Justin Achilli

A poem of immeasurable merit:

I have rocks in my yard.
There are bugs on my rocks.
Little rocks and big rocks,
Smooth rocks, rough rocks,
Rocks that my neighbor sees and says,
“Them’s throwin’ stones.”
My neighbor, authority on rocks.
I find rocks, collect them, put them in piles,
And knock the piles over.
Sometimes, I throw rocks at passing dogs.
But when it rains, the rocks get wet.
Wet rocks are not fun.
Come to think of it, any rock is
Not much fun.
How I hate rocks.

Yesterday, when I went running, I saw a hippie with a pig standing outside the park. He had the pig on a leash, and people gathered around to see the animal, which is certainly rare in the city.

What’s he going to do with that poor pig when the novelty wears off? Once he’s no longer, “Ooh, look! A pig!” and instead becomes, “Hey, it’s that pig guy again”? I feel sorry for that poor pig, all neglected and lonely in its shit once the hippie turns his attention back to weed.

I spent most of the holidays under a punishing melancholy, but not, I don’t think, for the standard holiday reasons. I’m sure the fleeting nature of the holiday and the usual post-Christmas disappointment contributed to it, but I think it went a little deeper.

In a few months time — 12 weeks, in fact — I’ll be leaving Atlanta to tart a new phase of life. It’s something I’m very excited about, but it also signifies a conclusion. I’ve been in Atlanta for 10 years, which is a third of my life, and those 10 years have been very formative. I’ve met wonderful people, made valuable friends, had significant life experiences, built a career, and on and on. Leaving draws that to a close. While it doesn’t invalidate any of those things, it does end several of them. In all honesty, I know I’m not going to remain in consistent contact with a lot of those friends, but I’m reluctant to call them “lost,” and I’m sure I will be equally as reluctant to do so later.

When I leave Atlanta, I’ll be returning to Dallas. That’s part of the melancholy, too. I don’t harbor any romantic illusions about the move. It’s not going to be some bittersweet journey home like Garden State, in which I find that whiny neediness is actually attractive. It’s primarily a pragmatic decision. Adding emotional gravity to it, however, is the fact that I spent so many years there before. I can’t help but have some degree of nostalgia regarding the city. It’s where my family lives. It’s where I made my first true, close friends.

Each time I look at either phase of my life, I can’t help but feel a sense of loss. With Atlanta, I’m leaving my modern, current life. With Dallas, I’m returning to something that’s not the same as when I left it previously.

That’s the point of contention. Things are different. I don’t know why the resonant response there is melancholy. Different can be growth or progress. Different can mean potential and opportunity. That’s certainly the case with what I’m seting out to do. So much of nostalgia, though, is tinted blue for me instead of rose.

Under the iron bridge we kissed
And although I ended up with sore lips
It just wasn’t like the old days anymore

That’s where I live: Planet Rule.

Here are some one-sentence synopses of the past few weeks’ events. You may recall that the past few weeks included Christmas and New Year’s.

• Parcells signed a two-year contract extension, which is awesome.

• Chad ended up with a busted ankle — an injury not, in fact, inflicted by me.

• Oscar is the mad humper.

• John Berendt’s The City of Falling Angels is a very enjoyable book.

• I didn’t get as much holiday gut as I thought I would, despite having a one-week diet of midnight corn dogs and pizza slices.

• Midnight corn dogs and pizza slices are crazy delicious.

• I’m champing at the bit to get moving on my new projects. Addled, even. All throughout Christmas, I was eager to spend my few spare hours furiously scribbling notes or putting new things in order. (I go home to Texas for Christmas and my schedule is packed full of seeing dudes I haven’t seen in a year or longer, plus the standard spread of family activity.) I’m ready. Now that the year has turned and I’m a precious handful of weeks — weeks! — away, I’m like a kid on a car trip. Am I there yet? No, not yet, but I can see it from the back seat window.

• That was longer than a sentence, but I don’t care.

• More and more substantial soon. Just getting back into my affairs here.