Homeward Bound

ISSUE #13

We've started moving out of our apartment this week, so that nightmare is beginning all over again. That's just the way it is for the renter. At mercy of the lease and the landlord, and neither give a shit if you're comfortable. You drift between these adult orphanages, hoping just once you'll find one where the walls aren't oozing. If you can't... well, better luck next time. Last year, a family of cockroaches were living rent-free in our kitchen. This year, we lived with no heat, a roof that leaked, and a landlord who never answered. Safe to assume our new place comes with a ghoul chained in the basement, which sucks because there's no way I can afford to feed him his daily blood tithe.

From this turmoil, a question bubbles: what does it mean to find home? It comes from my roommate, Gabe, who suggested a playlist on what it means to carve your own space out of thin air. It's something I've never accomplished. All my homes were made for me before I'd even arrived - by parents, by universities, by women (sorry). Once we hit eighteen, we all start drifting, drifting forever, and the triteness of knowing it's coming leaves us completely unprepared for how real that struggle is. It's hard to understand how far away the nest is until you look up and all you see is leaves.

Some people are blessed enough to never have to leave, to be born in a place that has everything they need. In this house, we call that Privilege of Place. Luck of Location. It acts as a shield for the insecurities that children of the Midwest go through, repeatedly reminded that their part of the world isn't good enough to call home. The rural with dreams are compelled to leave more forcefully than others, the magnets of the majestic coasts appearing in everything from SNL to wall-calendars. When you leave, at first, it's an adventure. Unlike the Odyssey, however, you soon realize no author or story structure is intent on bringing you home, and before long you worry you might always be lost. You're rootless - when you're away from home, people assume you're from Nowhere; if you return, your home has changed (or you have). This is why Theon is my favorite character, something that makes even clergy want to fight me.

Maybe those stakes are the things that make it all worthwhile, and maybe the cycle of adaptation and subsequent boredom is simply built into human nature. We used to spend most of our time on the hunt, maybe settling has always been antithetical to what we are. You look to the horizon, not at your feet. I built the playlist to follow that narrative. I started with the cramped longings of "Hollow Bedroom" and "I Need a Life," journeyed through the act of striking out on your own with "Let's Get Out of Here" and "Road to Nowhere," then started the homesickness of Act II with "Helpless" (I can never hear Neil Young without thinking of my mom).

The Second Act ends with "Heartbreaking," which I included because even the heart's deepest despair tends to soften into its finest memories, which is what I experienced watching Twin Peaks: The Return last year. I had nothing but darkness and debt to think about, and Lynch provided me with some of my only solace. In the day-to-day, I was miserable, but as I look back now, what I most prominently remember is how emotionally raw everything was, and how that space allowed me to love even more deeply the good things I experienced. If all that gets to be too much for you, look to Act III, which starts with "The Move," and reaches finally for the coping and acceptance necessary to those who may be too afraid of what they need.

For other tangible cures to homesickness that aren't this playlist, I recommend gardening. To encourage and cultivate the beauty inherent in this world connects you to a brighter future, and sharing it with the world gives you the same pride you get from a nice haircut. It keeps your heart healthy. My most effective remedy, however, is to clean. To exist in a tidy space is to apply an order to your universe, and, as Leonard Cohen said, keeping your house in order is a spiritual act.

Finally, as grueling as it may be, you are always free to move if you're ever confined, or out of place. The world is ours to wander through, no matter what the wall-builders try to tell us. We should never need permission to try something new.