Recently

I've done a bad job at keeping up to date. I have tried to remedy this a bit by buying matching journals for Marine and myself last month. She has done a better job than I.

When I first saw the notebooks at Poundland, the two in nice hardcovers and shrink wrapped together, the idea struck me. Two note books? Why, there's two of us! Ah-hee-hee!
"We are going to keep a journal of every day!" I told her excitedly, on returning home. "Even if it's just the weather. It's good for you... it'll be interesting later!"
"Later, when?" she asked.
"Later! For ourselves... or our grandchildren." I said all of this with confidence but had only read the idea sometime before and decided it sounded nice. If I could get Marine to do it then that meant we would both be pulled into it and she would make me do it. That's how things work when you're married.

She reluctantly agreed after some prodding and eventually she was doing better than me. Her whole book is almost full now, albeit with long, large, curling loopty-loops of cursive -- but it is full.

Myself? Not so much. I am trying though, because I think there is some sort of value in it. To look back and see your days are boring. To look back and find them interesting. To look back. Just that -- because I often find myself so at-odds with the person I once was, cursing myself and asking myself why, why I had done this or that.. something I couldn't imagine myself doing now. Why did I do what I did? I remember the events, but not necessarily the thinking. This could be a way to figure out why I hold so much resentment towards myself, not to mention others. Memories fade, but fortunately ink does it a lot slower. So I'm trying.

Our friends Jarrod and Tiffany visited in March. We were happy -- elated -- to have them in the area for the week, but I wasn't sure what we might get up to. Things are limited when you're broke and it's hard dealing with friends in that state. They are in vacation mode while you remain in broke-ass ghetto mode.

I started giving English lessons and for a good month or two I had a group of 3 Catalonians requesting classes nearly every day until they got jobs or otherwise, and with them went any money I was bringing into our household. Marine's always there and always on duty thank sweet Jesus. And fortunately, our friends have kind hearts as always, and they treated us to an Indian dinner among many other treats, so we could all enjoy ourselves. Gifts of the white trash variety were even brought (as per my request)  -- Velveeta cheese and Beef Jerky. Friends, food, beer? I was in heaven.

I've been moving all of my life, so you would think I'm used to the idea of saying goodbye and moving on... Even I think about it. Why I haven't become immune to saying those words to those I care about and love, why "goodbye" remains such a painful word.

The answer is simply because it doesn't really get easier, ever. Over time the feelings dull and perhaps you get used to the idea of the pain, but things never get better. They just are what they are. You try to find new friends but often ask yourself what the point is in the end, as you will undoubtedly be saying those words again to them as well. It was the same in my youth and now it is the same in my adult life.

I, of course, have the chance to change things now. I could try to live wherever I would like to. There are always drawbacks -- my life is here now, with my wife, where she is making her career. I have few friends. That is my fault. I have left a trail of them across the United States and into Europe and across to the UK. I have friends who love me and who will help me but no one to come running if needed. No shoulder to cry on. Sometimes I wonder if I would have had that if I stayed in one place. I know at heart I'm a nomad, but what have I missed because of it?

I still don't know. I have my wife, my ultimate best friend, the person to whom I am attached forever. Our bond is stronger because of my lack of friends,  I imagine.When Jarrod and Tiff left, after halving a box of wine with Tiff, of course I was in tears of sorts. Perhaps not huge snot-ball tears, but they were there. I wasn't sure why, though. I've dealt with this shit before! I had to ask myself again, Shouldn't it get easier over time? Why the hell is this hitting me now? It came out of nowhere, those cunting tears.

Seeing how life could be with friends around, hanging out, joking, spilling your guts over tough situations and getting good feedback, the type of stuff you need to keep yourself together -- all the things I miss and would love to have... a normal life... was all realized in one week seeing them again and then suddenly it was gone.

I don't regret travel. I just wish I could bring everyone with me. That'll never happen, and at least we have the internet, but it's not the same. And at the age of 29 finding new friends, the type you can trust to the end, feels almost impossible.

I don't think I will move back to the US despite having family there. I don't get along with half of them and I never got along with most of my countrymen in the south, at least. Where I belong is in limbo. It was how I was created and where I will remain. I just wish it were a lot easier.

The weather today is 36F, large snow flakes falling upon our faces when we walk here in Brixton. I woke up to the sound of my phone ringing for the second day in a row, at 8 am. Unknown number. I answered once only to find a female voice with a London accent asking Hello and if I was there. I hung up. My landlord wants back rent, I'm sure. Or maybe it's a job offer and I'm just too much of a coward to answer. My day is spent at the library reading, searching for jobs. I am hungry but don't want to eat. I'm tired but don't want to sleep. I'm thirsty, so I'm going to go have a beer.