I just did the most anti-social thing ever, which is to order my hotel bar drink to go. My excuse is that I wanted to come up to my room and slowly drink a w-and-soda while ruminating on Hemingway-esqe type things. Of course I then followed it by the least anti-social thing ever, which is to pose 12 ways to Sunday in the mirrored elevator with my drink… in the hopes of getting something appropriate for Instagram. Mission (decidedly) not accomplished.
Speaking of Gram, though, I’m really not looking forward to being 80. I realized, while walking home from dinner to said hotel bar, that I have a decent “don’t even think about messing with me” walk, of which I think I spoke while in Harajuku getting all pissed off that thieves were looking at me instead of Gwen Stefani. People don’t mess with me, is what I mean to say, and I enjoy the freedom that comes with that. You may have inferred by the title that Atlanta, presumably, feels it doesn’t need to invest in street lamps because why bother? General Sherman will eventually come light the place on fire, rendering street lamps unnecessary and Scarlett-types dejectedly Tara bound. But it’s cool right now, because I have pirate boots and know how to walk. The guy that shouted, “hey! Guuuuuurl, you all in black!” at me on my way to dinner prompted less of a fear factor than a vague, “I wonder what would he’d do if I leaned in and whispered slowly, ‘I can see your dreams.’?”
I don’t know where that came from, and it doesn’t matter. When I am 80, though, I am getting the shit mugged out of me. At some point it becomes a confident hobble, and boots don’t matter anymore.
I think it takes being isolated in a hotel room to realize that I miss blogging, and I miss the trains of thought that come with knowing I’m doing it. Ever since Asia ended and employment re-began, I’ve existed in a frenetic physics world that demands immediate equal and opposite reaction. That’s what school is: the boom-boom-boom of being a small but significant piece of a child’s life, so RIGHT NOW always matters, times 80. Being so far away from everyone I know for a night- and coincidentally residing next to a college football Homecoming crowd that provides a soundtrack’s high of projected epinephrine- I get a rush. It’s the kind of rush that’s entirely self-serving and I only want to do what pleases me.
Holy, something just happened at Georgia Tech again.
I have more to say about my wanderings and my field trip to the Aquarium (and I quote my notes from earlier today: “manta ray is equal parts majestic and Commodore 64 disk drive with its open rectangular mouth and uncannily gracious fluidity” and then “kid moaning repetitively in southern accent “I WANT you, penguin, I WANT you, penguin”) but I don’t really know how to decipher that. Georgia Tech’s blowing a horn and the crowds are snaking homeward, and my whiskey-and-s is more a sound effect than an inspiration.
It’s time to sign off, kiddos, and go gently into that good night.
I think I can see my dreams.