this could all be a rather entertaining piece, but I couldn't quite figure out how to do it today. So, instead, you get to hear about my boring life spent in coffee shops.
I'm sitting in Starbucks (yet again) reading up on other blogs, including I'd Put Out For That and I can't help but notice the irony in the juxtaposition between myself and the woman across from me. She's obviously a Pentecostal young woman, and she's diligently reading her Bible with golden edged pages. I watched her pray before she consumed her chocolate chip cookie. Yet, here I am reading about all the silly things people (aka my friends) would put out for and giggling away. I'm not sure this woman would find the blog nearly as funny.
It's ridiculous how much of my life lately is spent in coffee shops. I'd like to say I people watch most of the time like a true writer, but that would be a lie. I usually tune everything out with my headphones because I can't stand the noise of the blenders. You would think Starbucks would come up with some sort of muffler for those things. I used to want to write a book titled something like Coffee Shop Ramblings, detailing weird conversations I overhear whilst sitting in coffee shops. Perhaps it's an invasion of privacy anyway, but it doesn't matter because I've realized that most people in coffee shops annoy me.
I spent a total of 6 hours in 2 different coffee shops today. In the first, there was an overly friendly middle-aged guy at the table behind me who was continuously trying to have a conversation with me even though I was obviously writing and had my back to him. Then, in Starbucks, there is the obnoxiously loud business man with the nasally voice and the 23-year-old girl bragging to anybody who will listen about how she's memorizing the Barista manual to be a Barista...at another coffee house. Not to mention, the Pentecostal woman is now discussing her divorce and remarriage (scandal!) with a church elder. And while this is all very interesting perhaps for one of my rants about society, they do not make for a good novel. Except for perhaps the Pentecostal scandal - that could work somehow...
I'm sitting in Starbucks (yet again) reading up on other blogs, including I'd Put Out For That and I can't help but notice the irony in the juxtaposition between myself and the woman across from me. She's obviously a Pentecostal young woman, and she's diligently reading her Bible with golden edged pages. I watched her pray before she consumed her chocolate chip cookie. Yet, here I am reading about all the silly things people (aka my friends) would put out for and giggling away. I'm not sure this woman would find the blog nearly as funny.
It's ridiculous how much of my life lately is spent in coffee shops. I'd like to say I people watch most of the time like a true writer, but that would be a lie. I usually tune everything out with my headphones because I can't stand the noise of the blenders. You would think Starbucks would come up with some sort of muffler for those things. I used to want to write a book titled something like Coffee Shop Ramblings, detailing weird conversations I overhear whilst sitting in coffee shops. Perhaps it's an invasion of privacy anyway, but it doesn't matter because I've realized that most people in coffee shops annoy me.
I spent a total of 6 hours in 2 different coffee shops today. In the first, there was an overly friendly middle-aged guy at the table behind me who was continuously trying to have a conversation with me even though I was obviously writing and had my back to him. Then, in Starbucks, there is the obnoxiously loud business man with the nasally voice and the 23-year-old girl bragging to anybody who will listen about how she's memorizing the Barista manual to be a Barista...at another coffee house. Not to mention, the Pentecostal woman is now discussing her divorce and remarriage (scandal!) with a church elder. And while this is all very interesting perhaps for one of my rants about society, they do not make for a good novel. Except for perhaps the Pentecostal scandal - that could work somehow...
Monday, June 6, 2011
Sorry to Disappoint You
I think I went to church twice my whole four years in college, but I always go when I'm in the Black Hole. I think part of it is out of habit, and I think the other part is because it's the closest I can get to the feeling of "home" these days. I grew up knowing all the people, and they treat me like their own child despite the fact that I'm a completely different person from who I was when I actually went to church there. If we sat down and had a real conversation about my life in the past 3 years, I'm pretty sure they would think I needed some serious prayer time with laying on of hands and speaking in tongues or something. Nevertheless, it's nice to sit in the pew and revert to my innocent 15-year-old self for an hour or so. And it feels good to be welcomed back with big hugs and smiles - sometimes, I feel like their little lost child.
But like everybody else, they annoy me with their incessant questions in their twangy east Texas accents:
Right before I was about to leave dejectedly, I got into a conversation with a guy who used to help with the youth group when I was in middle and high school.
Same question: "What are you doing now?"
I replied honestly, "I'm going to grad school, but I'm taking a year off."
"Where you going?"
"Alaska," I said with a giggle.
'Why Alaska?"
I responded with my usual spiel about the program and wanting to go somewhere new.
"Why you being self-conscious about it?"
I looked at him blankly; I had no idea what he was talking about.
"If you want to go to Alaska, go to Alaska. But don't be self-conscious about it."
"Well, it's difficult when everyone is so incredulous about it," I replied bitterly.
"Who cares? It's your life. So, what are you doing for a year?"
"I don't know yet."
"Good. You're...22? You don't need a plan."
Thank you! I feel like just because I graduated from a good school, I'm expected to suddenly have my head screwed on straight. I don't, and neither do most of my friends who graduated with me. Come to think of it, neither do most adults I know; they usually aren't doing what they really want to be doing. Our society expects us to do something with our lives immediately after we are kicked out of the doors of our respective institutions. We have to be good little practical products of a machine. But screw you machine, I think I'd like to live first.
But like everybody else, they annoy me with their incessant questions in their twangy east Texas accents:
- "You're graduated! What now?"
- "English major? You gonna teach?" (NO!)
- "You moving back here?" (Hell to the no!)
- "Writer, huh?"
- "Alaska? Your family doesn't know how to stay put, does it?"
- "What are you doing for a year then?" (followed by a frown when I don't have a real answer.)
Right before I was about to leave dejectedly, I got into a conversation with a guy who used to help with the youth group when I was in middle and high school.
Same question: "What are you doing now?"
I replied honestly, "I'm going to grad school, but I'm taking a year off."
"Where you going?"
"Alaska," I said with a giggle.
'Why Alaska?"
I responded with my usual spiel about the program and wanting to go somewhere new.
"Why you being self-conscious about it?"
I looked at him blankly; I had no idea what he was talking about.
"If you want to go to Alaska, go to Alaska. But don't be self-conscious about it."
"Well, it's difficult when everyone is so incredulous about it," I replied bitterly.
"Who cares? It's your life. So, what are you doing for a year?"
"I don't know yet."
"Good. You're...22? You don't need a plan."
Thank you! I feel like just because I graduated from a good school, I'm expected to suddenly have my head screwed on straight. I don't, and neither do most of my friends who graduated with me. Come to think of it, neither do most adults I know; they usually aren't doing what they really want to be doing. Our society expects us to do something with our lives immediately after we are kicked out of the doors of our respective institutions. We have to be good little practical products of a machine. But screw you machine, I think I'd like to live first.
Saturday, June 4, 2011
The Nate Years
Because east Texas is bloody hot and humid in the summer, I've been forcing myself out of bed at ungodly hours to go for a walk when it's cool-ish. The house I'm home-sitting is in my old 'hood where I grew up, and it's been nice to wander the streets and see the memory of my 10-year-old self riding her bike around. That was during what I like to call, my "Nate Years." Basically, I was a tall, flat-chested girl who chopped her hair as short as my mother would allow. I wore a backwards baseball cap, had scrapes on my knees, and all my closest friends were guys. I even went by "Nate" for a while. Essentially, I was as tomboy as you could possibly get, and yet, ironically, I was also incredibly boy crazy.
This morning, I walked past the creek bed my friends and I used to play in. It's overgrown now; there must be snakes galore lurking in the underbrush. Now that I think about it, I'm not exactly sure what we were doing in the creek bed for hours at a time. I have vague memories of daring each other to jump from one side of the ditch to the other and swinging from tree branches. When there was a drought, we'd run through the tunnels that went under the road, despite my mother's demands not to do so. Who knows what else we did or what we talked about; I just know I still have a lot of random scars. But, I like to think we were using our imaginations to create a different world that was free and far away from everything that was real. We didn't have cell phones or ipods or computers or agendas. We were just living - and avoiding the snakes, I suppose.
People worry about me moving to Alaska in a year, but I usually laugh at them because their arguments don't make sense. They think I'm going to freeze to death, but I can't wait to get away from this heat. It gives me heat rash and I sweat all the time. The darkness in the winter will take some getting used to, but I kind of thrive at night anyway. "It's so far away," is usually the ultimate argument, but isn't that exactly the point? It's like running away from the distractions of the norm and being forced to live differently than I've ever had to live before. I'm looking at it as a way to get back to the Nate Years. I don't intend to dig out my old baseball cap or anything - even though I think I still have it. I just think Alaska is exactly the kind of adventure I would have imagined when I was playing in the ditch - just maybe with sub-zero temperatures.
This morning, I walked past the creek bed my friends and I used to play in. It's overgrown now; there must be snakes galore lurking in the underbrush. Now that I think about it, I'm not exactly sure what we were doing in the creek bed for hours at a time. I have vague memories of daring each other to jump from one side of the ditch to the other and swinging from tree branches. When there was a drought, we'd run through the tunnels that went under the road, despite my mother's demands not to do so. Who knows what else we did or what we talked about; I just know I still have a lot of random scars. But, I like to think we were using our imaginations to create a different world that was free and far away from everything that was real. We didn't have cell phones or ipods or computers or agendas. We were just living - and avoiding the snakes, I suppose.
People worry about me moving to Alaska in a year, but I usually laugh at them because their arguments don't make sense. They think I'm going to freeze to death, but I can't wait to get away from this heat. It gives me heat rash and I sweat all the time. The darkness in the winter will take some getting used to, but I kind of thrive at night anyway. "It's so far away," is usually the ultimate argument, but isn't that exactly the point? It's like running away from the distractions of the norm and being forced to live differently than I've ever had to live before. I'm looking at it as a way to get back to the Nate Years. I don't intend to dig out my old baseball cap or anything - even though I think I still have it. I just think Alaska is exactly the kind of adventure I would have imagined when I was playing in the ditch - just maybe with sub-zero temperatures.
Thursday, June 2, 2011
"Don't know whose life I'm living, but it sure ain't mine"
I was out trying to kill time yesterday, and I decided I wanted to browse the one lousy bookstore the Black Hole has to offer, only to find it had disappeared. I can't say I wasn't slightly peeved. Over the years, I've watched the bookstores leave town one-by-one (not that there were tons of them to begin with). When I left last summer, we were down to the long, skinny Waldenbooks in the mall. It wasn't a good bookstore, but at least it was something. Now, we're left with two Christian bookstores - because a town of 35,000 people needs two of those to support the 100+ churches in the city limits alone. I know that real books made out of paper are an evaporating market right now anyway, but I still believe this all says something about the character of the town. I'm not saying that the people here are uneducated or illiterate, they aren't by any means. I'm just saying their priorities are probably slightly different from mine. Then again, I am an academic.
The life I'm leading at the moment is pretty lonely. I only have one really close friend left in the area, and she's been in Haiti the entire time I've been here. However, I'm keeping myself busy with reading and writing. In most respects, my life hasn't changed from when I was an English major in school. I'm still reading three books at a time, and I'm writing everyday. Difference is: I'm reading those books without chewing on a pencil, and I'm writing things I want to write. In other words, I'm reading some guilty-pleasure books instead of uppity symbolic British literature and writing really shitty stories instead of really shitty analytical essays. And despite the loneliness and occasional homesickness for a home that doesn't exist anymore - I'm really quite enjoying my intellectual nomadic lifestyle.
I start my first house-sitting job tonight. This is how I usually make a living when I come back to the Black Hole. I started the business the summer after my freshman year of college. Basically, all my parents' old friends pay me to take care of their pets and live in their houses while they go on vacation. Sometimes, my key chain looks like a set of janitor keys because I'm watching so many houses. I love every minute of it.
You can tell a lot about people by living in their house when they're not there. I'm not nosy; in fact, I'm extremely respectful of privacy. Despite the temptation, I don't go digging through drawers or closets, usually not even the refrigerator. I'm just saying, these people are expecting me to have a routine similar or identical to theirs while they're away. In a way, they want time to stop at home while they're away, and I'm supposed to be the magical fairy that makes that happen. In reality, it's home-sitting, not house-sitting. Some demand I let their dogs out at 6 in the morning and feed them at 7; some don't care what I do as long as the dogs are still alive when they get home. Some people want their plants watered every other day, some have sprinklers who do the watering for me, and some don't have plants at all. It doesn't take a nosy person to figure out a family's personality; it just takes following someone else's schedule for a few days. In a lot of ways, it's like living somebody else's life for a while, and that is the dream of every writer. I always want to get inside somebody else's head - even for just five minutes - and write as much about their thoughts and emotions as I possibly can. House-sitting is the closest I can get to that.
(blog post title comes from the lyrics of "Hobo Blues" by Ray LaMontagne)
The life I'm leading at the moment is pretty lonely. I only have one really close friend left in the area, and she's been in Haiti the entire time I've been here. However, I'm keeping myself busy with reading and writing. In most respects, my life hasn't changed from when I was an English major in school. I'm still reading three books at a time, and I'm writing everyday. Difference is: I'm reading those books without chewing on a pencil, and I'm writing things I want to write. In other words, I'm reading some guilty-pleasure books instead of uppity symbolic British literature and writing really shitty stories instead of really shitty analytical essays. And despite the loneliness and occasional homesickness for a home that doesn't exist anymore - I'm really quite enjoying my intellectual nomadic lifestyle.
I start my first house-sitting job tonight. This is how I usually make a living when I come back to the Black Hole. I started the business the summer after my freshman year of college. Basically, all my parents' old friends pay me to take care of their pets and live in their houses while they go on vacation. Sometimes, my key chain looks like a set of janitor keys because I'm watching so many houses. I love every minute of it.
You can tell a lot about people by living in their house when they're not there. I'm not nosy; in fact, I'm extremely respectful of privacy. Despite the temptation, I don't go digging through drawers or closets, usually not even the refrigerator. I'm just saying, these people are expecting me to have a routine similar or identical to theirs while they're away. In a way, they want time to stop at home while they're away, and I'm supposed to be the magical fairy that makes that happen. In reality, it's home-sitting, not house-sitting. Some demand I let their dogs out at 6 in the morning and feed them at 7; some don't care what I do as long as the dogs are still alive when they get home. Some people want their plants watered every other day, some have sprinklers who do the watering for me, and some don't have plants at all. It doesn't take a nosy person to figure out a family's personality; it just takes following someone else's schedule for a few days. In a lot of ways, it's like living somebody else's life for a while, and that is the dream of every writer. I always want to get inside somebody else's head - even for just five minutes - and write as much about their thoughts and emotions as I possibly can. House-sitting is the closest I can get to that.
(blog post title comes from the lyrics of "Hobo Blues" by Ray LaMontagne)
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