Austin City Limits
Because I'm too lazy to post this at stick_with_me.
A bit of a one-shot of fiction I'm working on for my dear beloved Jack Austin (that is, before he got revamped for The Red Mile).
There are two reasons why I can’t live in Indiana anymore: the familiar and the unfamiliar. Now, these things are opposites, yes? Two ways to describe something - it’s either one way or the other. I’m not about to tell you that something can be both familiar and unfamiliar at the same time, though I’m sure somebody will in some deep philosophical discussion about life or the universe or some other shit of the like. But what I will tell you is that it is a combination of things that fall in either category that have just about pushed me off the deep end.
So what does it mean if something is familiar? Well, in alphabetical order, you could say comfortable, common, household, proverbial, recognizable, routine, or well-known. These are all words to describe a feeling. But what all those things add up to more than anything is a lack of originality. I do what I’ve always done in the way I’ve always done it because routine and habit breed security in life, and they come from repetition. It’s routine to eat comfort foods found around the recognizable household areas of where ever the hell it is we call home.
Ah yes, home. The most comfortable, routine, secure place known to man. With exceptions made of course to families with a less than happy home life, home is a bubble of safety, a hug and a warm smile, and a welcome mat on the front stoop. But if that’s the case, can phrases like ‘home is where the heart is’ and ‘you can never go home again’ really be talking about the same place? Sure they can. Just give them some time.
I grew up in Syracuse, Indiana. Nobody’s ever heard of Syracuse, and there’s nothing especially remarkable about it - just a small town tucked between a zillion little lakes. People like to use words like “quaint” and “close-knit” to describe towns like Syracuse, but what they’re really trying to say is that everyone is caught up in the affairs of everybody else. The whole town applauds your victories and clucks their tongues at your failures. Constant scrutiny with a smile.
Now, I wasn’t always so jaded about my hometown. I think it’s just something that happens when you reach a certain age. Maybe it’s a rite of passage or something, like going through puberty or a young warrior’s first successful hunt. Young people are just predestined to roll their eyes at life in Small Town, U.S.A. But looking back early enough, back to when I was too young to care, my family found happiness.
My dad has been the proud owner and namesake of Austin’s Appliances for nearly thirty years now, and my mom has been a nurse at the hospital a half hour’s drive out of town.
A bit of a one-shot of fiction I'm working on for my dear beloved Jack Austin (that is, before he got revamped for The Red Mile).
There are two reasons why I can’t live in Indiana anymore: the familiar and the unfamiliar. Now, these things are opposites, yes? Two ways to describe something - it’s either one way or the other. I’m not about to tell you that something can be both familiar and unfamiliar at the same time, though I’m sure somebody will in some deep philosophical discussion about life or the universe or some other shit of the like. But what I will tell you is that it is a combination of things that fall in either category that have just about pushed me off the deep end.
So what does it mean if something is familiar? Well, in alphabetical order, you could say comfortable, common, household, proverbial, recognizable, routine, or well-known. These are all words to describe a feeling. But what all those things add up to more than anything is a lack of originality. I do what I’ve always done in the way I’ve always done it because routine and habit breed security in life, and they come from repetition. It’s routine to eat comfort foods found around the recognizable household areas of where ever the hell it is we call home.
Ah yes, home. The most comfortable, routine, secure place known to man. With exceptions made of course to families with a less than happy home life, home is a bubble of safety, a hug and a warm smile, and a welcome mat on the front stoop. But if that’s the case, can phrases like ‘home is where the heart is’ and ‘you can never go home again’ really be talking about the same place? Sure they can. Just give them some time.
I grew up in Syracuse, Indiana. Nobody’s ever heard of Syracuse, and there’s nothing especially remarkable about it - just a small town tucked between a zillion little lakes. People like to use words like “quaint” and “close-knit” to describe towns like Syracuse, but what they’re really trying to say is that everyone is caught up in the affairs of everybody else. The whole town applauds your victories and clucks their tongues at your failures. Constant scrutiny with a smile.
Now, I wasn’t always so jaded about my hometown. I think it’s just something that happens when you reach a certain age. Maybe it’s a rite of passage or something, like going through puberty or a young warrior’s first successful hunt. Young people are just predestined to roll their eyes at life in Small Town, U.S.A. But looking back early enough, back to when I was too young to care, my family found happiness.
My dad has been the proud owner and namesake of Austin’s Appliances for nearly thirty years now, and my mom has been a nurse at the hospital a half hour’s drive out of town.