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.