Dust Bowl
written by: Mack Twine
On a lazy day today, I didn’t have the energy or incentive to force myself to any form of strain; I did what needed to be done, some things regrettable and others unnecessary; being hungover is the bane of an easygoing life; I have no idea how Hemingway did it. I woke up this morning on a couch in Mt Eden, wrapped under a lumpy blanket with the sun streaming through a dew-bitten window above me. I yawned, sat still for a few seconds, and tried to figure out how dusty I was, then got up and checked my phone. 7:30, it was bloody early, but better to leave before having to reacquaint myself with whoever owned the flat, Brandon’s girlfriend. I’d seen Branson for the first time in years the week before at my 21st; we caught up and laughed maniacally in the thrill of drunk yarns, and he invited me out of the blue to another party. I didn’t think much of it; I remembered it, but thought it was unlikely to be followed up on. Recovering from my 21st was a two-day effort, and in the week after, I deleted Instagram in the interest of studying hard, treading water in the work I’m doing to try and stay at least in a position to get Bs. I was reminded of it again yesterday, didn’t think I’d go, and was ticked off at a lingering sore throat which had tickled the back of my tonsils all through my trip to the theatre. As I’d walked back to the train station, I had hacked and spluttered like a diseased dog, thinking the itch in my jugular was an infected hunk of phlegm that needed eviction. I harked so aggressively air blew out my eyesockets and made them run small tears, it was a terrible feeling, like a mossie bite inside that can never be scratched, the whole way on the train I’d stayed focused staring ahead and anticipating when I could get to my car and finally huck it up once and for all, picturing an almighty coagulation of vape juice, old food and green sticky gunk with the consistency of sandpaper and the smell of a shower drain. But no matter how I strained when in the driver’s seat, the itch was unscratchable, the lump unable to be dislodged from its comfortable place beneath the back of my tongue. On the drive home, I snorted and blew like a distressed walrus, shooting small slugs of clear snot clean onto my sweater and steering wheel, but they did little to relieve the feeling and only accentuated the air released from my eyelids, so I gave it up and longed for the warm embrace of bed, to rot and disintegrate into reels and a vape. On Instagram, I saw a three-day-old message from Brandon, ‘party starts at 8, be sweet to see you there’. Shit. That sounds like an obligation. I suppose I did promise that I’d make an appearance. I distracted myself all through dinner, deep in thought on anything but mostly the heaving debate between to go or not to go. There was no right answer, as always; I simply can’t make up my bloody mind when it comes to stupid things like this. I yanked myself out of this stupor, shut off my thoughts, and set my body in motion without anyone at the steering wheel, driving out to the liquor store and getting a 6-pack en route. Fuck it, alcohol might help de-germify my air passages anyway. The party was good, less nerve-wracking than I expected it to be because I refused to get bogged down in ridiculous swaths of paranoia and sensitivity. I had no expectations as I parked a few houses down and switched off my lights, phone, and vape, running low on battery; that reminds me that all my sleeping gear is still nestled in my backseat. I got there, got a bit drunk and then drank some more, and somehow ended up being in the last group of stragglers singing karaoke and freestyle rapping at 3 in the morning, me and Harry and a bunch of late twenties Mt Eden dwellers we’d never met before, I couldn’t take it seriously, it was a surreal moment, unique and unexplainable with just words, you can’t transmit the sounds and smells onto a computer screen, so I’ll give off doing a poor job at trying to. I spread out on the couch and tried to sleep, songs I didn’t know were being wailed at top volume 10 feet away from me, but at some point, I must have dozed off because I woke up several hours later. I met Brandon’s girlfriend once there, to ask for a vape charger, and that was all, and I doubt I’ll ever see her, or any of those people again, but so be it, it was fun. Got a pie on the way home, and was thankful to only feel the worst of the hangover start to creep in as I rounded the last few corners approaching the house. It gave me a small taste of that life of freedom, the life of the ‘moved out’ adulthood. I feel like I’m missing it, hunched up in my old room, plastered with posters from high school and earlier, toiling away, recording my escapades like no one’s ever been to a flat party before. The longer I stay here the younger I feel, it’s impossible not to feel like a kid when you rely on your parents to give you shelter every day, and there’s a fine line between saving money and sacrificing your life, not that being at home is that strenuous, it removes a lot of the stresses which would be eating up my time if I wasn’t here, the problem is I revert to my old mindset by environmental habit, the time I save not having to go shopping or pay rent is not spent any wiser, it just gives me more time to throw away on trivial habits and more money to spend on unnecessary things. I’m going to Japan in a few months; that’ll be a nice change of pace, but I’ve never even properly moved out of home before, so it’s somewhat daunting to jump straight into it halfway across the world. Both my parents had already moved out by my age; the embarrassing thing is that I’m not feasibly able to move out, unfortunately, unless I incur more debt on my already worrying loan. And all to move back anyway a few years after when I graduate, unless I slide straight into full-time work, but my irresponsible hopes of hippyesque travelling makes that a definite uncertainty, so what would the big rush be, I’d maybe go to a few more parties and be able to have breakfast for dinner when I felt like it, my life wouldn’t change that noticeably I doubt, if I was really dead set on embracing the student life I would have when I had the opportunity, but instead I wasted away and ate noodles alone on Friday nights and tortured myself with my own self-induced loneliness, I could have had all sorts of ridiculous adventures, instead I have a 9 month blot on my life, a time of negligible growth and development, and nothing really to show for it apart from some slightly above average grades which have now been swallowed and leveled out by my credit transfer. I remember I had far-out dreams of what uni life would be like: constant new people, unimaginable adventures, hookups and crazy friends, stuff of legend. I couldn’t really say one single thing I’ve done at uni that’s really been ‘legendary’, or life in general, which makes me sad. I am too conditioned to be cautious, and approach life like an introduction, a time of careful trial and error, rather than no holds barred exploration, which it is after all, we are all here on this bountiful planet with no purpose, no requirements, no mission apart from what we can discern by adventurous self education, what anyone has was achieved through effort, a marvellous social life isn’t just going to knock on my door, an amazing story won’t write itself while I get some extra sleep before a morning class, they all have to be experienced, every horrifically embarrassing, but legendary story ever told was in its conception a moment, a moment rich and probably fucking awful to live through at the time, a concoction of unpleasant emotions far more potent than I’ve experienced in many years, but which matured like a cheese but in reverse, to go from ponging, mouldy and unappealing to a lovely, creamy new smooth whole, sought after and sampled as a delicacy. Risk is a big element of this adventure; risk is the origin of all good stories. Unfortunately, nothing worth remembering really occurs in a safe, predictable environment, because there wouldn’t be any need to recount it if its undertaking was expected. The unexpected is what sticks, and of that I am frozen and paralysed in fear from embarking upon. I’ve had some embarrassing times, had some unforgettable mishaps as well as successes, those which begin as a choice, where you have no option but to take that deep breath and thrust that shaking foot forward onto what is hopefully solid ground. I’m conscious of getting old is all, this life that I dream of and think of as ‘one day’ is slipping away by the hour, and before I know it I will be too old, the time would have passed and will be my curtain call, and to have lived with so many regrets would not make for a painless death, no matter how healthy I am. To have lived and cried, always, I think, is preferable to have lived and said nothing at all.
