I Have Always Depended On The Kindness of Strangers
My life is always like a Tennessee Williams play. I don't usually feel like Blanche DuBois, though. Today I do.
I hate breaking my word. It makes me feel bad. Especially lately, when it has begun to mean much more to me. It some ways, since I'm broke, it's all I've got. What it means to me, really, though is the inability to make good with friends, and after the Great Mass Exodus of them, the ones I have no seem so important. Being poor has made me realize how swell people can be and how unimportant stuff can be.
I had plans to meet Aruni tonight that fell through. That kills me.
I can say it wasn't my fault, but that's just being slack. I ran out of gas. I should have known better than to try to drive to Durham with so little gas, but I really thought I could make it. Obviously, I didn't. So I wound up standing her up.
I got a cop to take me from the exit where I broke down to the Waffle House on Hillsborough Street. I ran from there to Duke's campus to try to catch Aruni. I failed. It was probably a two or three mile run, but I was in my favourite boots, so I could run neither quickly nor smoothly. It was raining, too, so I got soaked. I did, however, sing most of the time. Belle and Sebastian tunes to keep myself up -- I remember I'm Waking Up to Us, Judy and the Dream of Horses, and Me and the Major, but there were more. (Attention Sinister folk -- this bit was not in my latest post, as my pride forbad the hilarity it no douby would inpsire.)
I went back to WXDU's station (it's on the same part of the Duke East Campus that the Duke Coffee House, TBS venue, is) and the djs Jennifer and Jason gave me a ride to my car. Jason even loaned me the money to get a plastic gas tank and gas. I'd never even met them before. They rock. Besides the money, I'm paying them back beer. They so deserve it. Jason even jumped my car off when the batteries died -- I had to leave the blinkers on, so the Little Red Car wouldn't be rammed.
So I was upset the whole chain of events happened -- my favourite boots got ruined when the rain soaked through and soaked out the glue that held the sole on (they've been fixed before, and probably will be again, but still, I love them sooo much), I was completely soaked, I walked probably 7 miles (it was a hike to find a phone to call a cop, and I got lost twice on the way back) and I stood up Aruni. But on the bright side, I did meet these two wonderful people. I hope I can help them, sometimes.
The worst part is this though: I missed TBS. I wanted to see them so much... You should have heard my show Sunday morning. I really was through the roof to see them. When I walked into the Cofeehouse at 9.20, there were maybe 6 people. I knew the doors opened at 7.00, so I figured early time, short show. The stage was broken down and the lights bright. I figured I had missed it all. I left and eventually got my ride.
Turns out, the show hadn't begun. And Aruni was there, asleep. (Yeah, Joyce will do that to you.*)
I missed the damn show twice.
I honestly could beat myself.
Even worse, apparently they were only like a dozen people there. THAT SUCKS SO MUCH ASS, DURHAM/CHAPEL HILL. What's wrong with you people?!
Aruni got to talk to Beth Arzy, of Sinister repute, though.
I suck so hard. I'm so beating myself up over this. My ill judgement fucked up a whole night, a night I had really been looking forward to. And my boots.
Why is my life like this?! Errr.
(Secretly, I'm thinking, it's that damn shoe comment from yesterday.)
Now I feel all angsty and dumb, like a teenager.
One of the bases of my disgust is that this is a prime example of how I can't get my shit together. I'm 24 now, and out of school, and I run out of gas. I mean, really.
I'm in a less than dead end job and I should be in school, getting a higher degree, or at least doing something in the theatre to help me get there. I have plans and goals that I'll never fucking reach because I am an unusual mix of lazy and stupid.
And I couldn't get a date to save my life.
Bad Jay. Bad, bad Jay!
*Joyce seems terribly wrapped up in making himself important to his national and literary history (like his contemporary Thomas Wolfe -- ha ha! some original literary criticism). But admittedly, he was a genius. His use of language is fascinating, and his original work in creating modern writing.
But he ultimately went to far with Finnegan's Wake. Art has to exist within convention to be understood, and even if you are playing with the complexity of that, once you completely leave it and nobody understands you, you're masturbating in public (in an artistic sense).