Reflections

[illusionofjoy]

"There's a show at Hurley's on Friday - 7:00PM. You should come."

That particular phrase was contained in an IM conversation I had a couple of days ago. For a brief moment, I considered going to the show, but ultimately decided against it. I didn't have much faith that I could still pass as I student by virtue of not yet throwing away my SUNY card (student ID) and I had no desire to pay four dollars to get into the club. This four dollars could be used to better ends; for example: a fresh pack of cloves once I cross the border between New York and Pennsylvania.

I don't feel any particular attachment to Hurley's anymore. When I was in high school, I thought the place was the coolest shit I'd ever encountered. It was after several visits to clubs in Manhattan that I discovered how uncool Hurley's is. The only reason this discovery wasn't made after my trip to the Lost Horizon in Syracuse was because it was there that I gave out my first "asshole bouncer award" and, let's face it: while I enjoyed seeing VAST, The Lost Horizon is a shit hole.

Still, all throughout high school, I thought Hurley's was just wonderful. Time passed, however, and I came to realise that I didn't fit in with the other kids who went there. In fact I never fit in - not back then and certainly not now. It's not that I feel any particular desire to fit into that crowd anyhow. Still, it's not particularly satisfying to be the only speck of monochrome in a sea of spikes, plaid, torn T-shirts, bad haircuts and an appreciation for three ham-handed chords on poorly tuned guitars.

So, instead of going out tonight to a show that I knew I would enjoy with the slight chance that someone might be there who I'd want to hang out with, I opted to stay home with my ass firmly planted on the couch. Farscape was on tonight, and I figured that I would indulge my geekery before I lost the luxury of cable TV. Later in the evening, VH1 was airing a programme showcasing the horrors that occur when actors make albums. Aside from brief looks at Phantom Planet and 30 Seconds To Mars, I was pretty thoroughly nauseated.

Currently it is -2°F outside and I am actually thinking of taking a walk. I wouldn't plan on going to Hurley's, mind you - that would involve setting foot on the SUNY Potsdam campus, which is probably the last thing I feel like doing at this point. Instead, I would just walk to downtown and back, reassuring myself of the fact that, yes, indeed there is absolutely nothing of interest in this village.

I don't feel like walking anymore...particularly not in this cold.

xeyli phoned me this afternoon. I really didn't expect her to call, as it has been quite a while. We spoke mostly of my plans to move and what's happening with her and school. Lately, she seems to be trying to get me to start dating again. I really don't understand why. I half-jokingly told her that I wanted a new Asian girlfriend and she replied, "well, don't limit yourself." Point taken - unnecessary, but taken nonetheless. masochistmonkey is in on it as well. He could be quoted as saying recently, "I'm sure you'll have no problem finding someone in Pittsburgh." I really bring this shit upon myself though by pondering (read: bitching) about my romantic entanglements, lack thereof, etc. to my friends.

I at a weird point as far as my desires go. I coming to grips with the fact that the old girlfriend and I are over, with little chance of ever being together as an item again. Some distant part of me still wants her back, but its not to such a degree that I break down tearful everytime her memory hits me. Still, if I were to find out that she was suddenly dating someone else, I'd probably feel as if I'd just had an old wound tear open. I'd likely hang up on her soon after hearing the news.

As the old girlfriend fades away, I find myself with a remote desire for a new girlfriend. This obviously defies all logic, but remains nonetheless. As I said, the desire is remote. At this juncture, I am ill prepared to jump headfirst into another relationship, only to discover the pool ultimately empty. I'm always up for a good lay (said the brain sector known as "primal urges"), but I'd rather not sleep with anyone whom I couldn't have a somewhat intelligent conversation with afterwards.

"It'll happen when you least expect it," they say. I'd better keep my guard up. That Cupid is a sneaky little fuck.

Valentine's Day is fast approaching. I must remain cynical.

Speaking of buried hearts, I have yet to sort through all the stuff in my room that has accumulated there over years. I know that I'll have to do it before I leave. I'll go through all sorts of memories, and make three separate piles: stuff to throw away or donate to a worthy cause, stuff to take with me and stuff to put into storage, because I can't take it with me. On paper, it seems so simple, and I actually do have a good idea of what I'm going to toss and whatnot. Still, the abject knowledge that I'll be digging up memories makes me less than enthusiastic about the chore.

I know for certain that my HO-scale model railroading equipment will have to stay in storage. A studio or one-bedroom apartment is no place to try and start a 1/87^th scale empire. Neither is a bedroom in a house, as a matter of fact. It seems that this hobby will have to wait until I'm much older...which seems natural, given the individuals I've seen at model railroading conventions. I'll probably be one of those guys someday, arguing as to why the GP-38 locomotive on some other railfan's layout does not belong if they are trying to accurately replicate rail traffic in 1997. This geekiness will never die; it's merely going to morph into more bizarre and unbelievable worlds, I think.

There is one thing I know I'll find deep in the recesses of memory - those places known to the rest of the world as mere storage closets: Doggie. Up until I was about six or seven (one of the years when my age was in the single digits anyhow) I would go to bed every night with a stuffed dog. I loved this little animal, with his terry-cloth body, floppy ears and breed ambiguity. I loved this stuffed animal with all my heart, despite the fact that he was well-worn little pup. He showed his age, but never complained and he was always there for me.

It is truly magical how small children project life into inanimate objects. I remember at that age I felt a true connection to Doggie, as if he were a living, breathing, feeling being and not just the sum of stuffing, cloth and stitches. It is only a child's imagination that can bestow the breath of life upon a stuffed animal. It is truly a beautiful thing.

I actually had two stuffed animals in my dorm room - both of which had been given to me by friends. One was from Masochist Monkey's boyfriend. It was a pink bear, about five inches high, with a large heart on its chest. I was told that the reason it was given to me was because it would clash with my decorating sensibilities. The other came from a friend at SUNY Potsdam. It was a little stuffed kitten, wearing a took and a little scarf - quite adorable actually. I was told to take care of him since I couldn't be with Raven.

I plan on taking all three of them with me and building a little display in my apartment. I'll title it either, "Innocence Lost" or "Dreams of Childhood." I could never truly abandon Doggie. Therein lies a connection to a past version of myself. I wasn't a great cynic then, I was more optimistic about life and (most of the time) the world seemed like a wonderful place, so full of promise. I kind of liked that kid. It's a shame that he had to grow up so quickly.