I’ve never gotten the hang of re-assimilation into my home society.
Home is where Yancey and Roberta drink coffee with me, where Polly and I make constant plans only to cancel them due to work conflicts, where Jessica chases dogs and infants while making conversation, where I color from 5 a.m. ‘til 11 p.m., brushing the dust off the keyboard as I can no longer remember a time when I was not renovating wherever I lived. Home is where NPR keeps me company all day as I hit little Mac keys for one job or another, unless I’m in a mood for something morose from Lucinda Williams, or something self-consciously clever from Amy Rigby. The path of least resistance wasn’t on the map.
Home is going to the gym. Home has a machine that does the laundry, for free in my building’s basement. Home is backyard Bubba Burgers with the neighbors. Real estate speculation with dog-walkers, cheap hair color, fast internet, frequent flyer miles for flushing the toilet, incredible old-school cheap Italian and Cuban food, and begging Michael Kraiger to lend me a big-guy hand.
But home is also where routine dulls my senses. Where I’d like to cook, but it’s so uninspiring to cook just for myself, and then I remember that being alone and being independent are very different things. It’s where mundane repetition sets in and slows me down, leaving me passive and overwhelmingly disinterested in the distractions of everyday life. It’s where Roberta and I observe the single old ladies on 8th Street. They happily sit on their stoops in their housedresses. One of them has made scones for Roberta ever since discovering they were both Italian. Is this our future? Roberta swears it’s not. I’m not so sure.
Is it uncool to admit to being bored and aimless following six months in Africa? Probably. I am supposed to say something inspirational right now, something “no place like home” ish. But I’m not going to do that. “Leap and the net will appear” is bullshit. I learned that in the aftermath of MariesWorldTour. There was no f*$%ing net. If you’re lucky, you sew your own. If you’re unlucky, you waffle around wondering what to do and nothing comes up.
You can't hurt what you can't touch.
Homecoming is normally a thrill for about a week-and-a-half. I always try to get as much as possible done during the manic “I-wanna-do-everything-this-minute” phase, because the inevitable crash comes and that can last a few days or a few months.
Or a few years.
Why am I never comfortable just being comfortable?
The crash came early this time, because I was alone in rural Virginia and everyone I interacted with appeared to be from a different planet than the one I’m from. I went into a store where the cashiers were talking and their accents were so different to mine that I had no idea what they were saying. In Virginia, I am completely disconnected from my surroundings.
But let’s face it. I’ve been alienated since I was sentient. Why should today be any different?
Why do I get off on misery
Loneliness feels good to me
On another topic, I cannot change the blog title to “No Hurry In Jersey City.” Or “No Hurry in Kuwait.” Or I could cease doing it now and just archive it somewhere, but I've really enjoyed keeping this online diary, even though I'm not sure anyone reads it. Anyone have any brilliant suggestions or advice?
I'm just a peach that's going rotten
I wanna save the other peaches so I roll away
I'm careful where I land
Does anybody understand?