the Trouble with Nostalgia.
I say with some trepidation that I'm somewhat homesick for a place I didn't care for when I was young. Easton I've always described as a rough and tumble place, with an inexplicable colonial charm sharpened by its, at times rough exterior. The return to the place upon my graduation was awash with my typical misgivings. Is moving to a place that has a job market slightly better than the one you left a step in the right direction? Is this a place I actually want to stay for any prolonged period of time? Is it possible to find those meaningful aspects of my life there that I couldn't access in Purgatory? Is Thomas Wolfe right about not being able to go home again? Do I even own enough winter clothes after living in balmy Greenville for so long? And so I unpacked my things in that dusty, spartan attic and lived like Anne Frank for a few months. During this time I spent a great deal of my afternoons applying to jobs in hither and yon, coming up with barely a recognition, and wondering if at some point I had been rendered the sort of invisibility Ralph Ellison spoke of in his first novel. Gradually sinking into the sulky aspects of the lagging job market I thought it best to take up evenings sorting out my head, writing and developing my personal life in a way that I couldn't elsewhere. And so, I spent a considerable ammount of time alone at the nearest pub, drinking impressive imports and enjoying the occasional entree I couldn't technically afford. After a point I'd met many of my neighbors (the pub in question was an enjoyable 6 block stroll from the homestead), cozied up to half the bartenders- who after the first few months of summer, and a few weeks here and there last year - had begun to move past the typical standoffishness of Eastonians and regard me warmly. (Despite the whole "gay thing" as one of the cockier barkeeps refered to it as when we first met. This led to our first argument, and grudging mutual respect. I promtly informed him my drinking there had little to do with his not-so-winning personality and more to do with wanting to drink someplace within walking distance.) Its such an odd thing though, this nostalgia I feel for Easton's time old traditions and storied history. As a teenager I felt the place wild, and intimidating and sad...and to some degree that might be indicitive of Regan era poverty on the dying industrial regions of PA once thrived off of. A series of adult themed misadventures later, I had a handful of friends some borrowed, some new, some reconnecting from high school as though nothing had changed...a somewhat stable family routine in staying with my Sister and her boisterous, somewhat madcap toddlers. So the regimen consisted of job applications and light reading as the sun poured through the uncurtianed windows in my attic in the afternoons, and strutting down the steep hills towards the local pub on the odd evening the lack of purpose made me restless. Granted, this came at a stiff credit card bill eventually, but I wouldn't trade on it. Its actually rather grand to be able to insert yourself into a social network gradually and of your own volition. Out of mutual interest instead of lack of requisite partners. I think its the possibility of prospects that might charm me still. Greenville's been an exersise in being out of place, where Easton, I'm begining to realize, seems to feel the same fondness I've gradually gained for it. I'm looking forward to going back soon.