shrugging off malaise

Very tired, I sank back into the apartment. It doesn't feel like "mine" yet, and I'm not sure it ever will. I looked through jobs online, and in the paper, feeling like I'd raised the bar careerwise and anything I do now that's not teaching abroad will feel like backpedaling. Steve and I rearranged the apartment a bit, watched "The Incredibles" but counldn't finish it as sleep marched in to claim us.

The next day I spent most of the morning job searching, getting discouraged. Why does Ohio have a special Ohio-only certificate that you need to have for the privilege of teaching in Ohio? I set out with backpack slung, to begin the process of dropping off applications at various places. It always feels degrading: writing down a summed-up version of your life with accompanying dates, reasons for leaving, "references"; it's all so prying and cold like you were asked to list the names of all the girls you'd slept with, list your "duties" in the relationship, why it didn't work out, etc.

The weather had finally broken and though I was glad for the drop in temperature, the rain was a bit depressing. That old overcast canvas had thrown itself over the blue with careless abandon, pushing its way bullylike through the meteorological lunchline "My turn, my turn! Me first!" Empty sigh. I went to Meck's and talked up the crew that remained since I left. Apparently Tom had been making many changes since taking over from Chris, one of which is the illegal practice of making people tip him out when he acts as bartender or host. Since he is the employer, none of the tips should go to him, no matter what job title he's applied to himself to save money on a manager. The energy was bad, stagnant. I felt the frustration of the servers to be in that position, and their lack of rocking the boat to save their jobs. Did I really want to put myself into this? I didn't decide, just walked out again, down to Ludlow.

I dropped an app at the Cactus Pear, which had a much better energy, parlayed some of my guanxi through knowing Rick. I traded some Spanish with the manager, which got a smile out of him. And who knows, that smile combined with knowing Rick, may snowball into a position there. I went through the Asian market, just to see some familiar snacks and such, but didn't really find them. I didn't use any Mandarin for fear that the lady spoke Cantonese.

I ran into Shanon on the way down, so we walked together and she asked about China and I asked about her forthcoming baby. We had some coffee in Sitwell's, her treat as I still had the last $100 to break. She told me Habanero was hiring, so on a whim and because I know Matt there (more guanxi) I dropped an app. I walked across the street to the Roanoke, went into my old apartment, wandered each room, sat on the edge of the bathtub for a bit. All the memories of that old place: Bruce, Elise and I having Indian battles on the lawn, drinking Rolling Rock on the porch in summer and the winter times when Bruce and I were so destitute we drank Triple Sec and water (ghetto lemonade), the songs recorded in that place: the four "lino" demos and all the SMRT/heterobot tunes, the after parties I had where everyone was cozily squeezed in, and the many hours of bliss I had in the bathtub with the hookah and Massive Attack on the hi-fi. I felt the urge but couldn't quite cry, surveying the empty walls that used to contain my energy, my belongings, my essence. Some remained, but it was like a bleached photograph, you can tell a smile occured, but it's so obscured and distant you can't share in it anymore.

I walked back up the hill to the apartment, scoured the internet for jobs. Steve got back, and Sara Jett stopped by with stuff for us. She heads to New York on Sunday. We ate at Pomodori's and I had proscuitto and fig pizza, one of my favorites, but this time it didn't garf my funkel. It just was stuff on bread whereas, my body craved fruits and vegetables, a healthy habit picked up from China.

We dropped Steve off, swung by Gabe's to give him some boxes. He offered me his old computer at a bargain price and I told him I accepted, although I'd have to start making money again to pay him. Down the street, some black youths were kicking the shit out of another black youth, all wearing the blank white T-shirts like uniforms. As Ross phoned the police, we saw them take the kid's shoes. Ugliness. We drove by quickly, fearing getting shot, and Sara called the police herself hoping it would speed up the process.

She was visibly upset, having been carjacked before while two police officers were less than a block away eating ice cream at UDF. We tried to lose ourselves in the incredible sunset as we headed down to Ludlow and into the Esquire to see "Me and You and Everyone We Know," a film both quirky and honest, disquietingly funny like something Todd Solondz would have written on pot brownies.

Afterwards, Sara took me to meet Steve at Jacob's. I sang "Allentown," "Killer Queen," and "Things Can Only Get Better," and Steve busted out "Pepper," "Cornflake Girl," and "The Final Cut," the last giving us all chills. I had never heard it before, but the last lines were so solidly fragile and human, it's impossible not to be moved by it. We also decided on a band name: "Not Delicious." We have Dozen to thank for that.

We headed out, watched the rest of "The Incredibles," turned in.