06:19 - flight to Phoenix, a stopover on the long march back to the road. Plane's full of little bastards fidgeting about, doing their part to make sure the tension level doesn't drop too low. Airport was strangely aggro, from pulling up to the curb, to the ever present security shuffling and bumbling. Usually SD is more mellow, noteworthy for its refreshingly calm demeanor in the world of airline tedium.
Didn't sleep much, couple hours at best, stayed up too late getting the bags to just the right weight. The look that dominated the face of the lady at the counter when lifting them seemed to indicate that I got it right. Stomach is a mess, feels like a hand grenade in a subduction zone; good thing this flight came through with the aisle seat. At least there are some new tunes on the ipod, managed to snag some Satyricon and checking out Cage the Elephant. Usually the shit they play on the radio is miserable, but I'm digging this one so far. I'm sure most of the Norwegian stuff will get the digital axe. What happened to that band? Their early stuff was good, but all the newer stuff they played live was total garbage. Don't know if I'm getting pickier, or bands are sucking more.
Kinda bummed to leave So Cal again, some really good friends there. This break was a lame fuckaround though, not very productive, mostly gave in to vices and personal demons. Reaffirmed my severe lack of tact and relationship skills. Crom there are some righteous girls back home, probably better that I have to leave. At some point in life you start to realize what you're good at. Every mile from home nods in approval, I don't belong there, as much fun as it seems to stay a while. I suck at domesticated life; the little things everyone seem to take for granted grow into lingering, daunting impossibilities. Like a soldier or an inmate, institutionalized lifestyle has taken hold. You can feel when it's got you in its grip. Sometimes you fight it, but most often just relax into its rocky palms, rest your head on its shifting pillows of granite, and keep rolling. I'm good at traveling, working, and not looking back for too long. You have to be in this business, those who aren't don't last too long. I'm good at being gone, much better at it than being there, wherever that may happen to be. If you practice these things long enough your skills start to grow at an alarming pace. It seems to come naturally, and isn't easily shaken off. Each trip back home is a doleful reminder of what I'm just not cut out for, things probably better left safely outside my grasp.
Looking forward to getting back to work, getting back to what I know, what I'm actually good at. You say your goodbyes, and tell people that you'll miss them, but their lives keep going. They aren't the sort of wax museum you might like them to be, remaining motionless and immaculate until your imminent return. Only your memories remain constant and unwavering in the face of certain reality, somehow bittersweet enough in that amber glow to pervade your thoughts, and blindly hope against hope that things will be as they were, or how you might have liked them to be. Sooner or later reality always takes over; the grass may be greener over there, but it is, in fact, over there, not here. Better to get to work on your own little patch than to ruminate and plan fantasy voyages to some other little plot on the horizon back the way you came.
