in the shivering sweat
humidified
(the rains ate all the world)
they are screaming
(There was nothing left but them)
==
It is oppressively hot; it’s almost like the sun has changed its mind about its benevolence and is instead maniacally attempting to fry us humans off the face of the planet, or at least off the face of the concrete here in Asheville. The humidity has got to be somewhere around ninety, and a cunning combination of window-shutting, shutting doors, and turning on fans barely keeps the apartment tolerable, if by tolerable you don’t include a propensity for sweat-gland overload if you move anywhere (but it remains cooler by the window, sort of).
As for me, I’m sitting here, by the window, surprisingly, eating a lightly toasted plain bagel covered in fresh black bean hummus (open faced, of course), and listening to playlist on iTunes labeled “summer 2010” and is no way, whatsoever, autobiographical. I will not, for various reasons, talk about what songs are on there (not like it would matter, seeing as it is not, most emphatically, autobiographical).
The internet is gone again; either the phone company providing our lovely neighbors with their router are swindlers, incompetent, or the neighbors actively repel technology, but either way I have already sent a text (three hours ago) asking for it to be reset and received no response, confirming my suspicion that no one is home, and thus it could be a very long time until the internet returns, a source of no end of frustration and continued boredom on my part. (Holy cow, run on sentences. Dear reader, I apologize). I just finished reading Jitterbug Perfume, by Tom Robbins and was quite delighted by it, but I believe that may the extent of brain power I have available for the moment, due to a weekend packed with late nights, a remarkably messed up sleep schedule, and at least a gallon of coffee (I may be exaggerating slightly on that last, but not by much). I don’t feel really qualified to complain too much about my situation because it was all self-imposed, but nevertheless, since I can, I will probably do so anyway.
Bele Chere, meaning “Beautiful Living” in some old Scottish tongue (according to the brochures, that is), is nothing more or less than one giant energy suck (that was unkind – replace that with “street fair”) that takes Asheville by storm the last full weekend of July. In the case you are unaware, that would be this weekend, the one that just finished, or that will finish at roughly midnight tonight. Streets close, parking becomes a rare jewel, and thousands of people swarm the streets carrying the beer sold rather cheaply to anyone wearing a wristband, proving they were born after July 23rd, 1989 (which, unfortunately, does not include yours truly). Artists sit in tents and attempt to sell their wares to the sweating tourists, and children clutch funnel cakes and snow cones. Mr. Bojangles – or rather his restaurant - sells 32 oz sweet teas for $2 apiece, and Greek pitas and spanakopita abound. At all hours, at one of three stages, there are bands playing for their souls, and when the sun sets you can find oppressively large crowds gathered, all bobbing to the same beat, a phenomenon that I still find to be one of the most beautiful in the world.
Although at least fifteen – more like twenty – bands played during the weekend, I was only attendance at two, both at the Battery Park Stage, where multicolored lights spin across the stage and people hang over the edges of the parking deck and wave at the performers. On Friday night, it was “Yo Big Fat Momma’s Booty Band”, a jazzy rock kind of sound, and on Saturday, it was “Toubab Krewe”, a kind of African rock mix, or at least that’s what Mountain Xpress said; I just thought it was good music. I can’t describe music well. (I didn’t need to say that; you already knew). On both nights, I was by myself for the beginning and by the end had been joined by a certain friend named Raj and an old pal of his. Here is where I’ll have to split apart the nights, although they followed remarkably parallel paths – progressing from music to food to dancing – the places and times differ slightly (Though I suppose you hardly need all the details).
What the hell; on Friday we went to the Hookah Bar and then went dancing at Bobo’s Gallery, attracting a small crowd and earning adoration for our moves: on Saturday we just got organic nachos (yes, you can raise your eyebrows), a large cup of coffee (needed for a certain member of the group who had received a grand total of four hours of sleep the night previously due to a pressing need to be at work the following morning), and then went to Club 828. The Friend (for lack of a better term currently), who knows everyone in Asheville or so it seems, knew the DJ and thus we found ourselves on the stage, cutting several rugs, while the Friend made at least half the club fall in love with him, leaving me to be the gracious sidekick and swallow my pride (in showboating, the Friend is absolutely unmatched). Soaked in sweat while the prospect of yet another early morning called, I left the Friend to party on and returned home to sleep in the restless heat, waiting for the alarm to go off. Remarkably, the common theme of the weekend seemed to be dance; whether it be grooving in a large crowd of people, salsa-ing in the coffee shop, or in the club/bar.
(“We can dance until we die, you and I, we’ll stay young forever…”)
There is a reason coffee was invented, and I’m sure it has something to do with conquering the universe; I made it through both days (including today, which involved a meeting organized, I’m positive, for the sole purpose of repeating things we’ve been told previously and attempt something called discourse, stifled by everyone’s determination to go home), though it would not have been possible without a great amount of artificial energy coursing through my veins at all times. Upon arriving back at the apartment on Saturday afternoon, I slept for three full hours, and today, two, then decided that in order to continue to pay my respects to the night, I would drag myself from the bed. I have accomplished in getting a crick in my neck, but am still awake, so I consider this all a success.
I have spent the afternoon waiting hopelessly for the return of the internet, complaining about life, and staring at the walls. My services are currently be required as a hairdresser, seeing as my sister is dead set and determined to dye her hair, and who am I to deny her these pleasures. The week has been a melée of activity; I received my placement for my homestay and have yet to get about composing an e-mail in French to introduce myself. I also discovered that, in addition to rent coming up and a ravaged checking account thanks to a plane ticket to Denver, I have to afford a non-refundable housing deposit to the tune of 720 euros (900 dollars) by August 8th, which should be a bundle of roses and if I have five dollars to my name by the time it’s over, I will consider myself lucky.
Besides the usual wrestling with the unfortunate human invention known as money, I have been on the wavering edge of a meltdown, and while I would much prefer to not go into details for the privacy of the victims, I think it has very much to do with the impending act of starting all over again – again, for the second time in about three months, which rather gets in the way of things. I have the ability to, when I know there is nowhere else I should be, sink my roots into the places I am, make friends, meet people, generally get accustomed to the things around me. And I also tend to get remarkably stressed when I can’t place my head in the next place I will be – for example, in a foreign country in which I have never set foot. And on top of all that, leaving this time is a little different because of a slightly distressing/awesome reason. I expect it will be resolved one way or the other after the 800 pound gorilla in the room is addressed, and no, I don’t care to elaborate.
The other day, by the way, I was told by the universe, by way of a voice in my head that was rather sure of itself (I would prefer it if you did not stop reading here to call the insane asylum), that I am going to Paris to get lost.
I will leave you to meditate on that, and if you figure out what it means, please e-mail me or leave a comment. Also, if you want updates on when I post, which is erratically, I suggest you become a follower.
Until next time.
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