Tomorrow I am interviewing long-time LGBT activist Jerry Sloan for my final story (on the Lavender Library, you know you're all twiching in your pants), as my stint at Sac Press comes to it's rainbowed, climactic end. I'm pretty nervous, even as i type a script in a silly Word document, all the way down to "Thanks so much for taking time out of your day to talk with me, I really appreciate it."
I've been feeling impressively dirty as of late, most likely because since I don't have to waltz around the office, i dont feel the need to put on clothes, or shower. I drove halfway to trader joes before i realized i didn't bring shoes. There's a part in Capote's Bfast at Tiffany's where Holly, in a period of mourning her deceased brother, "forgets herself." She runs to the market in a trench and nothing underneath. I always thought, how did the narrator know? But in my case, I am assuming the WASPS buying organic breadcrumbs and Fage (pronounced FAH-YEH) greek yogurt may have taken notice.
In the final days of my current post-hygenic summer, I have also been sleeping fitfully. My inability to fall asleep until 4 am (my roommates will attest that this is kind of nothing new) has left the early hours of the morning open to thinking. But my favorite kind of thinking. The self-indulgent, sublime, problematic kind.
I met quite a few different people this summer, people I did not expect to meet. I know the masses of CA don't always associate our capitol with the radiant futuristic energy of a stigma-ed metropolis, but the riverside city, has been a nice, schorching hot place to have my ass sloppily put in line.
And then I re-met the people that I have always known. Important people who get pushed gently and arrogantly curbside when one takes to "finding themselves," as if yourself can be found in a 30 pack of natty light or that extra spiffy American Apparel purchase. It's been gratifying to marinate in the dichotomy that is my hometown's summer society. It's an odd and precocious group that you witness gathering at the bars, since my class turned 21. How can you not love a group, clad in their best cutoffs and Steve Madden wedges, drinking 2 for 5 margaritas in between chainsmoking marlboro 27s? I can't help but to fervently adore the uncomfortable sweat that pools in the small of my back because we sit outside in the 90 degree nighttime air. Don't act like you've forgotten, or that that kind of back sweat alludes you. You remember. Pledging faith to Leahry, Nietsche, or whatever revolution has learned you doesn't make you immune. I know you know, says the bouncer at the bar. Welcome home.
I love college. I love being surrounded by innovative, talented, wonderful people. I love the closeness to distinguished academic minds. I love how my roommate and I walk her dog all the way to the "oval office" at the edge of campus that has a great view of the ocean, and speculate which important brain occupies it. But this summer has taught me not to dismiss the reason I went to college. Because in some way, significant or not, unconscious or aware, willingly or drag-me-by-my-hair; home moves me.
And because I know home moves me, I move on.