Andare, Partire, Tornare ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- The good, the bad, and the brooding Hmph. A mix of the good and the bad, that's what life is. And despite all the good that's been going on recently, I've been feeling mired in the bad, especially when you have a long day and find yourself driving somewhere in a car, tired out of your mind and unable to keep the bad stuff from circling around in your brain like a flock of opportunistic buzzards. First, the good stuff. Nother more concert last night, in Baltimore. Because the stupid fucks who ran the concert let King's X go on at seven, despite the ticket stating that the concert would begin at seven-thirty, Bemo and I missed seeing them, although apparently they only let them play for about twenty minutes, which is a disgrace. So we got there just in time to see Joe Satriani go on, and dude, did he completely blow my head off its shoulders. Fucking unbelievable. He does stuff with a guitar that isn't supposed to be possible. We got autographs after the concert, and he was the sweetest guy, chatting with the fans and ignoring the two shit-faced guys at the back of the crowd, screaming, "Joe! You're totally Joe Satriani! You rock, Joe!" Whatever Mr. Satriani is or isn't sure of, I am quite positive he does indeed know his own name. (Best drunk comment heard on the way back to the car - a group of people being lectured by one of their members, who was telling, them, "We can all *go* to a bar now, but you have to remember: We *can't* act belligerent.") Dream Theater was the next band to play, but while I can admire their sheer technical skill, I am not a big fan of the music. So I left Bemo to it, and wandered over to the river and hung out and read, with the music a pleasant background noise to my book (although the conjunction of prog rock and Have His Carcase may not be suited for everyone). Before the concert, I dragged Bemo to what is quite possibly my favorite place in Baltimore now, a little coffee and dessert place in Little Italy, called Vaccaros. I had Baci ice cream (chocolate hazelnut, like the Baci "kisses" candy) and a cafe latte (any Italians who read this, yes, I know it was far too late in the day to have a latte, but goddamnit, I wanted one and it was delicious). Bemo had coffee and a heart attack on a plate. They didn't call it that in the menu (it was called The Colesso: Death At Sea) and it was a belgian waffle with eighty pounds of vanilla gelato, wet walnuts, chocolate chips, and whipped cream on it. Bemo, though striving valiantly, could only finish about half of it, and I accounted for a few bites here and there. It was on the way home from the concert, weary and still buzzing a little from noise hangover, that I started to let the dreary thoughts start washing over me again. It's all been triggered by a bill collector getting through to us - and although she was one of that rare breed, a sympathetic and helpful bill collector, and despite the fact that we can afford to start paying back that particular bill, it just completely sent me into a financial anxiety tailspin. Our two cars are teetering on the edge of breaking down, we don't have our own private living space, and Bemo's job, while providing him with hours again, still shows no definite signs of going full-time. Plus, Bemo is so easily distracted from doing things like taking care of his student loans (which are the only debt that will never go away, whether we file bankrupcy, ignore all our debtors, or fake our own deaths and try to start new lives as soy bean farmers in Chile) that I get really angry with him. Really, things aren't all that bad - we're getting by, and all, but sometimes I start dreaming about how nice it would be just to stop fighting life. It's like walking up a hill against a stiff wind, and honestly, sometimes I just get so tired of it all. I don't fantasize about suicide, really - there are too many cool things to appreciate in this world still to come - but the idea of just *being* nonexistant is such a tempting, soothing one. They say money doesn't bring happiness, but that is such bullshit. I happen to be able to guarantee that a large application of money would allow us to be quite happy, thankyouverymuch. But you know, I'm going to stop brooding right now, and I'm going to go be productive. Maybe if I don't let myself get overtired, I won't fret. And maybe if my auntie had wheels, she'd be a tea cart. Off to go swim and have my hair dyed by my sister using the hose on the back deck. Better use this gorgeous day before the cold comes (I am looking forward to the chill, actually - screw summer and it's sweaty nasty heat). 11:46 a.m. - 2002-09-07 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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