I’d almost forgotten about this thing. That would have been a nice little experiment. One journal…failed. I can see it now, remembering of it’s existence mid some Sunday afternoon, around about the year 2023 and pausing for a moment to try and recall what my password was so long ago in the year 2002. It would be sad, really. My mind is already starting to slip, so in twenty years, I probably won’t even be able to remember what a password is, much less what mine was. :p
But the true issue is this: I just haven’t anything worthwhile to say. What a terrible, terrible thing, right? Oh, stop shaking your head.
I did go home to visit my parents for Christmas. Perhaps that is the problem. There is something about the armpit of East Texas that stifles the creative juices. I do not know how to explain it, except to say that I got the hell out of that so-called Dodge the first chance I could and this was my first time back in years and years. I think mother dearest was quite surprised when I accepted her invitation to come up and stay for a few days.
On a slightly more interesting note, I did run into some people I used to hang around with for the year or so that I lived there. They had chosen to settle down near abouts to where their parents and their parent’s parents had. Everyone knows at least one person who’s chosen the time honored path of getting married directly out of high school and working for the local steel mill until retirement age. I just know three.
So, things follow their natural path of “Do you remember me?” and “Of course I do!” though in reality I did not actually remember until much, much later that night as people just are not my thing. Anyway, I managed to accidentally finagle my way into an invitation to a party they were having that night. The occasion? Pay day. Apparently, the liquor store only takes cash.
But moving away from the snippy, cold-hearted bitch comments, I arrive at the appropriate home by 9:00 pm, as earlier specified, festive holiday cake in hand. Our kind host, hereafter referred to as Mr. J, showed me around his place. It was nice, honestly, and much larger than the little two bedroom apartment in which I reside. He, however, expressed his wish to move into an actual planted home (this was a mobile home—very, very common to the area) so as not to be trailer trash. I did not have the heart to tell him that he would have a difficult time making such a transition if he insisted upon keeping his living room artwork. After all, society does not often frame and hang a wall plaque lifted from the local Outback Steak House, complete with greasy finger stains. The least he could have done was wipe his hands off on a napkin before he yanked it and ran. Hn, I guess we haven’t moved as far away from those aforementioned comments as at first hoped. Oh well.
But I am once more in MY home, a space I feel much, much more comfortable in, to say the very least. And maybe I’ll trudge back into the homelands in another seven years...maybe. I suppose it all depends on how long it will take this memory to fade. After all, my mind is going…perhaps I’ll make it in time for next Christmas. :)