these silly things

This is such a strange time in my (our) lives, when we are never standing still; we are always leaving one home or another. Reminds me of that one scene in Garden State that I really liked, the one where Zach Braff talks about this time, when you sort of don't feel at home in your real home and you don't really ever feel at home until you make your own home, and fill it with people you love or something. I might have made that last part up.

So I probably don't fully agree with the sentiment behind it, but it's a nice little scene anyway. Really captures this. This sort of in-between, numbness/yuck that keeps crawling up the sides of my stomach when I least expect it. That wasn't meant to be literal at all, for those of you who went there. Yeah. Stop it.

You know, or maybe you don't, that sort of stomach-lurching anxiety that you feel when you stand on bridges very very high above water, or ride elevators with glass walls and imagine the floor giving way, and all the beautiful reds that our bodies are made of painting the elevator chute in bright, Andy Warhol/Jackson Pollock splashes.

I always sort of laughed at writers who write like I'm writing right now (Chuck); I thought they were trying too hard, that their monotony and bite were just forms of faked anger forcing its way through the bestsellers. I guess I'm sort of a jerk that way, thinking that. I'm sorry. I sometimes wonder if I should stop typing, and sometimes I do, and go back and delete lines, but I think this is one of those times where I'm not going to. (I'm sorry, I'm so sorry). I don't really feel like myself right now, I feel like Joanne-and-five-shots-of-espresso-too-late, which I must have thought was normal at one point but right now I don't. Better espresso shots than other kinds, I suppose.

This is one of those times when I should just quit while I'm ahead and I'm not even ahead (of what, I've always wondered). I'm leaving for Spain very, very soon.