Tag Archives: home

Since we’re all feeling wistful

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and I have NO SELF CONTROL

AT ALL,

(AT ALL)

(I was going to post this the day after I got home from Morocco because I thought I’d be funny and ironic, but then I forgot. I just remembered, and it made me giggle. No, I don’t have any self control. NONE.)

This may also be one of my favorite songs to sing in the shower, but that’s neither here nor there. (It just seems appropriate in the shower, right? It’s almost like you’re standing in the rain–no, I’m stopping there. I’m already running low on shame. And dignity.)

But seriously. Thanks for the views and thoughtful comments, I really appreciate it!

(Now play the song again. Sing along. Dance like you’re kelp. DO IT.)

EDIT: this song also ALWAYS reminds me of my cousin Elizabeth, trololol. She’d love that, so I’m going to go post this on her Facebook wall. HI BETHIE WHAT’S UP THIS IS ME SHOUTING OUT TO YOU ON MY BLOOOOOOOOOOGGGGGG ALSO YOU MET ANDY DICK?!?!?!? (She met Andy Dick. I saw pictures. WHAT) THAT IS SO COOOOOL ALSO WHEN ARE WE HANGING OUT NEXT!??!?! YOU SHOULD COME CAMPING IN TAHOE THIS YEAR.

OKAY EDIT OVER

(PEACE OUT BETHIE)

Book Club: Episode 4!

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Somehow, I feel as though now I’m not halfway across the world, I’ll be doing more Book Clubs in a desperate attempt to infuse my new (old?) daily life in California with the Excitement and Exoticism that characterized my life in Morocco. Nope, I haven’t learned anything, especially not that the whole Exoticism thing is stupid and shallow. Why not? I dunno, I’m too busy distracting myself with BOOKS like

Lamb
The Gospel According to Biff, Christ’s childhood pal

by Christopher Moore.

(The title looks awesome when it’s Centered.)

Anyone who knows me knows that I was raised so Catholic that I practically farted incense (and I’m hell-bound for that one), except that from a tender young age I believed most Churchgoers were trapped reciting the Nicene Creed by alien mind-control and that the infallibility of the Pope had to be some kind of dogmatic mistake (I let transubstantiation go, though, so give me a break).

I generally pinpoint my break with being Officially Catholic around the time of my Confirmation at the end of 8th grade (I find this fabulously ironic, but that only boosts my ego), which coincided with a Newfound Freedom from my parochial school’s clutches (8th grade graduation), the end of forced confessions and penances (though I found 7 rosaries in my bedroom yesterday, there must be some symbolism in that), and the many opportunities for wanton sinning in the Dionysian pits normally referred to as High School (SINbolism? No. Embolism? Causing many, probably. I really hate excessive use of parentheses, don’t you?). I generally regard religion from a safe, comic distance, and I’m a sucker for a comedic rendering of all things Biblical.

So you can imagine my delight reading Moore’s book, Lamb, in which the Messiah’s best friend Biff, resurrected from the dead 2,000 years later, writes his own story from a hotel room, with a TV-watching angel and a Bible in the bathroom for company.  You know, I’ve always suspected that Jesus was pals with the Abominable Snowman. It’s funny, it’s poignant, there are crazy people and lepers and Chinese concubines, and it’s a great story.

Christopher Moore wrote some other books, too, but I haven’t read them yet. Am going to, probably.

You’re welcome for the plug, Christopher Moore.

Anyway, apart from Books, how am I doing with the whole transition thing? Great, I’m pretty sure. I’ve been eating bagels and chocolate chips compulsively, just got so sunburned that I radiate heat to the entire neighborhood, and am giving away piles of Clothing and Other Shit that’s just been buried in my closet for centuries. That’s how I found those 7 rosaries. Seven. I was going to run a 10k with my mom this morning, but my legs were so sunburned it hurt to walk, so screw that. I found a place to live for next year and am moving in around June 16, so if you live in Seattle and want to help move my only piece of furniture (a couch), hit me up!

I’m chatting with some friends and stuff, though I haven’t quite grasped the idea of inserting myself back into the School and Social Life bubbles yet. That’s fine, because I’m really not too worried about it anyway. I’m too busy cleaning, watching John Hughes movies, and trying to get over Judd Nelson’s nostrils.

PEACE OUT, ADVENTURE SCOUT.

Home

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Home

 

Since arriving in Morocco so long long ago (Thursday), I’ve given a lot of thought to the word home. There is no equivalent word in nearly any of the Indo-European languages (there are a lot of those), nor Arabic, nor Japanese, that conveys the full range of sentiment that accompanies our concept of home: feeling at home, making a home, home is where the heart is, home is wherever I’m with you.

For many of us, home isn’t where we live, and that seems obvious. Yet in other languages, there are plenty of words for house, my house, where I live, but nothing quite like home—and I wonder if, perhaps, it’s because the cultures in which these languages blossomed didn’t need a word like that.

I’m no linguist (and I’m sure that someone’s already figured this out), but I would like to humbly propose that home is a word that self-actualizes the individual to create her own future, without reference to piles of culture to build upon.

Think about home, about how much more it means to you than my house or my place. It’s a large part of our self-image and the way we construct our lives, a specific and highly sought-after feeling.  What we want is to conquer this deep-seated shiftlessness, to find a home, to be at rest and content and comforted.  In the United States, nothing is tried and true; we are young, we are not tied to our land (our forerunners displaced those Native Americans who were), we are a country built by the exiled, the emigrants, the unwelcome, hoping for a better future—or at least for escape from a shitty past. Dreamy oversimplification or not (yeah, back off), we are drifters turned loose upon the land, chasing the echoes of an immigrant’s dream.

It’s as though we of the United States are searching for some way to validate our own existence, a validation once upon a time provided by hundreds of years of cultural blossoming, of deep roots in a land and a language, and of confidence in one’s existence by virtue of those who lived before.

All of this I can see in myself, and all of it contrasts sharply with the world surrounding me.

I was going to write more, but it is very late. Here we are, then, make yourself at home!