Hold Steady As She Goes

When I was a freshman (in college--hopefully that will get old soon), Julia convinced me to go to an Animal Collective show at the Ottobar. This was back when Julia and I were still on unambiguously friendly terms--haven't been for a couple years now. Somehow I got really sleepy that night, and all I can remember is standing directly in front of Avey Tare's guitar amp with the treble cranked to excessive with my head resting on the stage, listening to them play "Who Could Win A Rabbit" and wishing I was back in my dorm, in bed. That was the incident that more or less convinced me to not listen to Animal Collective for four years (the afterparty at the H&H was great, though; the first warehouse dance party I went to). Last night, however, I put on their album Sung Tongs and listened to it all the way through, and thoroughly enjoyed it ("Who Could Win A Rabbit" was still annoying, though). Animal Collective seems to make more sense on summer nights, or summer afternoons driving through the desolation of Nowhere, Indiana, on the way back from Pitchfork Festival. Some things do change.

Jessica and Thom are asleep on the Futon of Lost Souls in my living room. I'm glad they're here with me on Jess' last night in Baltimore; lending beds is the least I can do. I'll miss these two when they are gone. Tonight we--Jess, Thom, and I--went to Jessica's old Introduction to Fiction and Poetry Writing instructor Jessica Anya Blau's book release dinner party up in the posh quarters on the north edge of the city, where we talked to some unlikely candidates for conversation, namely a few recently ex-sorority girls who were also Writing Seminars majors. I wondered if we would've talked to them if we were still in school; some boundaries surely go down as others go up. And in the end, without the barriers of whatever we were (in college--see, there it is again), things seemed to be easier than they would've been. Thom didn't even realize these people used to be in sororities. Astonishingly, Sarah T. thought my nascent "beard" looked great--I still think it looks whack--so I guess it stays, at least for the time being.

I don't think I should take shortcuts through campus anymore, at least until I start work. It's too depressing. Every single piece of too-familiar scenery seems to reproach me for still being here, for failing to get out, when I have no more business being here. Even without the kids--not sure how I'll deal with it when fall rolls around again and the students come back. I walked past some college-looking kids in front of Bradford today and was staggered by the thought of how not so long ago I shared their position, but though now I pass them on the same streets wearing the same clothes I did a few weeks ago (when I was in college--yeah, really got to stop that), even doing the same damn things--I was going to farmer's market--there's a rift between them and me I cannot and should not return over. It was like there was a massive, invisible force straightening my posture, my vision, evening my strides, a force that could not be negotiated with. I need to move out of Charles Village, maybe into Mt. Vernon or Hampden. It's still the same city, but I think moving away from all the kids who are still in college will be healthy.

I envy those two, Jess and Thom. Sure, she still has to go to grad school eventually, but that doesn't matter. This is it for them. This is what they've worked four years' long distance for. This is the city they wanted--Boston--and the life they wanted, together, everything else secondary and priorities straight. Jobs? school? They wanted one thing, have wanted only one thing for four years, and they're weeks away from getting it. Meanwhile I'm a bachelor with Bachelor's fucking around in limbo-town, bo-hum sucker in a bo-hum sucker of a city, worrying whether my bo-hum sucker friends who are dating each other are going to go for each other's throats, what do we think of each other, what music do we like, do the hipster girls at dance parties think we are geeks, the same concerns from when we were in college. Morrissey sings to me "you just haven't earned it yet, baby," but having been here so long makes me think sometimes I'll never earn it. There are two types of people in Baltimore: those who can't get out, and those who were never really here. Guess which one I am.

On a completely unrelated note, I did a good thing today. I think.