Thoughts... an entry in several parts
Part the first: "So, are you two doing the long distance thing?"
Albert asked this of ___ and me last night. It was somewhat of an awkward question, as it was one that we have not yet addressed ourselves.
It's not, I admit, the first time that the question has been asked of me. Both LeAnn and Mom have enquired as to my plans for the relationship. And I have, quite frankly, expressed my intense reticence to do long distance again. It's not that I don't want to do it, exactly... but I've done it before, and if 300 miles and roughly semi-monthly visits didn't work, I really doubt 3,000 and semi-annual will.
The difference, I suppose, is in the long view. Before, the conclusion we-she? I?-came to was that in fact it would always be long distance. For as long as either of us could consider, we would never really be much closer geographically than we already were.
Now, we are in the same field, at least very broadly, and a return to the West would mean coming closer, not farther apart. And even if I don't go West, there is a much greater possibility of us meeting in professional life.
So, are we going to do the long distance thing? Her answer was comfortingly close to mine: "That's a good question. We're going to have to talk about it."
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Part the second: Homelessness
While in Egypt, I came to the conclusion that I don't really feel like I have a home any more (I had thought I had posted about this, but I can't find it to link to). It's not that I don't feel welcome at my mom's house, but it always seems more like the place I'm crashing for a couple-three weeks than home. And nowhere in New Jersey cuts it. Somewhere you have to move into and out of every year can't be home either.
A couple days ago, I realized at least part of why this is. After Alex went off to college, I moved into our combined office, and made it my study/bedroom. This is now still the room where I stay, but it has been turned into my mom's study. Something odd that I noticed is that it is the only room in the house (with the exception of the dining room, which almost never gets used, and a few of the bathrooms) that doesn't have a bookcase.
Our TV room: Big bookshelf with an encyclopedia, a few reference books, travel books, and a collection of general fiction. The Kitchen: Mainly cookbooks. My mom's bedroom: a smattering of unread Oprah's book club selections and depressive self-help pop-psychology books from the first few years of the diaspora of the Y chromosome. The Library, of course, has a massive collection of books, ranging from the classics, the bulk of our novels, old textbooks, various Norton anthologies, games, you name it.
My room has no good shelves. There are, of course, some places for books that I'm reading, but nowhere that they live. And that, I think, is a big part of what contributes to my feeling of being adrift. At school, I have not only the standard bookshelves that come with the dorm rooms, but also a 5 shelf bookcase my brother left me, and it's packed with books. Paul Graham's essay on stuff speaks very highly of books as a possession, and it's something I pretty much agree with.
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Part the third: Memories
My mind wanders in the car, and for no reason I can think of, the phrase "misty water-colored memories" popped into my head. And then I realized, my memories aren't painted in watercolor.
My very oldest memory, as far as I know, is of a part of our house in Seattle. This has the coloration of an old, faded polaroid. I regard it as somewhat suspect, however, because I'm no longer sure whether it's a memory I actually have, or merely something I've constructed from descriptions later on.
But most of my memories, the ones I'm sure I remember, are more like oil paintings than watercolor. Oftentimes impressionist, I remember the lights and darks, the mood of scenes rather than the precise shapes.
Even when my memories are misty, they have a weight to them, of oils applied over, rather than an inherent mistiness of the memories themselves.
What does this say about me? I dunno.
Albert asked this of ___ and me last night. It was somewhat of an awkward question, as it was one that we have not yet addressed ourselves.
It's not, I admit, the first time that the question has been asked of me. Both LeAnn and Mom have enquired as to my plans for the relationship. And I have, quite frankly, expressed my intense reticence to do long distance again. It's not that I don't want to do it, exactly... but I've done it before, and if 300 miles and roughly semi-monthly visits didn't work, I really doubt 3,000 and semi-annual will.
The difference, I suppose, is in the long view. Before, the conclusion we-she? I?-came to was that in fact it would always be long distance. For as long as either of us could consider, we would never really be much closer geographically than we already were.
Now, we are in the same field, at least very broadly, and a return to the West would mean coming closer, not farther apart. And even if I don't go West, there is a much greater possibility of us meeting in professional life.
So, are we going to do the long distance thing? Her answer was comfortingly close to mine: "That's a good question. We're going to have to talk about it."
======================================
Part the second: Homelessness
While in Egypt, I came to the conclusion that I don't really feel like I have a home any more (I had thought I had posted about this, but I can't find it to link to). It's not that I don't feel welcome at my mom's house, but it always seems more like the place I'm crashing for a couple-three weeks than home. And nowhere in New Jersey cuts it. Somewhere you have to move into and out of every year can't be home either.
A couple days ago, I realized at least part of why this is. After Alex went off to college, I moved into our combined office, and made it my study/bedroom. This is now still the room where I stay, but it has been turned into my mom's study. Something odd that I noticed is that it is the only room in the house (with the exception of the dining room, which almost never gets used, and a few of the bathrooms) that doesn't have a bookcase.
Our TV room: Big bookshelf with an encyclopedia, a few reference books, travel books, and a collection of general fiction. The Kitchen: Mainly cookbooks. My mom's bedroom: a smattering of unread Oprah's book club selections and depressive self-help pop-psychology books from the first few years of the diaspora of the Y chromosome. The Library, of course, has a massive collection of books, ranging from the classics, the bulk of our novels, old textbooks, various Norton anthologies, games, you name it.
My room has no good shelves. There are, of course, some places for books that I'm reading, but nowhere that they live. And that, I think, is a big part of what contributes to my feeling of being adrift. At school, I have not only the standard bookshelves that come with the dorm rooms, but also a 5 shelf bookcase my brother left me, and it's packed with books. Paul Graham's essay on stuff speaks very highly of books as a possession, and it's something I pretty much agree with.
=======================================
Part the third: Memories
My mind wanders in the car, and for no reason I can think of, the phrase "misty water-colored memories" popped into my head. And then I realized, my memories aren't painted in watercolor.
My very oldest memory, as far as I know, is of a part of our house in Seattle. This has the coloration of an old, faded polaroid. I regard it as somewhat suspect, however, because I'm no longer sure whether it's a memory I actually have, or merely something I've constructed from descriptions later on.
But most of my memories, the ones I'm sure I remember, are more like oil paintings than watercolor. Oftentimes impressionist, I remember the lights and darks, the mood of scenes rather than the precise shapes.
Even when my memories are misty, they have a weight to them, of oils applied over, rather than an inherent mistiness of the memories themselves.
What does this say about me? I dunno.