any port

Feeling more than usually juvenile this evening due to having just finished moving and sorting the majority of my belongings into that Stygian tributary otherwise known as the Parental Basement. But, in my defense, the following:

1. It is not technically a basement, being in no part underground, but merely the lowest level of the town home;

2. Fresh air and light are admitted on a really quite frequent basis;

3. I was on the verge of depositing for another place and could not have been paid to continue to cohabit with the Baconator;

4. Most importantly, within a week or two, neither parent will be living there;
a. or, in fact, even living in this country
b. for several months.

Obviously it's mostly a favor to me, but it will be at least a little bit useful for them to have someone around to make sure the Allegheny doesn't wash the place away or that the neighbors don't chop down the willows or turn the wetlands into an herbicidal bog. Again. These genuinely are my main duties. I'm not entirely certain how I'm supposed to prevent these things from occurring, but I am armed with surprise, fear, and a seventeen foot canoe.

It's a pity about the apartment. But it'll be pleasant to have some real quiet (a luxury in short supply since the last time I lived alone) and to feel the inspiration of the water again. So much in the works right now that I'll definitely be needing both.

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it goes

Because of my schedule at work and its basic inflexibility, I've had to give up being in the show, something which I'm just sort of trying not to dwell upon too much. It's useless to do so, anyway.

But, one positive thought... I did renew an acquaintance which might, with a little luck and effort, expand a bit- an interesting girl who I first encountered in the young adult circle at church. During our few meetings before, I was reasonably sure she disliked me (moreso than the usual utter-lack-of-interest that I usually sense from casual interactions with people my age) but this seems as though it may not be the case. From some preliminary conversations, it sounds like we have some points of upbringing and tastes (classical music, music in general integrated with lifestyle, austere mode of living that isn't solely due to poverty) in common. I was not left, afterwards, feeling as though I had again exposed myself as a freak for having mentioned one or two genuine opinions, so it seems worthy of consideration for that point alone.

I suppose the most surprising moment came when we were talking about past roles we had played, and I told her about the last play at college, where I was Horatio to Eric's Hamlet. And she said it was one of her favorites, a great role, and that she at times had been Horatio for others, and had a few Horatios in her life as well. For all the discussions I've ever had about the play and the character, I had not heard someone say exactly that about themselves or others, except in my own thoughts, where I have alternately wondered and given up wondering why that is always the role I seem to play in my friendships, if they have the chance to grow at all deep. It may be as simple as ensuring that it is my giving that matters, so that I develop no dependence upon receiving or vulnerability to the inevitable withholding. I am envious of those who are able to grow confident of others' loyalty or commitment, at least while other factors make the friendship feasible, and I envied her briefly for saying she had been able to have it both ways. But maybe I could learn something from her.

The difficulty with interesting people is that they typically have no more room in their lives for newcomers who don't immediately serve any specific purpose, and I'm not the sort who can make more than one or two attempts to clear some space for myself on the off-chance that we might get along as friends. I don't mind setting aside my pride a little bit in order to take the first step, especially since I know from experience that no one will be doing it for me unless they are male (usually) and want something. Past a certain point, though, it's just embarrassing. I'm a little weary at the moment of being embarrassed in that way, written off, politely ignored. So I suppose we'll see.

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A little more human

Very gradually, and in small but encouraging ways, my situation seems to be improving (though in others which I can't yet talk about, it is worse.) I can't claim that hard work has paid off, because I've done nothing new to account for it- and I can't pretend to have been particularly patient because most nights in the past several months I've gone to bed worn out by dull despair- but luck has decided in my favor more than usual lately, and it is a very welcome change. I need to find something to do in order to express my gratitude for it, and will when my schedule settles a little more.

The first way is a silly thing: I've been cast after all in the chorus of the show for which I auditioned last month, and will start rehearsals next week. The strange, instant camaraderie of being a part of a cast, usually linked together by nothing more than a common purpose and interest, has always provided me with a sense of being included that I have rarely felt elsewhere (and too often in more casual social situations, it has been clear that there was no place for me, or role to play, no matter how willing I was or qualified to fill it.) I have undoubtedly been fortunate enough in the past to work with some wonderful people who found it a pleasure to welcome me rather than a burden, and I can't expect this always to be the case. But from what I've heard of this group, I might have that chance again. It's been almost four years since Hamlet, my last show- and now that I write that, I can't believe it. How can I possibly have made the series of choices necessary to deprive me of one of the things I love most in the world for four years? Honestly, I don't know.

The second way is a small thing, almost a nothing, but of significance to me: a few words from the man I consider to be my closest friend, even though months frequently go by between communications. Three, almost four months of this most recent silence. I worry for him sometimes nearly as much as I care about him, and so hearing that he is alive, well enough, and remembers me from time to time is a comfort.

The third way is almost purely practical, and I probably shouldn't even be as happy about it as I am, except I can't help it. Part of me really was afraid I might not find a place to live, at least not one where I would feel safe, or one that wouldn't be so expensive as to send me deeper into debt. But the place I found is beautiful, and shockingly cheap considering the size and location. I'll do my real rejoicing when the papers are all signed, but I will have a key tomorrow and a place to sleep that isn't borrowed or resented.

Simple things, but enough to renew my sense of hope and restore me a bit. Especially needed now.

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Miles to go

In the past couple of days, I've slowly come to realize that to detach and uproot in order to begin the next phase of life elsewhere, while possible to do logically and productively, is not something I can yet do responsibly- I would not be able to afford it in all the ways that are important to me. Another year seems like a significant amount of time only because of the increase in my age, nothing more, and it actually seems as though the last twelve months have rushed by without making any real mark on me at all. Somewhat more diminished by disappointment, slightly more bitter, and rather more detached after a number of rejections. These aren't the sorts of things that permanently warp the spirit, provided, of course, that at some point, the slow tide flows the other way. I have no logical reason to keep hoping, given that the majority of happiness in my life has been due to luck, and not the results of my focus and effort. Things that would happen, I'm sure, whether I hoped they would or not. I have not in any way deserved them, and it is possible that I will never be in such a situation as to be considered to deserve anything better than what falls to me by chance. I understand that even if this is the case, I'll be better off than most people in general, and that it's only in comparison to those I know and those of whom I am typically aware that my life seems lacking. But comparisons of that kind are seldom logical, and so they can only hurt, never help.

The likelihood that I won't deserve whatever good might someday be in store for me does not excuse me from trying. Nor does it give me the right to escape. Now there are nights when I feel so desperate that I am essentially paralyzed by sensations of worthlessness and futility, and helpless to do anything more than cry until the sky lightens and takes away the choice of being or not as the imminent necessity of pulling together and continuing on overpowers through guilt and shame the question of "what for". If I left now, it would only be a more acceptable form of suicide in that nothing would be decisively accomplished except a change of scene. I have things that are best fixed here first, because I don't want to be burdened with them, wherever I do go.

So, this is another disappointment, in a way, but at least it's the result of a decision I made. I will be compensating myself for the delay in other ways. Letting myself have time to volunteer is one, perhaps the biggest... I'm not sure of the others yet, but nothing that depends upon the approval of others. I can't win that, so I have no reason not to do as I like within the bounds of my conscience.

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