HOME
I’ve been thinking about home a lot lately. Not necessarily my home in San Francisco, a place that will always be my home, but what makes home, a home, my home. I was supposed to have headed back to SF by now, having set myself up for only three months away, and I have decided to extend my travels, settling into a new home in Buenos Aires for the time being. I had the good fortune to stumble into the opportunity of renting a family’s city flat (they live in the country), and I don’t live in a neighborhood full of foreigners anymore. I am set to experience a new level of this city, my temporary home.
Or do I carry my home with me? I am considering where I want to make my home, what makes sense for me and my goals, professional and personal. San Francisco is a place populated mostly by those who’ve come from elsewhere, who find it liberating and accepting of all their freaky ways. I grew up in that, stewed in that for 30 years. Whenever I complained about home in the past, my father’s response was, “Can I help it if you were born in the best place on earth?”
What I miss most are the living things: my nephews, growing up so fast, as children do, my cats, my furry companions, my family and friends, trusted and known, relationships cured by time, and then my tools, my speakers, my external monitors. Heh. And the ocean, of course. Whenever I’ve lived far from it, I dream of the ocean. And I think of the view from my fantastic apartment downtown. I was able to peak at The Bay from my window, such a score that apartment was when I found it, my private tower.
Yet, I survive without the constant influence of these things, and my own desires are louder here. Perhaps it’s time to move from the place I’ve called home, make the move towards liberation and acceptance of my freaky ways elsewhere… For now, I’ve found a new home in Argentina, populated by just me and my computer, my primary tool. There’s really nowhere to run from myself here, so the task of facing all my less beautiful parts is upon me. Sure, I can surround myself with others, chase new experiences, fall into observer-mode with my limited vocabulary, but when I come home at night (or in the morning, as the case may be)… I’m alone again. And I guess, really, that’s home.
