far too much writing, far too many photos

runswithscissors


Monday, November 22, 2004

[continued from previous entry]

Of course, a hefty percentage of the global population that's had any first-, second- or third-hand exposure to Lake Como and the surrounding area feels a similar attraction -- hence its popularity and the growing presence of big money and famous faces.

A nice part of the world. A place that would be a good spot to call home.

I was interested to hear B. saying similar things, could see him feeling powerful intangibles at work. Could even hear it in his voice, at times blended with a strange, almost plaintive note of wonder at finding himself registering something of this inexplicably powerful variety. Got me thinking about the whole idea of home, all the different things that word can represent, how the feeling of home has been a curiously elusive quantity during this life of mine.

I have moved about like you wouldn't believe during my (mumble, mumble) years, and during the ongoing swing of it around the map, I've experienced brief pangs of what at times seems like the simple possibility a place might hold something that could come to feel homelike. Or the possibility that a town or a living space or a person or group of people might provide some part of whatever that sensation of home is, even just a small, transitory suggestion of it. I longed for that at times, could clearly feel that the wanting it was one of the elements that drove me from one place, one situation to another.

Late in 1986, I flew to London, my first time overseas. The first time,I think, that anyone in my nuclear family had been overseas. (My parents never crossed the Atlantic, never left the country, apart from a brief incursion or two of my mother's up to Montreal. They never went west of the Mississippi, a fact I find amazing.) British culture had made an impression on me during my early years, had expanded in later years into something important, something that finally moved me to make my first foray across the water.

When I reached Heathrow, I took a bus into the city, wanting to see everything, soak it all up and let it out through my pen into a notebook as I rode, rather than make the trip in the sensory-deprivation chamber of the Underground. And after a gratifyingly eye-filling ride, the bus let me off on the High Street in Kensington. I stepped out, my foot touched the sidewalk. And I found myself swept with a visceral, overwhelming sensation of coming home, feeling almost like an electric current coursing through my body, my mouth opening in surprise, my hand almost dropping my bag. Not even remotely like anything I'd never experienced.

On hearing this story, different people come up with different possible explanations, all of which have their validity. It's easy to slap any one of several labels on an experience like this, all of which will sound reasonable to someone. Myself, I've never tried to force that moment into a tidy little verbal container -- there was too much going on, it was too big. I've simply let it be, assuming it will show its meaning (or not) in its own time.

[continued in entry of November 25]


Madrid, te quiero.

rws 3:24 PM [+]

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BLATHERINGS

August 2001
September 2001
October 2001
November 2001
December 2001
January 2002
February 2002
March 2002
April 2002
May 2002
June 2002
July 2002
August 2002
September 2002
October 2002
November 2002
December 2002
January 2003
February 2003
March 2003
April 2003
May 2003
June 2003
July 2003
August 2003
September 2003
October 2003
November 2003
December 2003
January 2004
February 2004
March 2004
April 2004
May 2004
June 2004
July 2004
August 2004
September 2004
October 2004
November 2004
December 2004
January 2005
February 2005
March 2005
April 2005
May 2005
June 2005
July 2005
August 2005
September 2005
October 2005
November 2005
December 2005
January 2006
February 2006
March 2006
April 2006
May 2006
June 2006
July 2006
August 2006
September 2006
October 2006
November 2006
December 2006
January 2007
February 2007
March 2007
April 2007
May 2007
June 2007
July 2007
August 2007
September 2007
October 2007
November 2007
December 2007
January 2008
February 2008
March 2008
April 2008
May 2008
June 2008
July 2008
August 2008
September 2008
October 2008
November 2008
December 2008
January 2009
February 2009
March 2009
April 2009
June 2009
July 2009

.  .  .  .  .  .  .  .


MORE FOCUSED BLATHERINGS


Travels:
London '01
Pamplona
Italy '03
U.K. '03
Sevilla
Casablanca
Stoke-on-Trent
Barcelona
Québec/Ottawa
Boston/Lisbon/Madrid
Italy '04
Montréal
La Sierra

Events:
Madrid -- arrival
9/11
Emergency Room I
Holidays 2001
Holidays 2002
Holidays 2003
Holidays 2004
Holidays 2005
A neighbor's passing
Madrid -- March 11 bombings
  and aftermath
Emergency Room II
Israeli friend/Madrid Marathon
Madrid -- Royal Wedding
The DELE exam

GONE, a novel:
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10

THE BASTARD CHILDREN OF
JOE ROCCO, a novella:
-- Part 1
-- Part 2
-- Part 3

BURBANK SHRUGGED,
a screenplay:
-- Part 1
-- Part 2
-- Part 3
-- Part 4

Short stories:
Murphy's Wife
Another Autumn
La Queja de Una
  Hermanastra Muy Conocida

Autobiography
-- Personal History
-- Hormones On Parade
-- Accidents, Random Mishaps,
    Personal Problems

.  .  .  .  .  .  .  .


OTHER SOURCES OF WHOLESOME ENTERTAINMENT

People/Weblogs:
dooce
foxvox
fudge it
fear not
rebekka
bookslut
802online
idle words
madhaiku
wockerjabby
grow-a-brain
rebel market
letting me be
out and about
kung fu grippe
fanatical apathy
baghdad burning
wfuv's music blog
kexp's music blog
mimi smartypants
between the miles
just a hippie gypsy
the impossible cool
tomato can brushes
vermont homestead
sugar mountain farm

Good Clean Fun:
gizmodo
futurismic
postsecret
dave barry
human clock
mcsweeney's
spaceweather
book-a-minute
internet archive
self-portrait day
my cat hates you
out of context quotes
surrealist compliment
  generator
strindberg and helium

Makin' Musical Whoopee:
last fm
stereo8
pandora
soma fm

.  .  .  .  .  .  .  .


ABOUT RWS/CONTACT





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