Crises

First of all, my dear friend R. Parisi has released his long-awaited album CRISIS, which is now available on iTunes through his website: http://ronaldparisi.com. Check out the website for free samples, ringtones, and merchandise as well. (The shirts are a goddamn treasure.)

And now, I'm going to unleash some serious self-doubt and wibbling about my future and my present and the apparent imbalances between the two. Be warned, and close this window if you don't want that.

I am on vacation this week, which is much-appreciated and much-needed. The problem is that, by the nature of the summer season, I can't stay on the boat for my vacation time. It simply would not work. So I have to go someplace else for these nine days, which is great because all I really want to do is go home, curl up with a book, a boom box, some tea, and a series of beautiful sunsets and sunrises, and chill. I want to finish Moby-Dick and listen to Crisis a lot. I want to just relax in my own space, on a couch, with nothing and no one to bother me.

But I don't have a home.

I live on a boat with eight other people, for a contracted period of time. My parents' house isn't my home anymore, for all that I love the people who live there. Baltimore isn't home. Pittsburgh is sort of home. Seattle still feels like home, even though the winters try to kill me. But I don't have anywhere I live that's mine.

I long for my little apartment in Capitol Hill. I just spent two hours looking through real estate listings on or near the Hill, breaking my own heart looking at the listing prices.

And that's what it comes down to: I want to buy a house. That babylust that some women get in their thirties, where they just NEED to have a baby, I have now as homelust. I just NEED a home. I can't take the psychic stress of packing all my worldly belongings into a duffel bag anymore. I want plants, and windows, and sunlight, and couches, and knicknacks, and bright paint on the walls, and tilework, and a big fluffy comfy bed, and a fireplace -- I want my own fucking HOME, and not having it is driving me slowly insane.

But I have $2000 to my name, and all the jobs I want to do for hourly wage or salary are all extremely low-paying. (My current job is the highest pay grade I've ever had, and I'm a seacook on a tall ship. Not glamorous or profitable.) So -- and I've known this is true for awhile now -- I need to quit working for other people. I need to start my own fucking business already. It's not going to be a bookshop, although I did love that idea when I had it. I'm thinking about a few other ideas right now. But there's no guarantee that any business I start will succeed, so I don't want to just jump in.

Maybe what I need is to force myself to make it succeed. Raise the stakes. Earn a downpayment and put it on my dreamhouse, then do whatever it takes to pay for it. Maybe that would work. I know myself, and that eustress is damn good for me. I think I could make it work, although the idea makes me sweat bullets. Sweating bullets isn't a bad thing.

Anyway, I'm rambling now. I've had a wonderful visit with the Hubers and now it's time for some rest.

Moving = LEAVING!

I do not enjoy inhabiting Indiana, Pennsylvania. The town is too small, there are no good cruising highways for half an hour in any direction, the fashion sense is so bad that even I have noticed how bad it is, the college is largely lame, and I've had a couple of really bad roommates. But tomorrow I'm leaving. I'm moving out, going to a huge gala for my chosen profession, and leaving the country.

Moving. Back into my parents' house. Which is almost as far from most of my friends as Indiana is. And means losing autonomy. And I can't walk anywhere. Or talk about how pretty girls are. Or just go out to the bar with friends. Or run downstairs and show Laura some wonderful thing I found on the interweb. Or picnic with Audrey in the backyard. Or scream the chorus of "Luv, Luv, Luv" (by the Pansy Division), or in fact any of my queer music. Or get my head around writing properly.* In fact, my feelings about moving out of my one and only fabulous Big Queer House, successor to the Big Gay Apartment, are more like this.

I love this house. It's falling apart a little, it's been a pretty drama-full semester, and I haven't always gotten along with everyone living in it, but goddammit, I love living here! It's been keeping me sane. I love being able to yell downstairs to Audrey anytime I want. I like having people around with whom I can talk about serious shit or weird shit or utterly silly nonsensical shit. We have our own vocabulary subset. We've proclaimed our own individual gender identities.** For the love of God, I told these guys about pixel-stained technopeasant wretches, and despite being in no way attacted to SFWA or even writing fiction, they've picked it up and use it in conversation because it's such a great phrase and a great thing to do. The amount of knowledge about gender I've simply osmosed, let alone researched! I have drinking buddies, people to go to for hugs, people who like just spending time with me, people whom I like spending time with. I don't want to break up the BGA now! GODDAMMIT, THIS IS MY HOME AND NOW IT'S GOING AWAY RIGHT WHEN I'VE REALIZED JUST HOW GOOD IT IS. How is this right?


*I have to leave the house to write. There's a good place in my neighborhood for this, but Wexford is really not set up for spaces to go and hang out for long periods of time. I hate this.

**I am a slutty goth girl who really wants to wear plaid and climb trees.