I had begun to type that I wuz feeling good. But that changed when I pressed the wrong button and all that "I'm happy, bla bla bla" shit wuz erased. Now this fucking wordpad program is making me want to get out the sledge hammer and fuck some shit up.
Anyways, that little bout of almost happiness spawned from yet another of my "alright, that's it. I'm getting a good job and I'm moving the fuck out" declarations to myself. These things usually pass. The idea gets me euphoric, I dance around a little in associated action, then I forget about it.
Though my mother pounding on my door and telling me to turn down my music just minutes ago helped.
"I don't think you heard me Chaara! I said turn down your music!"
Oh, I heard you.
I happened to be typing away at my updated resume when that happened. Good timing.
"must leave must leave must leave type type type"
Adrian usually inspires this in me. Talking to him today and I'm picturing him in that Yaletown apartment he has all to himself. Where no one cares how much of a jerk he may or may not be at a given time. And no one cares how loud his music is. And no one tells him not to turn on the heaters. And no one is there to get all freaky and edgy over the countless other things a mother, say, gets freaky and edgy about. These little things.
And I get more and more frantic to get the hell out.
Adrian then goes into details on what I ought to do, where to go, get started. And I listen, and I nod. (over the phone nodding isn't very clear) And I think, "Yup, I'm doing it this time. I am. I will. I'll go get a job in the neighborhood I want to live in, then I'll get an apartment there. I'll do it. Definitely. And, God, it'll be so great to go."
So I make these little baby steps outward, I feel in control. I get excited. This will be good. I need this, so badly. I'm so excited! Moving forward please. Finally.
Then I freak out at some point, and the whole operation comes to a hault. And I tell myself I can endure here, where I am. Oh sure. I can. I will. Yes, here I'll stay.
One of many irritating factors in this recurring scene is the fact that I love this house. I really don't want to move out of this house. And my bedroom... That room is so much my own. That room is my subconcious, my intuition, my safe haven, my heart and soul. That room is Chaara. I am the only person to have ever lived in that room. It is entirely my own. It's so centering to me. How new-age that sounds, but it's true. I just need to spend time in that room and I feel better. If/when I move out I want that room to stay as it is, so I can come 'home' and be in my room. With all the words painted on the walls. (though the walls would be the first thing to go, obviously. They're so personal that no one else would ever come along and say "By gosh, leave them! I love them!") I would like to take this house, my bedroom, and the ocean nearby, and move it downtown. And remove my mother. And I'd have this beautiful tree laced oceanic oasis, in my own control, within the city. I need the trees around me. And I need the ocean to be within sight, and walking distance. And I need to be near movement.
ie; the city.
(Though as I read over that, the ocean is movement ...)
So, I'm aiming for Kits area. But how much is a place in Kits going to cost me when I've got such high standards? If I apply those same high standards to my job searching, perhaps it will work out.
I loathe the idea of job searching. But who doesn't? Christ, the fucking words 'job search', 'resume', 'cover letter', 'ask for the manager', 'phone call', etc, make me want to just put a gun to my head right now.
Just lie down on the pavement and never get back up.
"You do it to yourself. You and no one else." -r
But for the time being I am in the first stages of this recurring phase. (or first phase of this stage, whichever) And I'm feeling good. Don't tell my mother though, she'd find a way to drag it down. And I am still all pouty and hurt (whine whine) over her birthday cake withdrawal. Bitch! Urgh. So hush hush. I am fantasizing that I'll manage to move out while she's not home. (Though I just realized I have a hell of a lot of shit to move. I have failed in Buddhism, I am loaded with posessions. "I'm not a fucking Buddhist..." says Bjork.) And she can come home to this void. (Oh, Morrissey... just came on with "Late Night, Maudlin Street" and you would have to hear this song to know how perfect that is... ) Then she can call up all her musician and artist boy-toys and have a heyday in my (hopeful) permanent absence. No doubt I'd return to find my rooms turned into a brothel or something. Of male prostitutes.
Then I'll throw myself a big housewarming party.
I'll invite you, of course.
"I am moving house. A half-life disappears today. Every hand waves me on, secretly wishing me gone. Well, I will be soon..."
Ha! I just found this little ad in the 'for rent' section of the paper: "*BORN AGAIN MOVING* God moved us, we'll move you!" Damn that's funny. I wonder what in Hell that would involve..? "Let us say a prayer for your heathen furniture..."