So. Hello. Hilarity of hilarities, it turns out that not too long after that very last blog post my old computer did up and die on me, and has been dead all of this time. I am currently undergoing the time-consuming, money-draining process of fixing the dear, and therefore I am undergoing severe internet/typing facility withdrawal. Pain. Lots of pain, as Watt would say in Knight's Tale. My line of entertainment has been very much removed in general, as my television also committed suicide sometime last month during all the carnage. This was not a problem as I've never been much of a tv person and mostly like to watch movies via netflix or dvd-wise, but with computer deceasal (not a word, i am aware, however I like it as it is and therefore shall make no effort whatsoever to change the thing) this has meant no mind-easing entertainment at all! Also my bike chain is broken. So unless I decide to go on walks, which I probably should but don't want to late at night since I was almost pounced last time I tried it (true story for another time), I don't really have the productive option of exercise. So, dear reader, what on earth have I been doing with my time? Reading! Reading! Reading! I made my to-read list for the year and have been blazing steadily through it, reading five books at a time (as per ush), never ceasing! My eyes and mind grow stronger, I'm sure. I have completed about ten or so books since the death of my computer, which certainly says something about the level of distraction that these here mind boxes create. Or something like that. Anyway. I have read completed Dog of the South, a new favorite, along with True Grit, which I love equally. I have decided to read all of his novels. There are not many (I am not heavy!), and topping off Norwood a few days ago means I only have two left. I have also read an assortment of other things, like The Awakening which I quite liked, and Rebecca which was, I suppose, good in a gothic sort of way. It's a good story, anyway, with a great ending, even if the characters are nails-on-chalk-board-y. Still reading Ulysses. I think I've gotten lost, actually, and I'm not smart enough to discern the assigned voice and themes of each chapter well enough to be able to tell one from the other. Mostly Bloom and Stephen wander around THINKING things. Which sometimes carries me away with them, and sometimes leaves me on the banks wondering why on earth they would want to go out to see in a thought-boat like that. Oh well. Maybe some of that is the point. Maybe Joyce was not expressing much of any feeling, just exercising his abilities (though I essentially doubt this. Especially where death is concerned).
My life is moody (not me, oh no). Ironically, after all my big talk of biding my time here and all that I quickly decided that I couldn't. That there is no clear reason for me to bother living here anymore. Everything's a bit of a dead end, really, from my personal growth to my finances to my work to my relationships (mostly) to, especially, my writing. Of course the ole writing's at a bit of a dead end now anyway due to dead typing machine, at least so far as screenplays go, though I am still jotting down short stories, outlines, treatments in a somewhat freshly purchased notebook with a pleasant black and white pattern on the cover. Anyway. Point is, everything here is dried up. I am in love with Ventura still, thankfully, however I hate where I am in my life, and sticking around here isn't going to do me any good. It is not improving matters. For a few weeks I was simply upset all of the time, about everything, especially my fear and guilt about not really doing anything-- not being able to do anything good in any capacity. I Then realized, as they say in True Grit, there's nothing for it. I hate myself right now (moreso than usual) because I don't really care about very much that I've got here. My job does not pay me very much nor does it offer me any hours. The writing part-- a great joy at first-- has devolved due to business issues. I am now a glorified retail clerk, really, and not a very good one at that, according to them. So, then, underpaid and unappreciated at a job that isn't even the sort of job I should have? Foolishness. Gracious me, Bentley, what's the point? The nice homebase of close friends I once had here has vanished, now people come and go, and I resent them because I should have been much busier than they much sooner. With things that I love. Anyway. All this to say that I have been searching for work and residence out of state, in any place affordable, any place interesting. If things continue as they are, I will unfortunately be left with two options: return to Denton, Texas, where I will die, or retreat to North Dakota, wherefrom my friend Amanda offers me free residence. I would not mind ND at this point. I mean, it will probably depress me and it sure ain't gonna further my career right away, but I could see myself at least writing up there and making some money to pay off the serious debt that is even now breathing its nasty-smelling garlic breath down my neck.
I don't want either of those options. So I continue to apply away to places near and far. I got a call from one of them yesterday, only to learn, tragically, today that they are offering 50 cents less on my salary than I am being paid now, and its a job with people with special needs, and I would have to drive up for an interview (which would be okay, if i might get paid heap'um big moneys, but no). I'm sad now. I had dreams of setting up someplace new and green, someplace I was supposed to be. I'm not supposed to be here. So where am I supposed to be? It really wouldn't be so terrible if I had the consolation of writing and writing well, but I don't even have that now. Therefore I am a vaccuum of money, time, and effort. Tears too.
We rally, though. We read Charles Portis. Bet he didn't use a laptop in the day.
Today is definitely a beautiful day. I am in Santa Barbara using my friend's laptop while she's at work. Driving up the coast this morning I listened to nostalgic 90's tunes and belted them loudly with windows rolled down and all pistons firing. It was a nice moment of solidarity with myself. Hahaha. That reminds me of reading Harriet the Spy as a 10 year old and reading that one part where Harriet goes into the bathroom after something triumphant, gets on the toilet, and writes in her notebook: "i love myself." Strange that I should remember that, exactly, just right now. Anyway, moments like that on the coast (not the toilet) have been reminding me lately to enjoy and love the things that do surround me while they do, because I will miss them when things change. And I will. I will miss all of this so much, even the horrible stuff.
A dude that looks suspiciously like John Tuturro in Barton Fink is sitting at a table a few feet from me. His comically circular, thick glasses, worn sweater, and brooklynese make me like him and dislike him all at the same time.
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