For the last couple of days, I’ve walking around my town wondering what has changed since I last saw everything around eighteen months ago. And not a whole lot either. The city centre has more stores that lay abandoned and empty, unable to secure new tenants. I recognise too many faces, on the street and in supermarkets. And it’s already my fourth day here and I’ve more or less run out of things to see. So right now, I see no better excuse to get wasted and blur through the next couple of days. There are no good places to read or drink in my opinion in this town, no independent bookstores, and no hole-in-the-wall bars that cater to the dwindling youth population.
This town still feels like it’s filled with the walking dead. Everyday has begun to feel the same again. I wander around air-conditioned malls, wondering what the fuck I’m going to do next. I spent the better part of eight years already doing this. And fortunately for me, my stay is temporary. Part of my mission here was to sort through some of my crap. About a third of what my parents kept in the house is set to be jetsam, given to some welfare group or friends.
I have a meeting about the last issue of Bizoo on Sunday. And it’s something that’s occupying the creative space in my skull as I attempt to work with some unruly ink wielded by spastic hands. I’ve also begun on working a website for the venture. In the end, it will contain five years worth of articles. Since it’s a wordpress thing, it’s really a matter of making sure the theme works with its tweaks and getting the layout and the look and feel right. Still it’s something that relaxes me somewhat.
I met up a friend of mine, Sam, who was one of the few people to give me criticism over the years concerning my writing. Somebody had mentioned that I had changed… and for some reason it irks me. I knew that I had. I guess they just didn’t have to point it out.
Well it’s been a week. I tidied up a bit and started packing for more of my stuff to be shipped down. Going through all of this has made me wonder why I didn’t have slightly more negligent parents who just sold all of my stuff in the first place. Save me the trouble of going through it. Feels like I’ve been sorting through the effects of a dead man. Leftovers from another time and another life. Things that though precious at one time, now no longer really matter, seeing as I was without them for so long. The books and clothes will end up in welfare I think. I’m not expecting money for these things. Even though I consider its all worth a small fortune.
I really haven’t written anything either. Which is very bad. Welcome to the Vampire Hours.