A Day in the Life, Part VII"There's No Place Like"

Maybe it's because my parents were always moving. Maybe it's because we're nomads by nature.

Or maybe it's just me.

But I have honestly never felt content enough to hang my hat anywhere. The best places I've discovered are far away from family, and a healthy amount of guilt compels me to strive for proximity.

(Unless wealth were to afford me to the luxury of flying anywhere on a whim — thus far a dream and not a reality).


I do feel, at times, that Thoreau had the right idea; just... an undermining level of hypocrisy.


I've struggled with Walden ever since I first read it in high school: a man endeavors to turn away from society and live alone on a small farm. He praises the virtues of nature — and solitude — all the while downplaying the visits he paid to his benefactors (the Emersons) and ultimately abandoning his experiment after 2 years, 2 months and 2 days.


He said it was time to return to civilized life though, in earnest, he'd never left it. He'd just... changed it, in a way... only to realize he needed it in its entirety more than he'd ever care to admit.

But I think I understand him now. I understand the desire to be at two places at once; the desire to give everything away and retreat within oneself.


And yet: I want all of the things I enjoy in life, without the hardships that pay for so many them.

Gas to travel. Photos and cameras and music and bicycles and books and concerts and plays.


And yet: no more traffic. No more construction or 8-hours-a-day without the smallest slant of sun.


A week ago I was in one room, with the TV on in another. Through the hall I heard words I'd written (spoken by another) — a fairly rare occurrence for me, given the medium for which I normally write.

And I thought: well, my job isn't so bad. If only I could do it from home.

But where is home? My apartment with leaking walls, mold, and a landlady who lets herself in, unannounced?


The city where I live — the horns, the drunkenness, the middle fingers... and bicyclists who ride 3 in a row, blocking traffic either to prove a point or through sheer ignorance of the world around them?



The place where I grew up, where nearly every visit is marred with frustrations too personal to list?

And I think... I know the answer. Home is anywhere for me, so long as I maintain the freedom to pack my bags on a whim. In my dream world, I keep my job but have the ability to do it from anywhere: my apartment, my hometown, internet cafes on remote islands. Campsites in the Pacific Northwest; trails in Appalachia. I pack a single bag and move, but always with a home to return to.


But right now? Right now... I feel stuck. There are cars and pink fabric walls everywhere I turn.


They are closing in.

Observations from the Days Passed

Man on Weight Machine [to his lifting buddies]: I only hire attractive women — I mean, I make sure they have a personality, too... but ugly chicks are bad for business.

His friends nod and grunt, a telltale sign of agreement.

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On the Road
So I was out of town all last week, seeing 3000 miles worth of sights in 6 days before marking my return to the Midwest with a solitary flight. I will have pictures, and postings, as soon as I have time to sort through the mess of images from the road-trip portion.

Until then: suffice it to say the Tetons are lovely, and I was sad to return.

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On the Road... Again
Upon my late Friday return, I promptly drove an additional 320 miles (round-trip) to visit family for the weekend. I managed this while also manning phone calls from my boss, asking for me to put together five intensive pieces of writing by Monday morning for an important meeting. I agreed to try my best, without expecting reward, but was then told I'd be getting two days of comp time for my off-the-clock efforts.

I was thrilled by the notion, as that meant I'd regain two vacation days for other upcoming travels.

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Back to Work
The following morning — Monday — I was so amazingly exhausted that when I rose from bed for work, I was immediately daydreaming about returning home that afternoon and going promptly to sleep.

But the cosmos had other plans, and a man in an SUV entered my lane without checking to see whether or not it was occupied. He sideswiped my driver's side and forced my passenger side over a curb.

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The Positive
Damage is minor, and almost entirely cosmetic. Injuries are limited to a slightly jammed left index finger, which I'm not fussing over. The man immediately accepted blame, kindly apologized, and has made it clear he'll pay for any and all repairs. In other words: he's a decent fellow, which should make the whole process easier.

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The Negative
I've already used some of my comp time to have my car checked out for mechanical problems, and may have to take another full day to have the paint job done and the alignment checked.

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Parents
I've been informed that my parents and nephew (the subject of this particular piece) will not be able to make it to the photography exhibit before it ends this Friday. I otherwise would have been entertaining guests today and had previously rather looked forward to seeing my nephew's response to seeing his image on a gallery wall.

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Klutziness
Part One
In the past 24 hours, I fell while walking up the stairs at work, which wouldn't have phased me were it not for the co-worker walking down the stairs who witnessed the incident and asked profusely whether or not I was all right.

Part Two
Later at the gym when I went to engage my lock, my finger was sliced open by an imperfection in the locker's metal. I accept blame for the stair incident; the locker, however, was just pure, dumb luck. When I informed the gym of the incident, they taped off the locker for repairs.

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The Lesson
God hates me.

Predator & Prey

Driving to work this morning, I rolled up to traffic light #23 (only 9 to go) and gazed wearily to my left... searching — as I so often do — for every possible distraction (a means of staying awake).

At my side (looking down), I saw a cat: claws out and its face raised in an intimidating, teeth-bearing grin.

Once the light turned green — and our cars burst forward with a sputter of disillusion — that cat spun around and around (faster and faster), until it ceased to be recognizable and left me in its proverbial dust.

But then, as fate (that is to say: rush hour) would have it, we met again at traffic light #24 (only 8 to go), my attention this time focused not on the rims of the Jaguar next to me, but rather the silver (solid, no doubt) protuberance at its helm: another large cat (this time full body), not bathing majestically beneath some Argentinian sun but rather mid-pounce, presumably just seconds before sinking its teeth into the base of the skull of some unsuspecting tapir.

I sighed, thinking, looking askance at this... man... next to me. The man driving onward as though atop a chariot powered by these magnificent beasts: talking on his wireless, and yet bound by the curlicue cord of his cell phone charger.

And that, I thought, was the symbol he had chosen to define himself: he, the predator, and me — if only through différance — his prey.