Tuesday, October 28, 2008

mania in motion

I am writing this post at 9 pm, somewhere outside of Richmond, Virginia. I’m almost in my eleventh hour on the train, and we are running horrendously late, so we’ve got almost seven more to go. I stupidly got on the train with a small bag of snacks and zero cash or booze, so it’s going to be a long ride that feels even longer.

Can I tell you what transpired in my last night in Charleston? After having a homemade lasagna dinner with the parents of my CS host at his childhood home, we zoned out and watched television while I pounded vitamins because I wasn’t feeling well. But I didn’t want to deal with more rejection, so I briskly hugged him goodbye and walked out into the night. Charleston is not a big place, and I ran into several people I’d met during the weekend. That was kind of nice. A little before midnight, I decided it was time for my second dinner and a game of pool, so I paid my tab and went to migrate to another bar, when this old fortune cookie fortune fell out of my wallet: Everything is coming together.

At the bar I met a sweet guy who works as a lawyer for the ACLU and we bonded while waiting almost an hour for the food he ended up paying for, and talking to a big white guy who doesn’t believe that mankind has any impact on climate change. I thought ACLU was charming and intelligent—everyone knows I have a weakness for Southern boys—though he was not a boy at all, probably a good fifteen years on me. When we left the bar and he invited me back for a nightcap at his place. This led to an hour of the following inner monologue on repeat:

I shouldn’t do this. Stranger. Rental car. Hotel. Not my city. Makings of a disaster film. But that’s not reality! This is reality. This is a nice, sweet man who works for the ACLU. I’m not afraid of him at all. I actually really like him. I trust my instincts. Or are they really my instincts? Am I just drunk? I don’t think I’m drunk. I’ve only had seven drinks over as many hours. See, that complex sentence structure shows just how lucid I am. But what if I regret it? What would I regret? Am I just being paranoid? I hate not trusting someone who seems totally trustworthy. It makes me feel like a paranoid, crazy freak. Seriously, you should just go home. But where’s the fun in that?

He was staying at a fancy hotel downtown, and hadn’t even checked in yet. It was two a.m. and I looked like hell, and when the concierge asked us if we needed one key or two, I suddenly felt like a prostitute. Hotels do that to me. We went upstairs, had a brandy, and I started to leave because you know how I feel about hotel sex…

So I am thinking about dissolving this blog because I think it’s gotten way too personal and I feel like it’s apt to cause more problems than it solves, mostly because it doesn’t really solve any problem other than the satisfaction of my gratuitous, self-obsessive impulses.

After a few hours of sleep, I suddenly woke up and realized I had to leave right then if I were to get done what I had to get done—buy cartons of cigarettes, get back to my host’s apartment to pick up my stuff, and get to a café to download some work files—if I wanted to make my train. When I got to the lobby, I was greeted by three staff members, and for the second time in several hours, I felt like a whore and was so flustered that I ran out the wrong exit, cornered myself in the hotel garden, and had to pass them all again on the real way out.

I thought about him in the back of my mind all day, and regretted only one thing: running out on him this morning. He looked so confused. I don’t know where this flight syndrome comes from, but I find it very hard to fight. Then I convince myself that I was in love with them, and I feel tragic and infantile and pathetic. It’s one thing to want what you cannot have, it’s another thing to prevent yourself from ever having what you want.

1 comment:

keetens said...

i'm sorry honey. i know how you feel. but it seems like you are nearing the end of the tunnel. we all love you. now you just have to figure out the right circumstances for loving yourself.