I went home, and then came back home.
Funny how this idea of "home" continues to be such a riddle. Where it is, and what constitutes one, and can there be several, simultaneously. I think I've decided that home is more of a feeling than a place, and to me, it almost always requires some kind of a return. It seems harder for the here-and-now to wear the mantle of home, than it does for the past...the past is big enough, wide enough, porous enough, to sop up the great sloppy spillage that home enacts, and since the past is constantly subjected to revision by time and memory, it's tractable, too. The present moment is more rigid, less forgiving, and therefore more hostile to the feeling of home, the conditions it needs to survive.
Being homesick is a matter of prepositions. I am sick for home, and I am sick of home, often in the same moment. In my frequent yearnings for some elsewhere, I envision a place free of the past, free of the present, unfettered by all of the complexities of love and history. This is what is meant by 'future,' I think. The feelings, the history--they haven't been born. So there's that marvelous sense of possibility, of completion and fulfillment. But the future can't be home, because it always-doesn't-exist-yet, and home exists, I think, if only as a unicorn.
Being homesick is a matter of prepositions. I am sick for home, and I am sick of home, often in the same moment. In my frequent yearnings for some elsewhere, I envision a place free of the past, free of the present, unfettered by all of the complexities of love and history. This is what is meant by 'future,' I think. The feelings, the history--they haven't been born. So there's that marvelous sense of possibility, of completion and fulfillment. But the future can't be home, because it always-doesn't-exist-yet, and home exists, I think, if only as a unicorn.
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home