I have had most of the day to myself. Brian went to Norman for a haircut at 10:30 this morning, which was only half an hour after I got up. From there he went down to see his parents in Chickasha, and to change the oil in his car, and here it is almost six and I’ve had this whole day to myself.
This kind of alone time is good for me. I cleaned the house. I thought about what I would make for dinner tonight, since we are inviting a few people over for that.
Also, it gave me some time to surf the net. I uploaded some photos to Flickr, read my usual stuff, including my semi-regular stop at Billboard online, where I read this:
But before any new Train material takes shape, [Pat] Monahan [Train’s frontman] has been invited to Europe to co-write some songs for the next Tina Turner album. "I’ve been asked to write a little bit for her record," he says, adding with a laugh, "I don’t think I’ll see the legs, but the experience should be fun for me."
So to anyone who knows me it should be no surprise, my huge yen for Tina Turner. It’s always been there, and it always will be. Don’t ask me to explain it, because I can’t. In high school I was blasting Tina and europop, and just beginning to discover angry chick rock and folk music. No one who knew me in high school could ever say I was anything resembling anything close to cool.
It was a huge step for me to be open about this, because I was a dirty, disease-ridden whore for people’s opinions.
So I got to thinking today about what a person would see if they just saw the facts of me - it might paint a better picture than what actually exists. I did, after all, escape my home state of Oklahoma pretty much the second I turned 18, and for four years I spent living in North Carolina, and in Europe, and in New England, I more or less never looked back.
When I was in high school my counselors begged and pleaded with me to go to an in-state school. This is fine for some - it was great for most of my friends - but just did not work for me. I wanted out; I wanted to see what the world had to offer, and I thought that this might make me somehow better than the people in high school, because I really did just want to be better than all of them.
So I went off to a great school. I made some amazing friends who I am proud are still in my life today. I have a degree in religion and philosophy, and so when people get drunk and want to talk Nietzsche, I can do that. I could tell you exactly how to find the best beef and Guiness pie in all of Ireland and why you should avoid Brindisi, Italy at all costs. I got to take a class with Maya Angelou, for God’s sake. I was given an award or two for my writing. I got into Yale, and while at Yale I used to spend at least one day a week in New York, kinda just hanging out.
And then in December 2002 I was in Oklahoma again, because a guy had broken my heart, a window had slashed open my head and hands and knees, and four and a half years of paying for school had left me broke. I was depressed because of all of this, but also because I was vaguely afraid that moving home would mean that my adventures were at an end. I worried that I would never go back to school, or that I would never get to travel anywhere again. I worried that I would spend the rest of my life in the one place I had tried so hard to escape, and that thought filled me with this terrifying sadness.
So why did I come back at all, you ask? I came back because there were more people here who loved me than anywhere else. Despite our problems I have a wonderful family who care for me more than I deserve. I had friends who let me cry about everything that was wrong in my life. The fact that we have all been friends since the tenth grade or earlier, and we have never alienated each other, or held grudges, or stopped hanging on, though I had been away from them constantly for half a decade, was an anchor for me, and it still is. I met Brian here, and I love him more than I even understand.
See, I could easily get arrogant about the things I have done in my life, because I’ve done some really awesome stuff. And yet from moment one to this moment, I can say that none of that awesome stuff has made me what I am - a real person. I live in an uncool place, I hang with my high school friends, I listen to Tina Turner on occasion - mostly when I’m mowing the lawn, and all of that looks so bad on paper. And yet, I am happy with who I am, and the friends I hang out with are the best people I have ever known, anywhere I have been. My life rocks, here.
See, you can be mediocre anywhere, because being boring, or being an asshole - that’s not an issue of geography, or music, or clothes or coolness. I’ve known some boring-ass cool people who were assholes with glamorous lives.
I’ve said it before, but all the cool things I’ve done in my life aren’t what make me a good writer, or, for that matter, a good person. I have exactly the life I would choose for myself, really, and while my heart, and my insecurity, and my spirit are always a work in progress, it is here that I found the person I wanted to become. I have learned something, the tiniest little teaspoon, about compassion. That is what makes me a good writer, and a good person. It’s why I am still friends with the friends I have always had, and why I am able to define my life outside those stupid, empty terms that I once used.
Will I always stay here? I don’t know. It certainly would be difficult if, say, Brian and I ever wanted kids, which we don’t at the moment. But for right now, I love being here, and - just like with the Tina - I’m not asking anyone else to love it with me.
