Writer's Block: Home is...
That's not an easy question for me to answer. Nowhere? Everywhere? Home, I mean my real home, the place I grew up, from at least my early teens was one of the least comfortable places I've ever known. Anyway, when I go back there now, it holds a certain nostalgia, but it certainly doesn't feel like home. The people who were there were vicious to me, and the people who've taken their place since I've been gone just haven't had their chance yet. Everything has changed. They've torn down everything good and built something expensive in its place. The people have changed. Most importantly, I guess, I've changed.
After awhile, you get used to being a foreigner. To all of your friends, all of your acquaintances, you're 'The Foreigner'. You're not 'home', at least not in the way most people would describe it, but you're in a comfortable un-home.
When you go home, you're supposed to feel 'at home' and there's no where on earth that feels less like home than the place I should call home. As a result, I never feel more empty, more sick, more homesick than I do when I go home. I go with a sense of foreboding, when I'm there, I'm angry, resentful, and sad. I'm morose and nostalgic in a melancholy way. When I leave, I feel as though I've been poisoned. Like Superman shaking off kryptonite exposure or recovering from the world's worst hangover.
So where is home? I guess it really is where my hat is, where my heart is. It's the place where I stash my stuff and where my MSU and polliwogs hang out. In a macro-way, there are places where I feel really good. Oddly enough, Reno NV. feels okay. Bormes-les-Mimosas feels like a place I'd be happy to be buried one day if I can ever afford it. Washington D.C., although I only spent a week there, seemed like a very nice place to live, and I have the fondest memories of Upstate NY, especially Lake Ontario around Henderson Harbor.
I'd love to find a place to plant my roots but I'm not done looking. I think I have a subconscious fear that this game is a giant game of musical chairs and just like when I was a pre-schooler, I'm going to find that when the music stops, there's no place left for my butt and I have to go stand in the corner.
After awhile, you get used to being a foreigner. To all of your friends, all of your acquaintances, you're 'The Foreigner'. You're not 'home', at least not in the way most people would describe it, but you're in a comfortable un-home.
When you go home, you're supposed to feel 'at home' and there's no where on earth that feels less like home than the place I should call home. As a result, I never feel more empty, more sick, more homesick than I do when I go home. I go with a sense of foreboding, when I'm there, I'm angry, resentful, and sad. I'm morose and nostalgic in a melancholy way. When I leave, I feel as though I've been poisoned. Like Superman shaking off kryptonite exposure or recovering from the world's worst hangover.
So where is home? I guess it really is where my hat is, where my heart is. It's the place where I stash my stuff and where my MSU and polliwogs hang out. In a macro-way, there are places where I feel really good. Oddly enough, Reno NV. feels okay. Bormes-les-Mimosas feels like a place I'd be happy to be buried one day if I can ever afford it. Washington D.C., although I only spent a week there, seemed like a very nice place to live, and I have the fondest memories of Upstate NY, especially Lake Ontario around Henderson Harbor.
I'd love to find a place to plant my roots but I'm not done looking. I think I have a subconscious fear that this game is a giant game of musical chairs and just like when I was a pre-schooler, I'm going to find that when the music stops, there's no place left for my butt and I have to go stand in the corner.