Home
I’ve once again fallen in love with my head.
I suppose I should backtrack a bit. Yes, my head and I had a bit of a falling out. My thoughts and worries and concerns piled atop each other in the weird little crannies in my head. These little malignant fuckers joined forces with a new quarter at school, which caused me to care about things I don’t really care about. This faux care filled the space that my idiosyncratic tendencies did not. My heavy mind started to become my downfall. There were many nights when I spent hours staring at screens filled with psychoanalytic babble, trying to figure out what was wrong with my head and why I was so damn unhappy.
But thankfully June came and went and the critical mass alert I heard ringing through the dark crevasses in my cranium faded. Once my stress level went down, some of the Tetris Stacked Piles of Panic and Doom just sort of puffed away into non-existence. Then I started balancing my life out by spending time with friends and being outside and started seriously running. Finally, the Sisyphean task of keeping my mind functional disappeared.
Taking the place of worry and concern is my latest obsession with a place called home: What is it? What does it look like? How does it make me feel? Who is invited in? Where is this mythical place even at?
While I may not know the answers to these questions, it is a fun thing to think about. Knowing that I will be homeless in a few months is most definitely the catalyst, but by no means the only reason why this is ballooning in importance. At the end of August, I’ll be shoving all my piece-of-shit, hand-me-down possessions into a dank and smelly storage unit, giving up my apartment, and moving to Denmark for three and a half months. Upon my return to the wintery and dark Seattle, I’ll have to find a new home. Or “home,” rather.
The dilemma is that I’m not sure I have a home, even when I have a roof over my head. I don’t have the luxury of having all the people I love in one area. Instead, they are cast across the land like wildflower seeds. I don’t ABSOLUTELY ORGASMICALLY LOVE a single city. I find myself happily floating around wherever I have landed in the last ten years (Portland, Northern California, etc.). And since it looks like I’ll be graduating next year, I can even entertain the idea of leaving Seattle.
So what does it take to call a place home? Can you get those butterflies for an area like you get when you kiss someone, with your body telling you to pay attention because this particular city is really awesome? Or is it more like a bus stop, where you get off at the closest place that is convenient, without emotion or feelings entering the picture?
All I know is that my feet are getting a little weary and my heart is growing a bit long. It feels like it is time to find home.
4 Responses to “Home”
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although there are lots of cities in which i could live reasonably happily, i can say honestly that i DO get that butterfly in the stomach, nervous, excited, thrilled sensation about san francisco and thus ultimately plan to migrate there. i first visited ~12 years ago and immediately loved it. since then i’ve gone back every year and always feel the same. granted visiting is nothing like living in a place, so who knows if that feeling would end.
There’s much that I have to say about the particular topic of home, and I will begin that in a sec. First, though, I want to comment on the beauty of the language you have chosen in this particular post, words like idiosyncratic tendencies, Sisyphean task (Sisyphus was one righteous dude) and Tetris Stacked Piles of Panic and Doom. Good god, lady! That was almost orgasmic. Why? Well, I blame the first sentence of the post. Here I was reading, expecting some sort of sisterly bonding, since I happen to fall in love with my head (my own, and occasionally that of funky-cool glasses-wearing, hottie teachery nerds). In any case, on to the topic at hand…
Having lived in another country for many years (dang, I was born in another country!) and not having been the primary person in choosing to live in the States, I’ve felt, over the years, a little conflicted when thinking of home. For many years, home was Italy, the US just a place where I lived with my parents (mom most of the time) and where I went to school. By the time I finished my graduate degree, my skill set and my abilities were tied, inexorably, to living in the States (well, New York really) and I remember thinking that what I do for a living cannot be possibly done anywhere else; well, Italy. I still think that to a certain degree…and maybe my profession has tied me here, or maybe more important reasons such as feeling that I can and am capable of being and doing anything. A sense of individuality. A sense of acceptance for who I am. A sense that the possibilities are endless. That is what home is, to a certain degree. If you find the place where you fit, whatever that fit may be, that is home too.
@Kim - SF is a very lovely city. I can definitely see you there. For me, I feel a bit claustrophobic, but it was awesome living so close to the energy when I was in Sonoma County. I do love Oakland quite a bit too.
@Ro - Thank you for the kind words. And I can’t even imagine how this dilemma would be compounded with a nationality struggle as well. Particularly when Italy has a certain allure and appeal that the US definitely lacks. Education and job opportunities can certainly be geographic, but I’d like to think that your skillset and your wisdom could cross any border. But I might be projecting, as I hope that whatever I learn can be applied in different countries as well. Since you and I are into similar things, I guess I’m holding on to my naiveté.
Hold on! Hold on! Hold on to the naivite…Yes, our (notice the plural pronoun there) skillset is applicable pretty much anywhere…save for Italy. Italy, as much as I love the country dearly, has a peculiar modus operandi when it comes to giving jobs (as jobs could actually be given). Italians, unfortunately do not understand the word meritocracy, much less its deep ramifications. They also, by default, do not understand the word part-time and much less the concept of multi tasking. Italians are hired in a job and stay there their whole life. It is said that the working class in Italy is averaging the ages of 50-55. I don’t want to break any dreams, it may very well be that a job could be found in Italy, a career? Not so much.