Comfest is this week. I'll try and be there.
Roadblocks:
1. No more bike, must take bus or hoof it.
-will totally eat ribs to celebrate hoofing it.
-limited benefit to health in hoofing it.
-will probably end up shitting in a portajohn, or in some other awesome public place if I hoof it.
-taking the bus.
-sweating/ covering other people in my sweat/ exchange of sweat, w/o sex fluid exchange is a bit of a let down. maybe next year they'll have a bus and an orgy bus, which i will never, ever ride, but maybe they can use the proceeds from the orgy bus to turbocharge the AC on the mundane bus.
2. Comfest is the site where, two years ago, Sara began this tradition of changing posture, avoiding eye contact, or steering herself off in another direction altogether to stay away from geographies that'd necessitate a conversation with me.
It makes my heart race every time it happens.
In that two year lull since I've moved in with Brian and Bean, and now that I'm moving out, I've talked with Sara once. Bean and she were going to a show and there was conversation about her family, her new tattoo, et cetera. I was directly addressed.
"and now my sister's on MySpace," she said, "and you should see these pictures, Elliot. It's scary. I'm not ready for my sister to be a hussy."
Immediately after she left with Brian to meet some guy by the airport, it occured to me I should have said something like "fuck you, if you see me walking down the street you cross it so you don't have to talk to me, and I'm not going maintain this charade in the interest of our mutual friends," but I didn't. It also occurred to me that I could have said "gee, your mom must really hate the internet considering how its absorbed your brother and your sister." But I usually want to follow that up with some comment about hero worship.
Instead, I just said "uh huh" and acted like I wish interested in a video game or something on my laptop.
Admittedly, I became a little helpless at points. I was left in a house with two dogs and I didn't deal with it at all. I projected. Our roommate had a friend that was a kleptomaniac, and I subsequently didn't trust the rest of them. I projected that too. I didn't like her boyfriends, and suspected she'd been doing the same drugs as my dad when she didn't come home for days at a time. If Freudian psychology is detectable under some sort of special lamp, Sara would have been lit up like a pubescent boys bedspread.
I'll also admit that, after two years, I can see how things haven't cooled. In the midst of this moving thing, I've called Sara twice, bringing my attempts to contact her up to two in the course of a year. And then there was the "I need my W-2" call which ended up being delivered covertly when our old roommate didn't know where it was.
Maybe I'm just picking a scab.
That said, look at this: I sent her a text message asking if she knew what our old landlord's contact information. I never got a reply. And then when I left a voicemail asking if she still had a table I'd left behind, and I got a text message back:
Im not a storage facilityto
be used at your
convenience. Please quit
contacting me. It upsets
me. Thanks.
So I guess that's the end of that. When someone postures...hemm... when someone tells you that it makes them feel bad to hear you voice instead of just saying "no, i don't have your table, don't call me," you realize you've exhausted to possible emotional experiences from that person.
Maybe going to Comfest is a step/the first step in the long labor of moving on. I'll buy that. I could just bring that big brimmed hat I have and a grocery bag, because that hat can't get wet.
Who's playing tonight?
