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Moving north
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I am returning home to Minnesota. I am leaving home behind in Texas. I tried this once before recently and changed my mind at the last moment. I will not change my mind this time. Events and circumstances of the last six months have left me unable or unwilling to move forward with my life while living with my father at his home on the Brazos River west of Fort Worth. My life has become so bifurcated that there is no way to move it along any path in one piece from anywhere in Texas and not feel as though I’ve left the bulk of what is best about me walking the streets of Minneapolis in my absence.
There is no point in trying to recapture some magic feeling I may have had when I first moved north five years ago. That sort of emotional froth is simply the bubbles on the surface and is ephemeral and fleeting at best under any conditions. I can have moments of true happiness wherever I happen to live, because those are simply predicated on circumstance and arise of their own accord whenever the fluid patterns arrange themselves for a moment to produce such a sensation. Babies sometimes smile just because they have gas, after all. The point is to do what I know is right for me and to trust that I am once again in the flow of things that resonate with the chords I strike.
There is no escape for me on my father’s farm. There is never a time when I am alone in the house for longer than it takes him to drive to the mailbox. There is never an hour when we are not in one another’s company. There is nothing I may do that does not involve his presence at some point. There is no project I may undertake that must not first be consulted upon and planned according to his inclinations. That is as it should be on his land and in his house. That is not, however, how I can live sanely as I approach my forty-second birthday. I retreat further and further in my own little world of booze, cigarettes, coffee and the internet. My headaches become more frequent, and my fuse is shorter and shorter. As badly as I feel about leaving him here alone, I feel worse about yelling at him; I cannot speak to my father that way and retain any self-respect. I also cannot continue to live on his nickel, doing work around the place that he would otherwise not bother with just to feel as if I’m being productive. I cannot read or write or keep to myself without purposely shutting him out, and that is hurtful for both of us. I have no way to pull up my drawbridge and spend time with myself so long as I live here. I have no control over my own life and no resources of my own. My father is a saint. He is the kindest, most principled man I have ever known. And yet I feel I am about to snap at times when I hear his footsteps approaching my bedroom door. I think I must be the very devil himself, and I feel worse and worse with each passing day. It is time to go.
I have a kind of hope and expectation that I have not felt in years. I also have anxieties, certainly. I have no job waiting for me up north, and there is a great mass of debt accumulated over the last five or six years that I still have to reduce and retire. I have taken a studio apartment in my old neighborhood that is relatively inexpensive for its location, only $400/month, and my regular bills should be fairly easy to maintain with whatever kind of work I manage to secure. I am leaving my pickup with Dad and riding public transportation in Minneapolis. That may limit my options career-wise somewhat, but it also greatly reduces my expenses and hassles. I enjoy riding the bus and the train, actually. My father is welcome to sell the truck if he likes, though I may return to get it if I have a windfall of some sort of manage to pull down a decent income and think it worthwhile to have wheels of my own available in the city. I rather look forward to being able to read during my commute once again, however.
Reading, writing, seeing bands and hanging out with friends who aren’t related to me or looking to me with only a mercenary interest – those are just some of the things I look forward to in the coming weeks. I have all of my books packed already. There ended up only being about thirty boxes, though the boxes are a bit larger than the ones I’ve packed in the past. I have about a dozen records I managed to take from the collection Matt and I accumulated over our time together, but I’ll pick up a couple every time I get a paycheck soon. Besides, I don’t even own a turntable. I suppose I’ll have to get one of those as well. No matter. I’ll have my books, my bike, my friends and the city to keep me entertained. I’m returning at the best time of year to be in Minneapolis. I’ll drive up with Dad and unload my books and belongings and then return immediately and catch the next plane north and be there in time to hit the Minnesota State Fair on my birthday. There are lots of shows to catch in the weeks to come. BRMC will play the Fine Line in September with Mark Gardner of Ride opening for them. Also in September is Xiu Xiu, and Devendra Banhart plays in October. There will be scores of basement shows and hardcore bands at the Triple Rock as well.
I have sent my resume off to a ton of places, but so far have no interviews lined up. I will keep plugging away at that, and hopefully I will have at least some appointments made before I arrive in town. I can pass a drug screen, and I’m qualified to work in most office environments with the skill-set I have acquired in the last ten years or so. I don’t care to work for commission again, and I doubt that I would be welcomed back at the recruiting business, though all those guys are still friends of mine. I have already left that job twice before, and my mind was elsewhere during most of the last six months I spent doing that work. So I am looking forward to finding something that pays a living wage and has some security and benefits and regular hours and a kind of routine I can plan the rest of my life around without being so dull that I spend all my time and money trying to forget what I do during the week. That actually is not too tall of an order to fill in my book. I remain optimistic. I will do just about anything at this point that does not require a hairnet or a funky polyester uniform.
This is not a geographic cure. Returning to Texas in February wasn’t either, really. I’m not running away from anything. I’m moving forward in a very determined way, and I’m pleased about that.
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