So, I took some time to peek through this metaphorical back window and revisit a few snapshots of the last year or so. I suppose I completely forget I'm telling this story sometimes, for months at a time (and the last six months were no exception), only to return to find that everything is different now, even though nothing has really changed.
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Burnsville, Minnesota, is the quintessential suburb. If you live there, chances are you are probably one of three people: 1) a high-school mallrat; 2) a soccer mom or a hockey dad; or 3) somewhere in between without enough good sense to get out. Burnsville was purgatory. Being an upwardly mobile twenty-something in the middle of this wasteland made me feel like I was the only person on earth who still had a pulse. Luckily, I figured I would only have to stay until I could afford to move into my own place elsewhere. Unluckily, I found out pretty quickly that doing so wasn't something I would really be able to unless it was to another suburb just as desolate. At that point, I figured I would just melt into my surroundings until I became a part of the background much like an ice cube in a bucket of hot water. Perhaps I could fake it, and perhaps I could just learn to enjoy a trip to the mall or a chat with the neighbor about sports or their kids' athletic achievements. Perhaps it could be zen after all?
I spent a little over five months in Burnsville, Minnesota. During that period of time, I had to be Suburban. I had to think Suburban, I had to commute Suburban, I had to eat Suburban, I had to sleep Suburban, and I had to brush my teeth Suburban. I lived on a Suburban street in a Suburban neighborhood, and... well, I think I've sufficiently made my point. I couldn't pretend that it was in no way enriching, because being that isolated from the true human condition leaves you feeling pretty isolated from your own thoughts, and that starts a chain reaction of conscious redefinition of the self. Don't get me wrong - I was always the same guy. I still liked to gorge myself on ice cream even though I'm lactose intolerant. I continued to take my daily shower at night. I still had a lot of words to say. I complained a lot, but I found some distractions to allow my mind to wander back to its usual playgrounds every so often, and that was pleasant. Still, at the end of every day I went to bed alone. And by alone, I don't mean that I was the only person in my bed, but really that I was the only person in the universe.
***
So here we are, and we've come full circle. I'm a creature of eternal habits, so I suppose it should be unsurprising that one of my usual revelations (which, by the way, miraculously never feels any less significant, although I have it ALL the time) came back to me and hit me on the forehead. I made the mistake of writing a song with some pretty definite thoughts on being alone, and I feel like I have to hold myself to it, even though I highly suspect that at the time I wrote it, I was plagiarizing the the emotion. And that's fine, I bet 99% of all songs have disingenuous lyrics in them somewhere. But here was my anthem all the same: "I'm not lonely, I'm just alone." Truth be told, there's no such thing as either. Thing is, you don't have to be alone to be lonely, and when that happens, it is generally a much bigger issue. Sadly, that's where the last few months have found me. I used to get this feeling when I was with my ex-girlfriend, and I made the mistake of telling her so one night when I was particularly dissatisfied with our relationship. She probably lost her faith in everything I said from that point onward right then and there, because every time she laid down next to me, she figured I was right alongside her, when in reality I might as well have been on the far side of Jupiter's fourth moon. To make matters worse, the last few months, I only felt the pangs of loneliness while I was around other people.
Realizing you're getting lonely in the presence of your closest friends truly obviates a couple things for you. One, they're obviously not that close. Two, you really need to shake things up. At least, this was the conclusion I came to, so I set about to implement my plan in a two of phases. The first phase was a cleansing phase. I figured I'd just do my own thing, which was playing as much music as possible (though that's proven to be ineffective at just about everything except prolonging the time period before I solve my problems). Unfortunately, I ran out of gigs and I just couldn't manage to light a single spark. I think this was a blessing in disguise, however, because it afforded me the unique opportunity to get back in touch with myself a little, and I decided to buy a condo, which allowed me to move back into the city of Minneapolis, even though living in a building with other people wasn't really what I wanted to do. So I left my temporary landing pad in Burnsville, and here I am. In my new robot home. Again. And -- and I'm being totally honest here -- I'm finally starting to feel like I'm home.
... to be continued (The Second Phase) ...
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