[astigmatic much?] pith.org content, daily-like
most recently
archive

Monday April 09, 2001, 00:58

I lied a little bit. Not too much, but just a little. See, I am sitting here on the couch, listening to the dish washer, and he asked me if I was coming to bed because I was welcome to sleep there but I told him that I was just going to stay out here a little while longer to work and was probably just going to fall asleep on the couch. Well, ok, so most of that was true, except for the work part, which is only true if I can consider writing this "work" which I, for the life of me, can not.

On the other hand, writing here is slowly creeping back into my life as something which I feel I must do more often, a sort of responsibility to someone or something, and in that regard I suppose that it can be considered, if nothing else, a sort of work.

I am in Boston. Shall I say "back in Boston?" It is the first time that I have returned since I left over four months ago. So four months is not really that long, but consider that I was only here for ten, the first time around. I stepped out of the T today and turned to my right, and where there once stood a row of brownstones now stood a large, empty lot. It appears that they have finally broken ground for a construction project that had been advertised all the time I'd been living there, but it always seemed like one of those promises that was never going to come true, like the "Going out of Business" signs all over New York.

The city does not have any draw. I am not struck with pangs of nostalgia walking down the street and, in fact, I maintain the same senses of city-superiority that I have always felt. Big city versus little city, and the big city always wins. But that doesn't mean that i don't feel some sort of compassion towards the little guy, and as I always have, and always will, as the Red line train leaves Charles/MGH and heads over the river to Cambridge, I looked out the window at the river, watching the approach to MIT and the Citgo sign burning in the distance.

Little moments like those, that you only pick up after living in a place for a while. Little moments that make a place feel like a home, at least in some spot in your1 heart. Do they always have to be happy memories? Indeed they do not. That time when you2 were riding your bike down the hill, way too fast, and you make that turn, way too fast, and you didn't realize that your friend had made the same turn, and all of a sudden you were on the ground, a tangle of metal and skin and gravel and amidst the tears and the blood your mother came running up and picked you up and cleaned you up and told you to be careful next time while wiping the blood off with a warm towel and kissing you on the head.

That means home too.

I always felt uncomfortable in this town. Like wearing a winter coat over a bulky sweater, something just didn't fit right. I couldn't breath properly, and my arms kind of stuck out funny from my body. And I endured it for long enough to realize that it wasn't because my body was the wrong shape, but rather that I was just wearing the wrong clothes. So I tried again. This time with just the coat, leaving the sweater behind. The sweater wasn't quite warm enough anyway. And it was ugly too. Probably acrylic.

But I keep it in my dresser nevertheless. You know, just because.



1. In situations like this one I often start writing in the second person and I start to get a little more broad in my approach to a given subject. In particular, this discussion of home is one that is very dear to me. It is my hope that, in a few weeks time, I will be moving into something that will serve as a home for me in some sort of near-permanent capacity. This is quite exciting. I have not had this sort of situation in quite some time now, and it strikes me that a very definite part of growing up in today's society is this seeking and finding of a home. People find grounding only to have to move again, to a different city, to a different state, leaving stores, cafes, walks to work, street signs, potholes, and friends. Friends most of all. All cities have potholes. All cities have cafes (though some more than others). All cities do not have friends. Or at least the friends that you've found. Friendships you've cultivated.

I sit now on the couch of a friend whom I have not seen in several months. Since I moved out, as a matter of fact. In the time that I have been gone we have not gotten coffee. We have not sat around his kitchen table, preparing dinner and perusing the latest Vogue. We have done none of those things for a lack of proximity, the relocation often involved in picking up, starting over, and discovering a new home, does not allow for it.

And so I write in the second person in the hopes that the reader will take a moment to reflect upon a moment in his or her memory that means "home" to him or her, that takes him or her back to a different place in time, and life.

2. I.

[ permanent link ]

[ email love | your love | consumer love ]

------------------

search the past

remember the past

1999
    aug 04 05 06 08 09 11 12 15 17 22 26 30
    sep 01 03 07 12 20 28
    oct 04 14 18 22
    nov 02 07 12 19 25 26 27
    dec 12 15 18 28 31

2000
    jan 02 06 11 12 18 29
    feb 03 10 14 17 21 23 28 29
    mar 05 06 20 22 25 26
    apr 02 05 06 08 09 10 12 13 17 20 21 24 25 28 29
    may 03 05 08 11 12 15 17 17b 18 18b 21 23 25 29 30 31
    jun 01 01b 03 06 07 08 10 13 14 16 18 21 23 25 30
    jul 03 06 09 10 13 16 26
    aug 02 03 04 08 10 17 21 25 29
    sep 06 07 12 13 18 24
    oct 06 11 12 19 30 31
    nov 08 11 22 26 30
    dec 01 10 14 21 30

2001
    jan 01 09 14 16 30
    feb 11 15 20 22
    mar 06 08 09 21 25 30
    apr 01 04 05 09 13 18 23 24 25 28
    may 04 09 11 14 16 17 21 25 31
    jun 02 08 20 21 28 29
    jul 07 13 17 28
    aug 14 24 26
    sep 09 12 23 24
    oct 10 26 28 31
    nov 11 17 18 28 30
    dec 02 08 15 18 26

2002
    jan 03 07 08 18 20 23
    feb 04 05 17 19 22
    mar 06 10 13 15 17
    apr 13 16 19 26
    may 03 13 16 21
    jun 08 15 21
    jul 03 05 10 18 24
    aug 03 18
    sep 11 20
    oct 03 05
    nov 10
    dec 30

2003
    jan 19
    feb 04 14 27
    mar 10 23 31
    apr 11 15
    may 26
    jun 16 29
    aug 17
    sep 15
    oct 08
    nov 30
    dec 11 24 28

2004
    jan 06 23 30
    feb 01 21
    mar 04 09
    apr 15
    may 02 10
    jul 03
    aug 02 16 30
    oct 04 17
    nov 28
    dec 28

2005
    jan 03 24
    mar 24
    may 28
    aug 01 10
    sep 03
    oct 12 28
    dec 25

2006
    jan 01 07 16
    feb 02 13 28
    mar 12 13
    apr 17

other things to look at

back home