Saturday, April 4, 2015
I resort to metaphor because this thing, my consuming lust for place, is unspeakable. Not unspeakable in the sense of shameful, but unspeakable as in we -simply?- don't speak of it. Friends don't mention it. Literature leaves me hanging. Am I the only one?
I try to rein it in with adjectives: My desire for this place is obsessive and exuberant, fine-grained and big-boned, anxious and ecstatic. I ache for my place when I'm away; I ache for my place when I'm home. The press of it, the weight of its memories, is in my mouth and on my hands and in my head -my place with its taproot and its branches and its bright bursts of green and flame.
More metaphor. Can't we speak plainly? I love this town. I want to be here. I can't. It hurts.
I try to walk it off. But walking is how you make love to a place, how you press and impress and are pressed and impressed until you can't tell what from where.
As always, I land here. Some particular corner of there and then: the road I rode so fast my bike went head over heels and left me half-dipped in blood; the wilderness I dreamed behind the wire and scrub; where I went to cry at 19 and at 9 and 26. Sometimes there were berries. I haven't seen the spot in years.
Still, it hurts.