It’s past February, but can I still get ink, weep on the pages, wait for Black Spring? Apres moi, le deluge. I write on whatever I find, running pens dry. When words don’t leak from my Pilot G2, drawings, comical in contrast. When those don’t fit, I fill in the boxes on my graph paper.
I miss the sound. I miss five numbered zip codes, where the inner numbers mean nothing in terms of location, only bridges and oceans and canals and bays and inlets and rivers and estuaries. They are always blue, and they are always framed with green. No matter how much I can tell people I love it here, it’s still true. And it’s still true that that doesn’t cancel out the fact that I miss home a lot. I’ve discovered I grow to hate anyone with whom I cohabit, or force them to hate me. This is promising for a successful, happy future.
I want to drive up the thumb of Washington, listening to carefully planned mix CDs. Despite Vivaldi’s intentions, “Winter” is suitable for Summerfahren. And “Summer” for when it lightnings like nothing you’ve ever seen, and you drive and drive until you have an uninterrupted view. Ben Lee is summer music, Tegan and Sara for the bus, Beatles to sandwich the inner contents of a mix CD. Unmarked music. Recycled from other mixes, they bear only titles like “Track 15, random mix CD from sophomore year,” “That one song that sounds like David Bowie, Going to New York Mix,” “Track 1, Job Interview,” “Track 9, Winter Driving,” “Irreplaceable, July Fuck It Mix.” I have my roads mapped out for a hundred miles. The less people, the fuller my gas tank, the more loops and turns and open windows and days spent alone and content as opposed to-
The initial loneliness hasn’t so much worn off as I think it has sunk in.
I guess “frustrated” is how I’ve been feeling for the last six months. I’ve so far resisted the urge to slam my forehead against a brick wall repeatedly, repeatedly. But there are a lot of brick walls here. Cobblestone streets. Marble staircases. And my brain is itchy.