Drunk and Blogging

Okay, I'm drunk. I freely admit it. And now I'm going to treat us all to a lot of drunken meandering about my evening and what it all means.

I was sick all day with that odd hangover-like thing I get sometimes about 10 days before my period. Nausea, sore throat, dizziness, low fever. Fuck that shit, I went on downtown to Bele Chere: because my man, or one of my men, John Hiatt was playing. It was really great and I got some good pictures and tried desperately to audio blog but it's damn near impossible if you can't hear the prompts and well, whatever. I love the man and he played Cry Love, which is the song that got me through my divorce from M's father, and then the crowds got to be too much for me (I can't handle it if I can't see an exit that I can clearly get to, and that counts for outdoor festivals too, thanks) so I left.

And then all was golden, and I met my friend D at the VIP tent and hung out there drinking free beer, leaning over the fence and counting mullets, teen mothers and white dreads for a while. Left that, got some red curry at the Doc Cheys tent and walked through the festival eating my curry with chopsticks and feeling really terrifyingly cool. Drove on over to the Westville. Got a beer at the bar, sauntered out and saw

G, the guy I had a one night stand with on St. Patrick's Day. Sitting with another G, this artist I know from the museum. I was still very cool so I sat down - they were all happy to see me and shit, yeah real happy - and then other friends showed up. So we drank a bunch of beer. Well, me and my friends did, because after that, G didn't acknowledge my existence all night.

So okay. It was good mostly and jesus, fucking awful also. I ran into this guy I know a little, who I see about twice or maybe three times a year, and we always get into these massive intellectual new age oddity conversations. He made a bit of a play for me a while back and I politely put him off. Tonight, ignored completely by G the ONS boy I said, "hey, why don't you call me sometime?" And he politely but firmly said, "No." Well he said some things about, well, we see each other enough here at the bar and I'm very busy and well, honey, no."

Great. Jesus, it's fucking impossible, you know?

So I sat back down with my friends and G-one-night-stand-boy who has this whole time ignored me in favor of an extremely drunken and increasingly senseless argument about the virtues of the self taught artist versus the trained variety. I tried to talk to them and that was an exercise in complete futility. They were very drunk but also G-one-night-stand-boy really wouldn't hear me. It was like I just wasn't there. At least the other G acknowledged my existence.

I don't really think it's asking too much for someone you've slept with to acknowledge your existence. Maybe I'm old fashioned. Maybe I'm a fucking fool.

So instead I talked to D about the weird feeling that you get when you go back to your ancestral lands. We've both been to Ireland and he's soon taking his son there - we know that odd, unsettling click that your soul or DNA makes when it hits that previously unknown home ground. We tried to explain it to J. Now if I ever get a million dollars I know one thing: I'm taking J to Poland. So she will know. Which is worthy of it's own entire blog post, becuase it is strange and beautiful.

Meanwhile, you know, what the fuck? I slept with this guy and we had what I thought was a meaningful encounter? Okay, more than once. Like, four times. And all good.

And let's face it. I just dumped somebody after date #1 because I saw huge trouble ahead, and because, I guess, I'm not interested in guys who are interested in me. All three of them. It hurts sometimes to be so goddamn alone. I walked all night through Bele Chere alone, I got there alone, I left alone, I went alone to the pub, I left alone, I do everything alone. Which is okay, I like being alone. I do alone well. I'm happy there - I don't even like having people around that much.

But I would like to try again, someday, having somebody around.