I've been sweating for a week straight. The sweat is one part nerves and the other from the hot and humid wind that has blown since Aimee and I landed in Florida.
It's been nice to see old friends (see picture of dead rat in the Ron Jon's fountain) and visit with Aimee's family.
But, (cue the complaints) it has also been completely exhausting, as is most everything I do.
I viewed this trip as another chance, an opportunity to return, not only to my former home but to my former self.
I packed my journal, the one I haven't used in more than six months. I envisioned myself writing on the plane, possibly regain the desire to take another stab at writing fiction or at least trying to rewrite that poor attempt at a novel I finished a few years back. Most of all, I hoped to delete the thoughts in my head that play over and over again, the ones that focus on an old injury, the thoughts that prompt the excuses, the shitty reactions, the clenched fist at my jaw; all those familiar outbursts.
Today, I made the drive from Indialantic to Gainesville to see an old friend. And, tonight I will visit some of the places, most likely a bar that I frequented in the past, back when I worked so hard at trying to become a writer, or, at least, what I thought a writer should be. Until today the journal and the computer have had a home in my bag. Of course, I'm not surprised but am a bit disappointed.
It's funny, seven years after moving from here I return with a shaved head from male-pattern baldness and a large scar tracing the right side of my head, with the same objective that I had as a 26-year-old wannabe writer. I hope this attempt turns out better than the first.
