I've found that my tea kettle makes strange noises. Instead of a whistle, it cries with this odd low tone siren-type-thing, and it makes it sound like a train is about to pass through the kitchen. You notice things like this, when you've been sick with a strange upper-respiratory infection for about two weeks-- when you've been making tea three or four times a day. While getting everything ready I had this really intense feeling of deja vu, and I tried to ignore it.
I bought both the new Tori, and the new Trent album today -- actually tonight. There's an indie record store in town that sells all the new releases at Midnight on Tuesday. I haven't had a chance to review the Halo Fourteen, but I have listened to the entire two disc Tori Amos album -- To Venus and Back.
And-- I have nothing to say, except -- things change.
And that's just another set of evidence that supports this truth that I have a hard time accepting. Tori changed. Things change. I've changed. But, at times, I don't feel like I've changed-- so maybe I should say something more like I think I've changed, or It's time to change-- or, Maybe I'll never change.
My friend who moved from here to Los Angeles about a year ago came into town like last Friday. We've spent the nights hanging out, playing poker, and then finding ourselves hungry and at either Denny's or Burger King. He's changed. Not a lot, but enough to notice.
He says I should move from Indiana to L.A. Says that I should drop everything here, pack up, and try to make it out there. He's certain that I have the talent to get into Hollywood, and start making films, give or take a few years of shopping myself around.
I guess right now, when change is on mind, that this would be the best time to seriously consider such a step as that. It would be something that I'm interested in, though may not have the motivation to actually execute. He says I should right now. But that's not my plan.
The Perfect World
I have several friends who live in and around the valley. Silicon Valley -- San Francisco, Los Gatos, San Jose, Sacramento, Vacaville. They say they could hook me up, or at least help me find a good paying job in the valley -- working with computers, or something similar -- something to keep me on my feet.
I could move into a small apartment, or a larger one, after finding a roommate. I could be free and stand firm, and exploit my preferences-- all in an atmosphere where nothing would be feared. I could wake up everyday looking at hills and mountains, expressing myself in the abundance of all aspects of culture that have never existed in my area.
I've grown up in a small sheltered area, in a city where we JUST had our first annual AIDS walk, to promote healthy lifestyles, and research. I see the same thing everyday, and I have for twenty years. Rolling cornfields-- flat lands, with an occasional hill or wooded, vegetated Indiana-style plateau. The same stars, the same sky, the same people. The same perspective.
I could cut my slice, and delve into the realization that I grasped the concept of while laying on a pier thirty miles north of here, in Michigan. Staring at the stars, listening to the water-- the perception of how there are so many other places, so many other experiences that I have never fathomed-- out there--waiting for me to just go and collect them.
That would be the possibility-- exploration. Of people, of place, of perception. Something that could probably be altered if it was given the chance.
I could pursue the dream that I've had for years.
I want to be a hunter again. I want to see the world alone again. To take my chance on life again. So let me go.
It always stands in my way. I have fantasies upon fantasies, upon fantasies. The same desires running through my head again and again-- trying to find some sort of expression-- but they're always oppressed.
I'm the youngest of five children-- myself being nineteen, and my oldest brother being forty-two. My mother is in her sixties, and has given up her life to raise and care for us. And if I leave, all she'll have left is an alcoholic husband that she doesn't hardly talk to.
And what about my CDs. And my basement. And what I hold dear to me, and what I know is stable and gets me through the days. What if I move all of my furniture out there, and my computer, and my car, and my life-- and I come home for Christmas?
I'll see an empty room with an echo of myself. Something my mother will have to walk through almost every single day-- while trying to figure out where I went. Her youngest-- the one she talks to.
Will I have more of a chance there? Do I take, or not take my girlfriend? Should I start out fresh with no limitations, or so I go there with the baggage that I've collected here? And if I chose that route, how do I drop the baggage? And what if I want to sooth myself to sleep while listening to Pink Floyd - Meddle, or Tori Amos - Little Earthquakes, and they just don't seem to be the same without my old surroundings? What if I decide I'm too lonely, or too stressed out, or not ready for such a change? Do I move back to Indiana at 21 years old, and pretend that I'll be ready to try again in a couple of years?
What if I get stuck here forever, like almost everyone else in this town-- through the dark side of the force, and the lack of motivation that the air here seems to feed?
What if I never try?
You might be reading this, and want to tell me that I worry too much, should just go for it, and get over it. If you're saying that-- in my opinion-- you're stupid. Look at your life, and how unstable it is. You probably never took the time to ask 'What if?'
What If? That's my strength-- and my weakness.
Aztec Yhessin [firstname.lastname@example.org] , living in South Bend, Indiana, is yet another 19yo-bi-dude looking for answers that simply don't exist. He's always open for comments, and he misses having lots of e-mail. Plus all of his e-mail buddies are starting to get married and have children, so they don't have time to write anymore. Check out http://www.geocities.com/aztecyhessin.