Dove the fuck sono?

I am back in the United States of America. More specifically, Philadelphia.

There are many things I could say right now, but I'll limit myself to a few.

I spent the week searching for jobs and laying low, trying to save money. Tuesday I went into the city to say hey to a few people, but the rest of the week I stayed at home, doing nothing. Watching movies on my grandmother's On Demand, drinking whatever booze I stumbled across in my grandmother's house, returning emails, feeling helpless. I read a bit. I started three different books, and put all of them down after 50 pages. I downloaded music, most of which got one listen before being allocated to the trash bin of shit that will never inspire me. I drove around the suburbs in my grandmother's Altima, looking to see if there was a single decent place within a 20 mile radius to meet people. I spent a lot of time online, looking for jobs or cruising the various social networking cites I waste more of my time on than I'd care to admit.

The night I left Jim rode with me to Termini Station to see me off. I had all of my possessions either on my back or in my hands. We sat at a table in the McDonald's downstairs at Termini and tried not to fall asleep. I had no money, neither did Jim. I was grateful that he came with me, but at the same time felt like a burden. Though the last train left late, and Jim told me he'd stay with me until I left, I took an early one, at around 9pm. There was no tear-jerking goodbye or anything, just a "See ya later," and then off we were--me to my Grandmother's frigid basement, department stores, expensive gas and no public trans, and the cold Philadelphia winter. Jim to our tiny flat, no work, a language he didn't speak, and a rapidly diminishing income. We'd spent the past 8 weeks almost exclusively in each other's company, without one argument. An impressive feat for someone who can barely spend 5 minutes in some people's presence without losing his fucking mind. For some reason Jim and I never really hung out in Philly. Every now and then we'd see each other, but mostly we stuck to our own circles. After settling into the train (without a ticket, since I'm a maniac), I wondered why.

I had a bottle of wine and a pocket full of chocolates with me for my long night at the airport alone. I thought about asking two American girls I saw if they wanted to share them with me, but after listening to their conversation for 10 minutes decided I'd rather fly solo (no pun intended). I drank a little wine and tried to write in my journal before grabbing all of my luggage and going outside to smoke. If it weren't for all the stuff I was carrying, perhaps it would have been cold outside, but with all the exertion I was forced into, the cold air was comforting. Across the street was a giant neon screen showing commercials. I looked up at it for a moment. The commercial was for Philadelphia. How appropriate. That was the moment I started to look forward to coming home.

I didn't sleep on either of my flights, though I did drink another bottle of wine, a Bloody Mary, and a beer. Carolyn managed to make it out of her house to come and pick me up with her friend Linda driving. Being back in Philly felt like being back in my childhood home would have felt if visiting it after other people had been living in it for a while. Something was off. The furniture was rearranged, the wallpaper was different, the carpet new. But mostly it was the smell. The smell of foreignness in a place so familiar. I'm sure the origin of that untraceable scent hasn't changed since I first arrived in Philadelphia in August of 2003, but I had grown accustomed to it while living there. Returning was like learning to walk again, except not as dramatic (I have a tendency to go for the melodramatic after a few glasses of vino, which I have, so please excuse me).

I'm currently listening to "I'm So Lonesome I Could Cry" by Hank Williams. How appropriate.

As I said earlier, I spent most of my week hunkered down in my grandmother's basement, in the suburbs. The weekend came around though and I went into the city, damn your eyes. I saw my friends and had a good time, but 7 months separation has created a strange gap. I've grown too much in the past 7 months, and falling back into my old role felt artificial, but expected from many people. Most of my friends have moved on in life as well. Many of my friends have just gotten into long term relationships, or just come out of them. People have jobs now. Real ones. Either that or they're still in the same job they've been in for years. Either people seem to have moved on much farther than I have, or I've moved on much further than they have. It's a strange sensation, being in the middle of transition.

In my monastic solitude, in my comfortable little bungalow in Carolyn's basement, I'm led back towards the inevitable self-reflections which led to me fleeing this country in the first place. I haven't put any serious thought into what I want to be doing in five years from now since I left Philadelphia. Now that I'm back, I want that fleece pulled back over my eyes. Life in Italy is simpler because it's more complicated. I need to procure food, learn how to communicate, not get lost. Make money. Here I am taken care of to a certain extent by my Grandmother, or I have the option of going home to Alabama to live with my parents for a bit if shit gets too fucked up. But in Italy, those options are taken away. I'm more focused on survival. Therefore the world has a new dimension. In short, I want to go back.

I really shouldn't be writing all of this, because it would appear, strange as this may sound, that people actually read this thing occasionally. Even more strangely, they misinterpret it. Perhaps this is because the two incidents where either our sarcasm, dry wit, or general sardonic utterances have been misunderstood, have been because the readers did not speak English as a native language. But what about those who do?

I guess it is something that people should look at and see as nothing more than the disgruntled writing of two sexually frustrated, post college twenty-somethings with too much time on their hands, and then they should move on. My opinions change with every bowel movement-- something I see as a strength, where others see a lack of backbone. Fuck em either way. I'm happy deep down. Just anxious. About my life, the world, my friends and family. Shit. You know?

This blog isn't making any damn sense. It's time for another good idea/bad idea. Good idea: writing a blog for all of your friends. Bad idea: writing a blog for all of your friends after raiding your grandmother's liquor cabinet.

I have watched "The Departed" twice in two days. That was my joke for the blog.

A thought that I have been having lately is that one day America will collapse. This isn't a new thought or idea. But what I find interesting about dwelling on what will happen, is the art that will come out of it. Sounds strange, I know, but if we think about the available materials, diets, ideas-- all that shit that makes a civilization-- after trade routes are dismantled, after millionaires are forced to beg on the streets, then we will be forced to live off of America alone yet again. Give it a thousand years and perhaps this Dark Age will settle and leave a new, distinctly American form of art, music, architecture, food, etc. A simple example: the Romans have always relied upon Travertine as a building material, and it has shaped what they're capable of (it's durability, color, abundance, etc.), and how their civilization looks. What equivalent does America have? Will America become like Europe? Europe was all once the Roman Empire. Will America be divided up into smaller countries, each with their own derivative English language? Will the Midwest have a language that is to English what French is to Latin? How will their civilization be structured?

These questions are conundrums that keep me occupied through the droll hours in the basement.