ridin’ to the end

May 20, 2016

I’m playing Fable again and I’m watching TNG again and I’m considering reading Jane Austen again. I’m thinking about how I have this (at this point) quite cyclic predictable need to return to the same media over and over throughout my life. Part of me is always ashamed of spending so much of my leisure time doing the same things over and over, but my craving for them is strong. I’ve had the same 30 books for like 10 years, some of them much longer. I reread all of them at least once a year. Each page is like a mile marker for me, reading it again and having all of my old thoughts and then my new thoughts on top of them is like measuring myself against old marks on the wall. I spend a fraction of my time worrying that I should be reading more new books, watching more new films, oh and also getting up off the couch and doing more new things in general. Which is good, because I spend a much larger fraction of my time basking in the glow of old flames, and without the guilt and a little natural enterprise, I would miss out on a lot of the things I have to go out and get. But in between these things, in the margins of my life, I revisit old media.

I’ve been thinking about my relationship with home, lately. We are, not mad unique little snowflakes at all, us, attempting to buy a house. In Portland. In 2016. It is a ridiculous proceeding and like every other adult undertaking so far has challenged me to the whites of my fingertips and made me search into profound deeps of self; because of course buying a home is a massive deal, both in dollars and sense, and I am naturally making the requisite fuss about it. The only thing good about trying to buy a house right now is having Jason to do it with. Everything we do together puts another stack on the lego wall of my more excellent self. Sometimes that shit comes down but he is always right there when it’s time to put it back up, finding me those stupid elusive 3 hole bricks and helping me yank old clusters apart. Now I want legos. Those old neon accessoried space sets.

Anyhow I’ve been thinking about my relationship with home, because we are trying to buy one, and it is really hard to do that right now so we are not really being rushed into anything. No impulsive decisions here. We are grizzled and hardened from the harsh realities of the damn climate. Which I am honestly if I admit it a little grateful for. I have always been a sort of let’s do it now and figure it out as we go sort of person when it comes to concepts that are too complex for my mind to hold all at once but the time apparently seems to be now… I completely hope we get to buy a house because our rent keeps going up like the glass elevator at the end of the book, but I am cosmically bone deep grateful that we are getting the chance to learn all about the process and are literally walking the beat in every neighborhood in the city trying to find places for our next chapter to fit.

And I’ve been thinking about my relationship with home, because I don’t really think I have much of a relationship with it. We’ve gone all over this part of the world. We’ve seen multiple places I lived as a child. We’ve been by multiple places I lived as an adult. I’ve freaked out about living in any of them. Then I think about where I would actually want to live instead given all the cash up front in the world (I hate rich people) (but just while I am trying to get a reasonable set of shingles over my head I swear) (or also when they are standing miles deep in line for a goddamn ice cream cone there are children dying in other countries while you stand there I know, I am not doing anything for them either, ok I’m done) and trying to choose a place I would live if I could choose anywhere freaks me out as well.

I don’t think I’m very used to having much choice about where I live. When I do, I don’t think much about it because it likely isn’t going to last long. Mostly it just happens because someone else makes it happen, and then I sponge it up and deal with it and adapt pretty well overall; or left to my own devices I find the cheapest thing that is closest to my job and friends, and camp out until someone else comes along and tells me where to live next.  After about 32 years of this, I don’t have any concept of where I would like to live. Just somewhere cute, please, with trees, and a bus.

When I think about home, I think about people, and books, and clothes, and coffee mugs, and movies, and boxes stuffed with old letters. I think about the things I carry, to hold me down, so I will not be lost in the great wide abyss. I don’t know if anything at all happens to you when you die, but if anything does I hope I come back as a book.


And in the meantime y’all, buying a house is hard. And stupid. But I think it will be one of the best joys I’ve ever had to be tied so securely to a place that I begin to think of it as a home. Fingers XING!

I am


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