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The worst thing about Ramnmstein being over is that it's over. I'm glad to be home and away from the relentless grind of the road; physically, that the trip ended when it did was a godsend, because fatigue had well and truly set in, and had we been on the road much longer, I would have ended up in a sitting fetal position in the middle of a squalid hotel room, blubbering and honking like a sodomized goose. But it's done, and that means no more Rammstein, no more chances to temporarily escape from the loneliness, isolation, and alienation. No more breathing room. If the band rumblings and fannish scuttlebutt are any indication, then there will be another opportunity to touch that high--that peace--again, but until then, it's another year of paying bills and writing stories that keep me happy but that fewer and fewer folks read and eating Hot Pockets and just trying to get by until the next time.
I'm glad for the time to settle and recuperate, to write and read and let my body slowly release the bottomless well of anxiety it's been holding since February, but I miss that sense of anticipation and hope, that knowledge that at least one good thing lies in my future.
The six months from December of 2010 to June of 2011 have been the best of my life; aside from the ugly period that followed the MSG trip, my outlook on life has been much better. Oh, I still have rotten days when I think the world is naught but a festering cesspit and don't want to crawl out of bed and face it, but those days are balanced by the knowledge that I, who the world has for so long deemed weak and unworthy, went to New York. I saw Times Square and Penn Station and Madison Square Garden. I had New York pizza. I saw Vegas. I went there without my mother, and I didn't fall into a hole in the earth and die. I did those things, and maybe I can do more. The accessibility issues and the unfairness of the world haven't disappeared; not even Rammstein can work that magic, bless them. But because of them, I have strengthened old coping mechanisms and discovered new ones. God knows what they'll inspire me to do next. This period of my life has been transformative, and I'm sorry to see it draw to a close, even if it is only for a while.
It should be noted that my mother, who swore up, down, and sideways that the car was a deathtrap, is now singing its praises and insisting that she knew it was a reliable car all along. Of course she did. That's why she spent several hysterical months painting doomsday scenarios in which the car died a hissing, wheezing death and left us to die in the desert while the tires melted into the asphalt. Now that the car has performed flawlessly, she wants to rewrite history and claim she knew it was roadworthy all along, wasn't she so wise to recognize its greatness and strongarm me into buying it? This is typical behavior for her, alas, and I have no doubt that the next time I take a trip, she'll revert to her earlier stance and besmirch the poor car's honor.
If the car could talk, it would tell her to kiss its road-grimed bumper, baby, because it is a goddamned warrior. Me, too, car. Me, too.
I'm glad for the time to settle and recuperate, to write and read and let my body slowly release the bottomless well of anxiety it's been holding since February, but I miss that sense of anticipation and hope, that knowledge that at least one good thing lies in my future.
The six months from December of 2010 to June of 2011 have been the best of my life; aside from the ugly period that followed the MSG trip, my outlook on life has been much better. Oh, I still have rotten days when I think the world is naught but a festering cesspit and don't want to crawl out of bed and face it, but those days are balanced by the knowledge that I, who the world has for so long deemed weak and unworthy, went to New York. I saw Times Square and Penn Station and Madison Square Garden. I had New York pizza. I saw Vegas. I went there without my mother, and I didn't fall into a hole in the earth and die. I did those things, and maybe I can do more. The accessibility issues and the unfairness of the world haven't disappeared; not even Rammstein can work that magic, bless them. But because of them, I have strengthened old coping mechanisms and discovered new ones. God knows what they'll inspire me to do next. This period of my life has been transformative, and I'm sorry to see it draw to a close, even if it is only for a while.
It should be noted that my mother, who swore up, down, and sideways that the car was a deathtrap, is now singing its praises and insisting that she knew it was a reliable car all along. Of course she did. That's why she spent several hysterical months painting doomsday scenarios in which the car died a hissing, wheezing death and left us to die in the desert while the tires melted into the asphalt. Now that the car has performed flawlessly, she wants to rewrite history and claim she knew it was roadworthy all along, wasn't she so wise to recognize its greatness and strongarm me into buying it? This is typical behavior for her, alas, and I have no doubt that the next time I take a trip, she'll revert to her earlier stance and besmirch the poor car's honor.
If the car could talk, it would tell her to kiss its road-grimed bumper, baby, because it is a goddamned warrior. Me, too, car. Me, too.
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