mrvelocipede: (Default)
[personal profile] mrvelocipede
The voices in the back of my head have been particularly distressing lately. On the nights when I can't sleep (which is most of them), and during the days when I'm at home alone doing nothing (which is most of them), there are these constant nagging thoughts that pester me, like whiny small children.

The one that's demanding the most attention lately is the wail of increasing despair, which says I want to go HOME. It reminds me of a person who is very young, and very tired, and who has been very patient for a very long time, but is suffering from the effects of too much bewilderment and too little explanation. It is not having fun. It can't figure out why I'm still dragging it through all this boring, repetitive, pointless stuff. It doesn't recognize any of the places it's passing through, it can't get people's attention, and when it does, it discovers that no one speaks its language. It doesn't understand what's going on, its feet hurt, it's probably hungry, and it just wants to be someplace familiar that it can rest, and where people will be nice to it.

It also seems to be angry that no one is listening.

I'm trying to listen. I say, Okay, let's go home. Where is it? And it says It's at home! Wanna go HOME! and begins to sound a bit hysterical, which is not much help.

So then I'm trying to figure out for myself what might constitute home. Clearly it's not where I am now. I don't think it's likely to be in Seattle. I don't think it has much to do with Pittsburgh, either. I think it does have a place where I can sit with a cup of tea and look at the sky. Probably there are skylights. Part of it has a sturdy industrial floor, where I can put things like printing presses and lampworking torches without worrying that they will destroy something. Part of it is more civilized and comfortable, with books and squashy comfy chairs and probably some oriental carpets in the proper shade of dark red.

What else? The kitchen is well-lit. Either there is a window behind the kitchen sink, so I can look out of it while washing dishes, or the sink is arranged so that it looks over a counter into the room; none of this staring-grimly-at-the-wall-one-foot-away while rinsing plates. For that matter, an important component of home is that if I suddenly decide to make some weird experimental dessert, and it turns out to be delicious but far more than I want to eat, somebody will come and have some with me. And there will be a convenient place for them to park, and a door to knock on or a bell to ring. Not a wonky electric box full of incomprehensible push-buttons that may or may not ring the Professor's cellophone. This also means that if someone happens to be in the neighborhood, they will be able to stop by and see if I'm around.

It will have some outside to go walk around in, too. Maybe a nearby park, maybe a place to get groceries, maybe a few interesting shops. Something that makes me happy to wander out the door from time to time. A bit of space for a garden would be good: nothing too drastic, because I'm not much of a mower of lawns, but a little room to grow basil and cilantro.

Maybe it would help if I wrote it a letter.

Dear Home,
I miss you a lot. Please let me know where you are. I promise to be kind to you, and fix your wiring, and fill you with lovely colors and nice light and interesting artifacts and the smell of coffee.
Looking forward to our happy reunion,
Love & kisses,
Mr. Velocipede
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June 2011

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