Home, Away From

12 08 2019

Homemaking is one of the oddest words. Or perhaps all words are equally odd, but with varying degrees of familiarity.

Think about what home means. The smells you grew up with, the feel of your bedroom floor. Making those again is impossibility itself. We cannot make home for ourselves. We can only hope to make it for others.

At 33, I am beset with a weird sort of hollowness even as the thrill of a new job and a real sense of adventure has come upon me. I am here, far away from everything I’ve had, and I can do whatever I want.

I always could, in theory, but the actualizing is sobering–if not in practice.

How do you build a community while also relishing that daybreak before the noises of the day take over? I know the people will be there, that my life will fill up with somethings, all sorts of somethings. I have lived this before, and found life. Here too, I may find life, even if I have to harrow my heart in ways I’ve heretofore spared it. Look, these are the types of sentences I write when I don’t have anyone around to read what I’m spitting out.

It’s one thing, then the next. It’s looking for a job, then it’s starting the job. It’s looking for a new place, then moving into the new place, then furnishing the new place, then decorating the new place, then getting other people into the new place. Rinse and repeat. And rinse well, especially here. The sweat, man. The sweat.

For two weeks now, I’ve worked. I just got my first paycheck from this job, and it gave me a silly sort of delight to see it in my bank account. I am getting paid to teach chess, or to try to teach it. This is not how you draw things up, but I’m drawing a salary just the same, so thank goodness the drawing will start and end there. I still am rubbish at drawing.

I got invited to go two-stepping with some “hot young coworkers” last Friday. I chickened out, if that’s the right term for abstaining from something you won’t enjoy intrinsically. I’m all for putting myself out there and trying new things, but I mean, you can’t force someone to sign up for the “get punched in the face club” on day one. Not yet, anyway. Four more years though, and who knows?

I might go shop for a couch at The Furniture Store. Imagine that. Imagine it. If I’m living out some weird recursive DNA trip, I hope someone at least has the decency to write a book about it. Goodness knows it’s too hot outside for me to think about writing a book just yet, though.

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