The Lone Star State can fuck itself.
Just kidding. But I am, as they say, over it.
I left the camp site this afternoon. It was a mellow afternoon. Shadows played on the earth, and it was nice to leave on a positive note.
What was really nice was when people started noticing that I was going. A small group of my friends congealed around me and my car. It was nice, giving hugs, being sent off well-wished. I’d spent the last three-or-so weeks in relative isolation, miserable and bitter in my tent, having assumed that I didn’t have any friends. Guess I was wrong.
Packing for travel’s fun, if you like Tetris—and I got a pretty good score on this one. I squished so much stuff into such a small amount of space.
I’m in New Orleans, right now, at a friend’s house.
It was pointed out to me, more than once, that New York could be a great place to visit, or to live. The city seems to be a point of fascination for those who haven’t been. I found it strange, at first: I grew up about a 45 minute drive from the city, and I haven’t visited myself in almost a decade. It took a slack-jawed dreamer kid to tell me his dream of seeing the Statue of Liberty just once, and this pretty girl who wanted to visit all the museums, and there was someone, too, who was fascinated with Central Park—Central Park? To me, it’s always been an anticlimactic patch of dirt and trees where yuppies take their poor undersized city dogs in Christmas sweaters to shit on the foliage while they gossip on their phones, using Bluetooth so they can utilize their pooper scooper with maximum efficiency. But, some people can find the good in everything.
I want that.
I want to observe, to be amazed by everything, to be at peace with, in acceptance of, everything.
When I get back home, I’m going to visit the city, starting with the Museum of Natural History. First, though, I’ll hang out in New Orleans for a day or three.