If you are reading this on MySpace, or followed the tweet from Twitter, thank WordPress’ Socialite plugin. It sends out Tweets, it gives alerts, and in the case of MySpace lets me completely cross-post my blog entries. This level of laziness only took uh, oh god, two days of dawn to dusk tinkering? Two days, yeah. I had to update my WordPress, update my backend, make changes to configuration files I barely remembered existed and maybe sacrifice the odd chicken or two. If fucking PETA comes around asking, tell them it was a rubber chicken and flip them off just because. WordPress tosses out a few weird errors when I publish a post, but It Works. I can iron out the quirks later.
Fucking typical (Linux) geek mindset. Spend days tinkering and tweaking something to perfection for the sake of avoiding five minutes of copying, pasting and checking code.
But all this free time is courtesy of two things: Mariah is in Missouri, and I gave up my job purely through my own means. Over the last few months we’ve all gone from one lower notch after another, at least from where I stand. All of those feelings came to a head about four weeks ago when I tried to leave. I had given work notice, had my bags packed, money acquired and was just waiting for the right time to take the flight. Until Mariah noticed that I had a bunch of missed calls from my family in Ireland, checked my voicemail in case someone was dead, made the connection, and confronted me while I was in the shower.
O capricious fate!
This wasn’t my proudest moment, but we sat down, talked through it. Really talked, heart to heart, for what felt like the first time in months. We confronted ugly facts, proverbially held hands and maybe improved our marriage for the next thirty-odd hours.
At that point I lied to my family. I could bear to admit that after all that was said I was backing out of leaving and wanted to stay here, so I lied about why I wasn’t on the plane. I should have foreseen them panicking, making their own phone calls, calling in connections and stirring up a shitstorm out of fear that I was in danger. Ah well. They called here, words were said and everything came to light. I wound up hated, discredited and out of work. Some things improved over the next few weeks and now Mariah and I back to where we started. We bicker, upset each other on a daily basis, and occasionally have moments where we act like a couple in love again.
Where did it all go? Our love and passion and interest for and in each other has turned into (for me) stir-craziness. Wanderlust is a terrible beast. Outside of two trips to San Diego, a few day trips to Boulder City and Pahrump, and one trip out to St. George in Utah to shoot a wedding, all I’ve seen of the ten million-odd square kilometres of the United States of America are the four sides of the Las Vegas Valley. Gass Peak to the north, Frenchman Mountain to the east, La Madre Mountain to the west and Black Mountain away to the south. I have this horrible, burning urge to go anywhere, see anything, just so long as I’m moving. Any direction, any speed, as long as I’m going. It’s unfair to you, Mariah, but this is what has been pushing me. And I also know I’ve put us into a catch 22 bind: You will not move with me because I’m a flight risk, and I’m a flight risk because you will not move.
It runs in the males of my family. Dad always had to be walking somewhere. He was the only person who knew more about Galway city from the perspective of being on foot than I ever did, because I had to always walk too. I got up in the middle of last night and walked five or six miles just because it felt good. Frank is the same, but he finds his outlet in airshows. He’s always on a plane to an airshow or from one. He’ll tell you it’s for the planes.
Going to new places: It’s better than any alcohol, more of a addictive than World of Warcraft and more of a kick than sex. I’m a novelty-junkie.