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2001-05-09 The Boyfriend got back from his trip quite safely. I won't get gushy but I do miss seeing him. I spent large amounts of time this weekend avoiding reality. I mean LARGE amounts of time. No TV was purchased, no resume updated, no new friends were met, no old friends seen. Mostly it was about destroying large numbers of Demonic Hordes. I marched to work today, in my Doc Martins, dressed in black (nothing unusual there) but today was Junior Satanist Day, and I wore my Sigil of the Gateway proudly, shining for everyone to see. OK, it did go under the shirt at the doctor's office, but they already think I'm some sort of vampire and a freak (in other words, a pretty complete evaluation) and in case I need to go back for more physical therapy, I suppose I shouldn't frighten them too badly. But I'm a Goth, damn it. Goth as fuck. Gother than Thou. Even more Goth than Jesus. And this afteroon I had a moment of clarity about wanting everyone to see that I am so utterly different. Of course, not until after I made a fool of myself in front of some friends at work. My realization: You're trying too damn hard, son. I run into the same problem Sarah Vowell does in her story "American Goth" -- people just don't believe that this is me. Sure, I may dress the part, and read the right books, and sneer or pose, but underneath? The suburban nice kid stinks through like a gloriola underneath the graveyard rot and I can't hide it. And at 30, I'm getting the feeling that people are starting to wonder if this is a phase, or a mid-life crisis, or what. Well, actually, other people almost certainly don't think twice. I know that I'm projecting -- doubting myself that I can ever go home again, wherever "home" was for how I thought I looked like from the inside. But it's fun -- and sometimes satisfying -- to play devil worshipper. Frighten the horses and tease the straights. It's what the normals expect, anyway. I believe my response upon finally making it past the picket line/circus in front of the Mandarin Hotel sums it up best: "May our dark lord Cthulu swallow you all!" I said it out loud. I think I scared the woman in a power suit and sneakers walking next to me. I'm not kidding about the circus. This wasn't just a union picket line. It was like a teamster's rally, with the super deluxe version of the professional picketers who regularly stand in for union workers. (I call them "Los Ratones," not out of any negative judgement about labor, mind you, but because of the signs they carry with the rats on them, inditing management in English and Spanish.) In addition to pamphlets they were handing out helium balloons like it was a carnival; a giant inflatable rat flew overhead. As if they needed more to the spectacle, they had a mascot running around in a furry rat costume, waving on the shouting marchers, with police on hand in case things got ugly. I wrote this out to the roommate earlier and it still sounds like I'm high. But I swear it happened. Even Frank Chu was there. Ask him. Trying not to think about work, nor the meetings and changes our group is undergoing. Definitely not thinking about going on a client call to Southern California next week. Yuck. I haven't been there since I left. [Boy, that sounds blindingly obvious doesn't it?] I mean I haven't travelled south of San Jose since I left Santa Barbara to move here, and even that's not true. The last time I left -- and the time I left for real -- was one extremely scary weekend with an ex-boyfriend, where I realized that for a lot of reasons, I had made a good decision to go back home to the Bay Area. And all in all, this trip has been touted as a good thing for me to do. Now not only am I trying to scrape up the enthusiasm to even escape the racket of the air compressor outside my bedroom at 8:45 to shower and come into work, and also repress the vague nausea at doing the work requested of me, but I am also going to be asked to feign enthusiasm at crossing the state to play graphics expert in front of a client. Ok, maybe. But I will not be perky, nor will I wear a color. My secret shame du jour? Today I used the word "takeaway" in an ICQ message. Maybe I deserve be punished. But must it be Orange County?
2003-03-29 - Moving Notice |
