Upon coming back from my trip, I had to thoroughly revise my CouchSurfing profile. It hadn’t occurred to me that others would mind a crowded house slightly more than I do, and offer their couch only when they have enough room to do so. I included a few lines about this place, its size, and its state of cleanliness. Obviously I would clean it up properly if someone were to come by, but with all the random shit I have and the lack of shelves… There’s only so much I can do before dabbling with physics. You don’t want to fuck with physics, you geek.
Skulls fake and real, safety pins from work, hats, traffic signs, books, DVD’s and cd’s, a shitload of clothes, 2 guitars and a fuck you amount of safety gear and dishes I don’t use. I love my stuff but it’s extremely hard to organize.
While I was at it, I redid my personal description as well, it was outdated and done in a hurry anyway. Actually, I did this while still on the road, and inevitably having to consider myself, I concluded how my life has been rolling by on a constant series of contradictions. Starting from when I was 10, I have been redefined chronologically from spoilt little snot, to orphan, squatter, intern, dropout, soldier, to what I am today, which I suppose would be a roadie, fitting its stereotype like a glove. Some of these core changed happened from one day to the next, and I never had all that much trouble adapting. Except for now, at 24, where I got my ass stuck. As opposed to what I used to think, you don’t “find” routine as you’re getting older. Routine finds you. I do everything to escape it but here I am. It’s annoying. I want to fuck off and not return. Hold up a sign that says “anywhere”.
I lost my train of thought.
Contradiction. Why exactly is it that, after coming back from 2 months of accommodation with others and transportation with others, I come home and fall back into this sociophobic little box? It’s beautiful outside, but I sit here with little other places to go. I have a cell phone but I’m not calling my friends.
I think I need to pick up smoking and drinking so I have something to do at a bar. Have a reason to go out and spend my money among others, and find a connection in a craving for alcohol. I have plenty of other interests involving others but… I am the equivalent of a 12 year old girl on those subjects, I believe. You don’t see those set out on their own, either.
However this summer is looking rather optimistic. I am hoping it will resemble last year as closely as possible, mostly since I missed most of it because oh, my girlfriend of 7 years was fucking around behind my back.
I really have no problem dealing with people. I love people. I have trouble seeking them out.
Hey wow this is new to me, I just realized this. The whole issue has nothing to do with human contact, it’s about establishing it. This very moment is my problem, where I am alone and for some reason, fail to make an effort not to be. I could go out and “mingle” but then what? I’ll still be alone, and still I won’t reach out to anyone. They have to come to me.
Why? Why why why? What’s keeping me from making that single step, what’s the barrier? I used to assume I simply did not develop the urge in puberty because I had all the friends/girlfriend I needed. Today… I’m less certain.
Why? My mother? Freud would piss himself with excitement, no doubt, but I refuse to believe every single one of my quirks lead back to one event like they are so eager to believe.
WHAT, then?? I’m drawing blank, I’ve never had this before. I know myself inside and out. I analyze my analysations of myself. I am meta-intelligent. A closed book under X-ray, memorized.
I know the problem, I know the solution. AND SOMETHING is in between. Seemingly impenetrable.
Fuckit. So yeah, summer is looking up. There is an event called “Dansen in ‘t Park” [Dancing in the park] I volunteer for, working among and with crowds of new faces. 4 days of dancing, from tap dance to salsa and yes, capoeira. It’s a mix that allows me to be all I can be, both contributing where I can (I’ve been called indispensible) and practicing my hobby. Next up on the list are the “Gentse Feesten” and more voluntary work- Aren’t I noble.
Taxi bike. Every year a group of volunteers set out on four-wheel bikes with two seats in the back, to get drunks, old ladies, pregnant women, old pregnant women, drunk old ladies, drunk pregnant women and drunk old pregnant ladies to and from the party zone. Giving taxis the finger, rioting with the cops, drag over 200 kilo’s in total over the Van Eyckbrug and then proceed to put up a broad grin to the next potential customer with a skirt. Good times, good times. Fortunes are spent on liquids and deodorant but the experience is unique.
Also, I just went out with a friend to just… hang around in town and break the laws we encounter (I get hard on that) and there’s a Brazilian party tonight I don’t feel like going to because none of my friends will be there and I don’t like Brazil all that much BUT I will go to anyway. Just in case I make some instand friends(™ ~Just Add Water~) before walking away. Is salsa Brazilian? I know the basic steps. I doubt I’ll get a chance to whoop out my capoeira skills which will likely impress no one to begin with. The shit a born Brazilian can do around my age is more than you thought possible. “Pretty fly” is the best I can do. Trust me to over-analyze hypothetical events. It’s a curse.
Roll the window down
This cool night air is curious
Let the whole world look in
Who cares who sees what tonight?
Roll these misty windows
Down to catch my breath and then
Go and go and don’t just
Drive me home and back again.
Spring is here, with all due consequences. For one, just like the next mammal, Maarten is having an extremely hard time keeping his libido in check. There’s no need even for summer fashion, which will outright kill me considering miniskirts were in this winter– you twisted bunch. No, rising temperatures is all it takes. Or is it really that? Could it be some scent, some season-bound chemical in the air?
It’s getting to be a real issue, though. I don’t really know what to do with myself (no pun intended), I remember spring having this effect on me before but then I had a more than willing subject to take the worst. But she’s off on a fucking spree, I hear. It’s good to be a girl, in that sense. Walk into a bar with your mind set on getting laid, and you’re getting laid. No sweat.
I’m sure the people around me would have noticed by now. I’m like a woman on PMS. Though usually I’m quite stable so this would put me on “normal” level. Nevertheless, the thoughts popping up are not. I would explain myself but I’m not, lest people actually read it. Suffice to say that they’re not helping me.
Another inevitable symptom of seasons changing is the previously largely unnoticed presence of the sun. I’ve been working outside the past week and at times I was walking around in T-shirt, even dozed off on the floor boards during break. God, I missed the sun. This comforting warmth, this freedom to walk around lightly clothed, both making the outdoors a wonderful place to be in. Or well, out.
I longed for the day when I noticed the rays on my back, and I knew summer was coming.
Had I been aware what the result would be, I would have known better.
I never expected the feeling to be so bittersweet. This relaxing sensation, the urge to lounge in the sun caused memories to come rushing back, of last summer and those before. Like so many things, solar warmth is something that should not be enjoyed alone.
As much as I want to, I’m not going to go into detail. These are memories that serve no purpose anymore, and will die over time, as they should. Erased, bringing me back to a clean slate, the spotless mind. Farewell, soulmate I mistook you for.
I am broke. Violently. It has become frightfully obvious that I came back home just in time, since I still have to last another month before income picks up again. I went around knocking on people’s door to claim debts at a modest success rate, I hope that will keep me afloat. To make matters worse, my latest job, lasting over a week, has no catering. Expenses are returned but once again: next month. I’m down to zero, literally. I can go into debt with the bank but that’s not a place I want to be in, though it would seem I have no other choice.
Friends contacted me, a group of guys asking me if I want to join them to Scotland for a hiking trip of around 5 days. It took me about half a minute of consideration before I blurted out, “Sure why not.” It’s my standard answer for anything that seems ridiculous to even mention, but this time it really is backfiring on me. To avoid rising ticket prices they ordered already, covering my share until I can pay them back: well over €200. Add to this the fact that I have no camping gear at all after my complete set of top-grade material got fucking stolen at Graspop festival last year, and I’m sure you can imagine my chances of collecting all this before departure –may 17th- are as slim as an Ethiopian on hunger strike.
Talk about a luxury problem.
I woke up to the sound of my neighbors fucking this morning. These walls weren’t exactly built with isolation in mind, so I might as well have been sitting right next to them. They weren’t taking it easy, either. She kept screaming for him but I got the impression he was just hurting her in all his vigor, I had to fight the urge to go knock on their door and explain this to him. Then again, he’s getting laid, so he must be doing something right.
I saw an interview once with Josh Homme, singer of the Queens of the Stone Age among other things, who claimed to passionately dislike those “mosh pits” (snake pits, whatever) in front of the stage during their gig. He explained that this was simply energy better spent fucking, and such behavior only shows sexual frustration.
I couldn’t help but think of this man as I kicked off the sheets and came down the stairs, determined to fix my tap today. I’m sure it’s not quite what he meant but I have the tendency to visualize his big handsome ginger face in bed anyway.