sound and fury (signifying nothing)

… she looks happy.

I just wanted to record this moment, because who knows when it’ll happen again?

Every once in a while I’ll remember that this isn’t just an echo chamber, that other people are in fact consuming my drivel. And, understandably, I’ll wonder why, and from where they came.

I love the Search Terms feature on WordPress. I don’t know how it works, nor especially do I care, but I find it fascinating the phrases that people plug into Google, and somehow wind up stumbling over my silly self-indulgent nonsense.

This one is especially amusing because, well, if this is what you’re plugging into a search engine, you’re obviously not looking for anything I have to offer, or at least not anything I’m offering to the Internet:

This is hilarious. How do you set out looking for porn, and wind up with me?

This post is part PSA, part bookmark.

Doesn’t this look great?

It’s a rainbow cake. Perfect for a celebration of fabulousness or really just any get-together. The drab color of the frosting really makes the interior colors pop.

I’m fascinated by this concept, even though it’s as simple as food coloring in white cake. I love color like Bob Ross loved happy little trees.

Credit goes to Aleta at Omnomicon, Goons With Spoons at SomethingAwful, and of course, my friend and pal, StumbleUpon, the greatest Firefox add-on ever. (The hell with Adblock, I can ignore flash pictures perfectly well on my own, thank you.)

… although preferably not to Jesus.

I suppose it ought to be noted somewhere that I very nearly died tonight. It was the closest I’ve come to the instant I will eventually shuffle off this wretched planet – that I know of, anyway.

I seem to have this affliction when it comes to mountains: if I can see ‘em, I gotta be in ‘em. I don’t necessarily need to scale them by hand like Uncle Joey; a drive through and a scenic overlook will sate my urge.

This week I’m staying in Harrisonburg, Virginia for work. Not only am I in the Shenandoah Valley, right smack up against the Appalachians, but the center I’m working in features a fantastic view to the west. For the past couple days, West Virginia’s been taunting me. “I’m another state you haven’t been to,” it says. “You’ve got that big old car and gas to play around with.” Am I going to ignore the state that touts itself as “Wild, Wonderful” in favor of another night of hotel internet and takeout? I think not. It’s only half an hour away, anyway.

So it’s a beautiful but chilly evening and I’m driving my rented Pontiac through snow flurries, listening to Ray LaMontagne and thinking about how perfect it all is. The car handles well, even though it’s an SUV; the music is just perfect for the mood, the time, the topography. I get to the summit with no trouble, get out, stretch, look around, and decide that now that I’ve been in West Virginia, my life, or at least my week, is complete.

Coming back down the mountain, I get stuck behind an 18-wheeler.

Figures I would, because at this point I’m actually kind of hungry; I’ve worked my ass off, and the granola bar I snorfed during my 20-minute lunch break is a distant memory. Low gear is too slow and Intermediate is too fast. I switch between the two, mentally apologizing to my engine and brakes. Two other cars come up behind me, so I pull off to let them pass, because even though my rearview has some sort of magic glare-reducing property, I hate having a line of cars behind me (even if it isn’t necessarily my fault).

When we finally get to where it’s level and there are passing zones, I put it back into D and overtake the panel van in front of me. The yellow dash seems to continue on forever, so I try to pass the sedan directly behind the truck, but when I pull out, I realize they’re too close together. I punch it. The passing zone runs out. I top a rise and my luck runs out.

Almost.

I whip back into the right lane what feels like inches ahead of the truck and continue to fly down the road, paying no mind to Virginia’s draconian speeding enforcement. There’s a metallic taste in my throat and my heart is going triple-time. I think about the people in those two oncoming cars, who could have been killed, and how wasteful and stupid and lonely it would be to die in the boonies of Virginia.

I realize that it’s this: this is why I can’t have nice things.

I make it back to town without event. (Obviously.) I call the boyfriend, because I need to reassure myself that I’m okay just by hearing his voice, and in it, how glad he is to hear mine. I debate telling him what happened because, while the Indy fan in him would have found my driving badass, as my friend, companion, and ostensibly protector, he would have been either worried or furious.

I drink a glass of milk, thank God for my reflexes and a powerful engine, and reflect on how it seems that any good adventure story always has some sort of adrenaline-fueled moment in it somewhere.

I offer for your consideration the following: one of the best aromas of springtime that doesn’t have to do with nature (freshly cut grass, rain, flowers – though not honeysuckle, which comes later) is the smell of a barbecue. Fire created specifically for the purpose of searing meat – it’s almost a primal instinct of civilized man.

And another thing I love about the South: you can cook out in the spring. If you live in a climate where the last day of March is cold, frozen, wet, or otherwise miserable, my condolences. Unless you’re in Oz, then I’m just jealous.

In sadder news, I saw a bumper sticker for some high school’s band, the “Marching Vikings”. Do vikings march? I always thought of them as marauders.

There are times I want to hit things, shoot, things, or break things. This is one of those times.

One of the drawbacks to living with roommates is that they aren’t always considerate of your work schedule. So when they wake you up at two in the morning when you’ve only had two hours of sporadic sleep, you become frustrated. When you’re unable to get back to sleep for even a token few hours before you have to be up for work at 4, you feel like a complete failure at life.

When your well-meaning but sometimes singular-minded boyfriend offers a solution to help you sleep, you give it a try because you figure, “hey, what the hell, even if it doesn’t help me sleep, at least it’ll make me feel nice in the meantime.”*

But you still can’t sleep, because now your brain isn’t quite ready to pack in the old carnival tent. Mercifully, instead of reeling around out of control, it merely floats along over the glass-smooth surface of your mind. Instead of a frustrating commute, your mind is on an autumn road-trip to the mountains.

As is your custom during times such as these, you turn to either old memories or threads of new storylines to run on that mental movie-reel that, at least in my case, never shuts down. One in particular, an old standby, comes up in the queue, and you hit the play button. This one’s a mixture of sweet nostalgia and bitter disappointment, but the maybe-promise offered by its open-ended nature keeps the entire thing from curdling.

Until, well, now.

I did some vital letting-go over the past few weeks. Actually, it took place over a matter of hours, but what happened to me tonight served to prove that I made the right decision and I wasn’t just bullshitting myself.

It was all flat, a puzzle put together. Where do you go from that point but to break it apart and put it back in a dusty box? Strictly speaking, it wasn’t even a metaphor but the actual visual effect that happened in my mind. A years-old scene, frozen and peeled away from time, dismantled for storage.

*What the hell am I talking about? It’s not rock & roll.

“What the hell happened to July?”

Summarily speaking, I went from a refugee to homeless to… home. For about 36 hours this week, I was a resident of the road, sleeping in my car with my possessions, having no address but the one I left and the one I was trying to find.

I’m done with Arkansas. I say that with the level of confidence Proctor & Gamble has in Ivory soap’s purity. I hated saying that to people like Shauntae and Dana and Mark. When they asked if I’d ever make it back around that way, I stammered and stuttered and had brief vague fantasies of the kind of traveling I’d do if I ever managed to get ahold of the kind of money that would allow me to travel at will. And even then, would I go back to Arkansas? All signs point to no.

I’m looking at it this way: it wasn’t a failure or anything I’m going to block out of my mind. It was a learning experience. It was an adventure, and I’m hard-wired to crave that sort of thing. I admit that I’m a worrier, but I don’t let my fears stop me from doing the things I want to do. (One could also argue that I’m not smart enough to let my past mistakes stop me from making future ones of similar structure, but I’m trying to be nice to myself for a damn change.)

And hey, I had some good times. Although I have to admit, the best two that spring immediately to mind, didn’t even happen there: one was in Hendersonville (Alicja’s wedding, and I was in excruciating pain the whole time, so that should give some sort of indication as to the nature of things), and one was in Muskogee, Oklahoma.

So, if I ever do come into world-jaunting cash, I might go to Austin or Sausalito or Juneau, but Fort Smith just isn’t going to be on the itinerary. I will miss some of the people I knew from there, and I wish them the best*, but if I ever see them again, I’d be as shocked as Randal P. MacMurphy.

When I was but a girl of 20, I used to wish I lived in North Carolina. From 2002 through 2006, I would make the drive up all the time, sometimes with a destination in mind, but usually just to go, because I was bored and gas was cheap. That’s one reason my car has nearly 170,000 miles on it, probably 130,000 of which were put on in the first 5 years, before I had to get pretty careful about how far I’d go and how fast. (Your cooling system shitting itself in the MON, TN will have that effect on you, I’ve found.)

And I guess you could say that my dreams have come true, because I now am a resident (in location if not yet officially) of Kernersville, North Carolina. The strangest thing is, the force that pulled me here had nearly nothing to do with the fact that it’s a Carolina and I was sorely missing that sort of thing in my life.

No, what brought me here was something else I needed, although I didn’t know it was missing. Well, maybe not that, but I was okay without it. Well, maybe not okay – not all the time, anyway – but I was getting along. A little Eeyore-like in my demeanor sometimes, but not so’s anyone would notice… well, that’s not entirely true, since it was Chris who took to calling me Eeyore, and Chris knows me about as well as I know G. Gordon Liddy.

I’m still kind of foggy from the lack of sleep and the driving and the road headaches, but I remember saying this: if you have something you can’t tell anyone, that you have to lie about because you’re afraid or ashamed, is it such a good idea? Technically, I can’t say no one knew, since Alicja was sort of my unwilling wing-woman on that. She’s the only one who still knows it all, and if I had listened to her in the first place, I wonder how much different things would be.

So that is one thing I’ve done again, but I have tried not to mask my intentions. I moved 1000 miles across the country for a guy. The people I concealed this fact from were people I didn’t feel were owed an explanation as to why I would do that again when it turned out the way it did the first time. Furthermore, I didn’t want to deal with the palpable contempt that’s generally dished out when you reveal that you’re moving in with a guy you’ve never met until you pulled into his driveway with all worldly possessions in your car.

Was it the right thing to have done? Ultimately only time will tell, but so far all indications are telling me that I made the right decision. My sense of adventure was at the helm for this one, and while it’s far from the only motivation I had for coming out here, it’s what led me to give up my cozy apartment, give away two-thirds of my possessions, and give in to my heart.

Honestly, that’s cornier than Nebraska, but not only do I not really care, I couldn’t help it at this point anyway. I write like shit when I’m happy, and I’m happier now than I remember being in years.

*I couldn’t hold a grudge if my life depended on it. Usually I see this as a positive characteristic, but I was thinking about it on the drive over (because hey, 1024 miles will get you a lot of thinkin’ done), and I’m not sure if I was truly feeling benevolent or just trying to maintain overall good car-ma, but I got Erik on my mind (probably because I was en route to Knoxville) and instead of thinking that he was a prick and a bastard who done did me wrong and I hoped he was slinging shopping carts at a Kroger, I hoped he was doing well. As well as a jerk like him could be expected to do considering what a jerk he was.

And while I wouldn’t be so melodramatic and silly as to say the top of my world came crashing down, it’s been something of a wet firecracker.

However, I would put forth that I am getting it back on the road now, and I’m taking the long way. In a precarious Neon that, while it’s running better for the time being (amazing what changing your spark plugs for the first time in three years can do), I in no way trust to take me across 1000 miles of Interstate.

I’ve had a pretty productive weekend. Pretty much all I have left to do is the requisite cleaning, and packing my computer and bedding. This is good, because I have to work tomorrow and Tuesday, and I’m leaving Wednesday. That’s pretty close-cutting and crazy even by my fly-by-the-seat-of-my-britches standards. Originally I was planning on taking those two days off (and using my personal hours, since I’d heard from several people that you don’t get to cash them out like your PTO, you just use ‘em or lose ‘em). I was gonna use them to do all the shit I’ve gotten done yesterday and today.

So now I have everything I’m going to take with me (space in my car permitting) in the corner of the living room. Seems to be a theme with me; when we were moving out of the Fayetteville place, I measured off a 10×12 space in the living room (or however big the storage room was, I forget) and made sure we could cram all our shit in that space.

That’s pretty impressive (and nowhere near the amount of crap I/we had then, especially since the only furniture I have is plastic and/or inflatable). The computer bag is empty (obviously). the ORM box will hold my mattress, nightstand (which is plastic and comes apart easily), and lamp. The box under the laundry basket is full of books and DVDs. I never thought that I’d have gotten to a point in my life where all the books I owned would fit into one box – not even the whole box, just two-thirds.

The Haemonetics box will definitely take more stuff. Ditto for the clothes box behind the suitcases (one for clothes, one for shoes). The Trima box is empty but my television will fit perfectly into it. It’s chuckleworthy and sort of sad that my tv is small enough to fit in a box that holds half a dozen apheresis kits.

The sad news in all this superficial stuff-mongering is that I won’t be able to take my desk chair with me. I like this chair a lot – it’s soft, it tilts, it’s armless. But I can’t figure out how to take it apart into manageable pieces so I can jam it in amongst all my other crap. However, my current computer desk is a plastic piece of junk with PVC pipes for legs: it was one of the crappy tables that they kept on the box trucks and replaced with better-quality folding ones. I salvaged it from the crap they throw outside the staging door when they’re too lazy to carry something 30 feet to the dumpster, covered it in contact paper, and have been putting up with its wobbling ever since. In any event, I’ll be glad to be rid of it.

Part of me wants to congratulate myself for my ability to let go of so many of my material possessions. I’ve brought a carload to the Salvation Army and will have a few more things for them before I’m done. The other part of me says that I should really be able to get rid of all my junk. That at least half this stuff, if not more, is just sentimental foolish crap. Or, in the case of the television and other frivolities, just crap.

I don’t know. I’m keyed up and tired and stressed out and can’t finish a sentence, let alone a thought. But I’m excited. I’m really on a great adventure.

And this time, I’m gonna wear sunscreen.

Music: Fiona Apple – Sullen Girl

While I may never agree with it totally, I will probably continue think fondly upon my favorite assessment of my physical person: “you’re not at all fat.”

That said, I am coming to appreciate my body. It’s kind of worn out from being on my feet all day and having walked four and a half miles on top of it. But it’s a good feeling, one of almost pride.

I think this line of thought was kick-started by seeing a handicapped license plate, and thinking, “hopefully I’ll do everything I can to prevent deteriorating to a point where I need one of those.” I have a good body. I never thought I’d say that, although I’m speaking more from a mechanical than an aesthetic standpoint. The warranty’s up, but there’s a lot of tread left on the tires, and a lot more miles left on the engine.

It’s not the 10 miles I used to loop around Travelers Rest as a teenager, but I also no longer have boundless energy and free time to do this kind of thing anymore:

There are only two hills on my trek around Van Buren: a long one with a gradual upslope, and a short, nasty one with a grade of something like 45%. I honestly don’t think my car could handle it, so it’s kind of a victory that I barely lose my breath anymore on a hill that would cause my car to shit itself.

I’m kind of impressed at my progress on that one, too. The first time I climbed up, I had to sit on the curb while I counted the spots swimming in front of my eyes. Then again, I was still smoking then.

I think my body is trying to tell me that maybe I’m in shape enough to start running again. But my brain’s saying that I’m really not out of my mind enough to.

Music: Jason Mraz & Colbie Caillat – Lucky

I was terrified the other day.

It was after day 2 of the Fort Smith Police drive. Penny and the rest of the crew decided to do a lunch-after at Furr’s. I happen to hold a Kightlingerian view of buffets (if people could be slaughtered for food, that’s where they’d go to bulk up), so I was on the bus, internetting* on my phone.

About 40 minutes after they left, the bus door opened up, and someone came in and told me, “You have a visitor.” My mind raced with possibilities. Who out there would want to see me, only me? Who the hell do I even know in this city?

My first instinct was that it was Jeramy. It was about the time of day he’d be off work, and I figured maybe he saw the bus parked in back and stopped by to say hello. But that kind of initiative isn’t really his thing; if it were, maybe we’d still be together.

And then, another thought, this one far more frightening: maybe it was his mother.

I haven’t been avoiding her, specifically. Just not returning her calls and not going to the mall and feeling a slight twinge of fear every time I walk down AR 59. It’s not that I think she’d be mad, because she supported my decision to leave him. After all, who better than me to know what an obnoxious bastard her son had the propensity to be?

I dunno. I guess it’s just one less tie I have to worry about. Something else to sever, because I am not a maintainer. Just the opposite, which is why it’s so easy for me to leave.

Anyway, my “visitor” wasn’t her, either. It was Brandy’s daughter, whose name I cannot even begin to spell.

Get this: this kid, who can’t be any older than maybe eight, thinks I am unconditionally awesome. For no reason I can discern – I met her a couple days ago while Brandy and I were talking after work, and now she asks about me all the time. The closest I could figure, using that logic thing we grown-ups do, is it’s an unusual-name kinship. I’m not one of those people who relates well to kids.

I dunno, I guess I just think it’s completely awesome to have someone in my life who unabashedly thinks I’m great. I think everyone should have someone like that.

Music: Bruce Springsteen – Paradise

*yes, it’s a word. One I made up just now.

It could always be worse. Even though WalMart drives usually suck, when they’re an escape hatch from working center, they suddenly start to not look so bad. Is that a sign that you’ve hit a low point, or one that everything has a worse alternative? I’m feeling good, and hoping maybe I can apply this principle to other areas of my life. Nothing’s as bad as it could be.

Actually, I’m feeling fantastic, and here is a big reason why: I saw an IPTAY tag. It was on the front of a truck sitting on 59, waiting to turn onto the I-40 West ramp.

Speaking of relativity. Three years ago, those things meant nothing to me, noteworthy for little except their ubiquity. Now they’re a sort of link home. Of course, I know that belonging to IPTAY isn’t exclusive to the Upstate or even to South Carolina, although I had to have a look back to see, and there it was: another home plate.

I was an optimist before, and by gum, I can do it again.

“He may drive me bonkers, and I may go through a lot of trouble and unreciprocated effort to be with him, but he gets me, and that’s not something I can say for many people at all. If you get it once in your love life, you’re lucky.”

Old words about the last chapter in my life, words I’m marveling at now. That book’s closed, and now I’m standing at the edge of this precipice, on the verge of something great.

How great is “great”? How about not being driven bonkers, reciprocated effort, and being “gotten”? I never thought I had any more to give.

How about lightning striking twice? Except the first time fried your brain, and the second time it illuminated your soul.

If I could have more days like today, I wouldn’t be contemplating a hasty retreat. If I worked nothing but smooth drives with people I liked, I could stay in Van Buren indefinitely, and I could deal with missing home because I’d be truly happy in what I was doing.

But I won’t, which is both a blessing and a curse. If I was feeling the pull of contentment, I wouldn’t be about to go where I’m about to go.

Which, of course, isn’t widely known. Which is actually part of the fun.

I’ve had a completely great week. The three days off helped, obviously. But I was taken completely by surprise when Erika told me, “I’ve never seen you look so happy.”

Honestly, I can’t even remember the last time someone made me feel so good. When everything seemed beautiful and full of promise.

Well, I take that back. Probably the last time I felt this optimistic was when I was first coming out here. And then I got a sunburn so bad it made me cry.

So if I have to give myself any advice for this particular undertaking, it would be to apply sunscreen liberally. To my arms, to my legs, and maybe a little bit to my heart. Not because I’m worried, just because a precedent was set.

Music: Keith Urban – Got it Right This Time

…Sometimes shuffle freaks me out.

I’m not usually an impulsive person. When something’s important, I tend to deliberate.

But I’m really considering doing something completely off-the-wall and life-changing without the benefit of planning or lead time. Just jumping off the ledge and seeing where I land.

Part of it’s the gastric lepidopterans, and part of it’s that it could be a lot of fun, and I like fun.

I’m supposed be an adult, and I don’t think many adults hold much stock in the sort of tea-leaf reading I’m doing. But I saw a NC plate on 59 this morning, so right away I perked up. I notice license plates, I guess, because it kind of personalizes the blank faces inside the steel-and-glass cages we all ride around in. Or maybe it’s just too many rounds of the License Plate Game as a kid. Who knows?

I was thinking about this as I drove the bus east to Clarksville, weighing the pros and cons. What it came out to was this:

And just as I had that thought, I was passed by a white van with a South Carolina license plate.

Who knows if it’s divine intervention, paranoia, or just the greatest coincidence of all time. I’m going to jump. And if the chute doesn’t open, it’s not like I’m going to die. I can bruise easily, but I also heal quickly.