You can't go home again
Or so says Thomas Wolfe. Thomas Wolfe said a lot of things; I like to call these things "crap." He may be an essential writer of the American canon, blah, blah, blah -- whatever, I'm not a fan. I can pinpoint the start of my disdain for fiction to Look Homeward Angel. The most lasting memory I have of that torturous read is Wolfe ending every chapter with "O lost!" Wee bit over the top, don't you think, Thomas? I know nothing can go your way and that's very tragic and all, but calm the fuck down.
The only redeeming quality of Look Homeward Angel, besides its top-notch paperweight abilities, is that it piqued my interest in literary criticism. What a wonderful way to make a living -- read all sorts of garbage and rip it apart. If you tell me there's more to criticism than that, I won't believe you.
The most memorable commentary I read on Look Homeward Angel completely ignored the novel itself. Instead, this critic, one of Wolfe's contemporaries, spent more time on Wolfe's odd personal habits, citing how he had his tailor cut out the crotch of his slacks (*least favorite word alert*) and patch the hole with a softer, thinner fabric so that Wolfe may better rub himself throughout the day. Now, that's good critiquin'.
Anyway, while I've been running around western Montana, I've been thinking about that phrase, "You can't go home again." (Oh yeah, I always have American writers on the mind. I think about Noam Chomsky's quote,"If we choose, we can live in a world of comforting illusion", while I do the dishes.) (That, of course, is a big fat lie. I really ponder, "Colorless green ideas sleep furiously."). I'm not sure if Montana was necessarily my home in the first place. After all, I only lived here during college; still, that was almost four years. I consider it more my home than everywhere else I've lived, with the exception of Florida (where my actual home, parent's home, bank account, job and car are).
I came back here last summer for a wedding (where I was the minister. For a small fee, you, too, can be married by BPW. Unlike most other ministers, I won't tell you how to live your life, plus I'll show a lot of cleavage during the ceremony.). I was all caught up in the wedding hoopla then, so I didn't notice this strange feeling as much...this strange feeling of "Okay, I used to live here. I've had some important life experiences here. Why do I feel like I should not be here?"
On an unrelated note, these thoughts have alternated with the constant question, "Where are all the old people? Did they all find cocoons?” Everywhere I look, there are young unwrinkled faces (actually, this dry western air causes premature wrinkling, but we shan't dwell on that fine point...or crease), and not a single AARP member in sight. Walking down the street and feeling like the most senior person around is a new sensation for me. In Florida, most of the women on any given street have hairdos older than me.
So, I feel out of place. I don't think that means I can't come back here again, but I do think that it means I can't come back here and expect everything to be the same as when I left. For one, everyone I ever knew at any point in time ever is married. That kind of makes me feel losery. (Perhaps, and I'm just guessing here, perhaps it is because I live in God's Waiting Room that I don't have a mate. I might fare better in a town with 6,000 men ages 18-30, conveniently placed in one location, for my enjoyment.). I'll just have to learn to appreciate this place as a (gasp!) tourist now.
I've got to skedaddle and call up the people who are supposed to pick up my futon and microwave. Great website if you are looking to get rid of crap or get new crap: freecycle.org. I listed the items in my storage unit and within 12 hours everything was spoken for. It costs me nothing, costs them nothing, and prevents me from taking the journey to the landfill.
Most exciting and/or questionable items in my storage unit:
1. My journal from 1996-1999. If you are into meaningless high school drama, this is the book for you. I highly recommend it.
2. Old shampoo. Why did I take the time to box this up? If it wasn't important enough for me to bring with me, why didn't I throw it away? Did I think when I finally cleaned out my unit that I would be so destitute that I wouldn't be able to afford new shampoo?
3. Love letters from an exboyfriend. What is funny is that I don't remember him writing love letters at all. It's not like I opened a box, saw the letters, and said, "Oh yeah!". It was more like, "Who are these from? Really, C. wrote me letters? When did he give these to me? I didn't know that he could read, let alone write."
Exciting stuff here, folks, exciting stuff.
The only redeeming quality of Look Homeward Angel, besides its top-notch paperweight abilities, is that it piqued my interest in literary criticism. What a wonderful way to make a living -- read all sorts of garbage and rip it apart. If you tell me there's more to criticism than that, I won't believe you.
The most memorable commentary I read on Look Homeward Angel completely ignored the novel itself. Instead, this critic, one of Wolfe's contemporaries, spent more time on Wolfe's odd personal habits, citing how he had his tailor cut out the crotch of his slacks (*least favorite word alert*) and patch the hole with a softer, thinner fabric so that Wolfe may better rub himself throughout the day. Now, that's good critiquin'.
Anyway, while I've been running around western Montana, I've been thinking about that phrase, "You can't go home again." (Oh yeah, I always have American writers on the mind. I think about Noam Chomsky's quote,"If we choose, we can live in a world of comforting illusion", while I do the dishes.) (That, of course, is a big fat lie. I really ponder, "Colorless green ideas sleep furiously."). I'm not sure if Montana was necessarily my home in the first place. After all, I only lived here during college; still, that was almost four years. I consider it more my home than everywhere else I've lived, with the exception of Florida (where my actual home, parent's home, bank account, job and car are).
I came back here last summer for a wedding (where I was the minister. For a small fee, you, too, can be married by BPW. Unlike most other ministers, I won't tell you how to live your life, plus I'll show a lot of cleavage during the ceremony.). I was all caught up in the wedding hoopla then, so I didn't notice this strange feeling as much...this strange feeling of "Okay, I used to live here. I've had some important life experiences here. Why do I feel like I should not be here?"
On an unrelated note, these thoughts have alternated with the constant question, "Where are all the old people? Did they all find cocoons?” Everywhere I look, there are young unwrinkled faces (actually, this dry western air causes premature wrinkling, but we shan't dwell on that fine point...or crease), and not a single AARP member in sight. Walking down the street and feeling like the most senior person around is a new sensation for me. In Florida, most of the women on any given street have hairdos older than me.
So, I feel out of place. I don't think that means I can't come back here again, but I do think that it means I can't come back here and expect everything to be the same as when I left. For one, everyone I ever knew at any point in time ever is married. That kind of makes me feel losery. (Perhaps, and I'm just guessing here, perhaps it is because I live in God's Waiting Room that I don't have a mate. I might fare better in a town with 6,000 men ages 18-30, conveniently placed in one location, for my enjoyment.). I'll just have to learn to appreciate this place as a (gasp!) tourist now.
I've got to skedaddle and call up the people who are supposed to pick up my futon and microwave. Great website if you are looking to get rid of crap or get new crap: freecycle.org. I listed the items in my storage unit and within 12 hours everything was spoken for. It costs me nothing, costs them nothing, and prevents me from taking the journey to the landfill.
Most exciting and/or questionable items in my storage unit:
1. My journal from 1996-1999. If you are into meaningless high school drama, this is the book for you. I highly recommend it.
2. Old shampoo. Why did I take the time to box this up? If it wasn't important enough for me to bring with me, why didn't I throw it away? Did I think when I finally cleaned out my unit that I would be so destitute that I wouldn't be able to afford new shampoo?
3. Love letters from an exboyfriend. What is funny is that I don't remember him writing love letters at all. It's not like I opened a box, saw the letters, and said, "Oh yeah!". It was more like, "Who are these from? Really, C. wrote me letters? When did he give these to me? I didn't know that he could read, let alone write."
Exciting stuff here, folks, exciting stuff.
posted by BPDubs at 9:32 AM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home