themes on a cemetary

Today in Austin, TX: filthy gorgeous, never seen such springtime as this - absolute dream of clear skies and seventy-something degrees, light wind, epic sunshine. Naturally, all this made me want to walk through the cemetary.

I don’t know if I have properly expelled upon my penchant for cemetery jaunts. It probably started in Scotland - walked through the fucking coolest cemetary ever in Stirling, that actually was misted over with fog and age and improbable greens. But it reminded me of the allure and frequent emptiness of such places. I can even still remember the funeral where my mother’s mother is buried, in Woodland, California. I’ve maybe been there three or four times in my entire life, and over fifteen years ago to be certain. Yet I remember it vividly.

In Missoula, when living with my brother in my last semester of college, we lived right next to a cemetary, which was across the street from a softball field. And by the gods, if you don’t know about my love of juxtaposition of extremes, lemme make thee aware: I love it. I used to have people over there for ‘a bowl and a bad movie - come for the comfort, stay for the dreamy unwinding of a walk through the neighborhood cemetary!’ It fucking ruled. The various angsts I endured while living there cannot fully taint the joy of that cemetary.

So, lately in Austin when the weather pulls me from the tent life and briefly out of stoned reverie, I find myself walking through the cemetary not far from my friends’ Josh and Jared’s house. Earlier in the week, I walked there with Josh and ended up talking a lot about feeling that even if I remain depressed about where my life is/isn’t going, I’ll feel tremendously better about that if I start working more (on writing and art) and with more regularity. At least there will be meaning in my days again, instead of my life being punctuated by stimulants (coffee, drugs, literature, Six Feet Under, alcohol, falafel, coffee, drugs, repeat til infinity).

Today, I was walking through the cemetary, alone. And I have made no progress on my artistic endeavors. It’s only been a few days, but it’s just fuel on the fire of wasted fucking time. Yet I am not as pissed with myself as I seem - it actually was a gorgeous day to waste. And I also need to realize that I have perhaps (un)consciously chosen to move to a place that invites indolence to join it for a long, multi-course luncheon. Again.

Things are coming together. I think I want to stay here, for a while at least. I forgot in my hasty dreaming ahead of going west for the summer that I have not yet done the thing(s) that I have moved here to do. What are these things? I haven’t the foggiest. I still need to:

-learn how to ride a bike

-learn how to live a life I can pay for, as an American instead of a fauxfrog

-learn how to be in a relationship

-learn if I want to be in a fucking relationship by at least giving it a shot

-learn Spanish

Among so so so many other things. Basically, I want to be here until I learn how the fuck I’m going to move to New York, or if that’s what I really want, or perhaps - what precisely it is that I fucking want? So many learnings to do. I feel like I’m in the college of my soul.

Two final notes:

1.) I got to speak French with my crush from work, and if anything will get our courtship on the slow simmer, c’est la langue des dilettantes. He is silly cute, with those highbeam blues I so lust.

2.) My friend Mary from college, who lives here now, is setting sail for Costa Rica today. Last night, she tried to pull of the awkward social chemistry experiment of bringing together all her friends from differing local circles/circumstances. Among those present was a complete idiot who LOOKED EXACTLY LIKE BEN STILLER. It was really terrifying, actually. Same eyes, same chin, same features - just tanner and with lighter brown hair. He was a fucking idiot, and deserves mentioning only for this resemblance and his attempt to reason with the perpetrators of some watered down and overpriced margaritas, to mortifyingly little avail. It ended with the patroness, a Bebe-sparkled megalith of a woman, filling a pitcher with ice and pouring out how many drinks there were in each one. It was funny, but godawful to watch.