15 April 2013

hooked On Matheson

I'm currently reading Button, Button (uncanny stories) by Richard Matheson and it's fantastic.

I'm on the short story "Mute" and I want to go on but I can't get past,
Sounds could cover fragile, darting symbols with a hideous, restraining dough, dough that would be baked in ovens of articulation, then chopped into the stunted lengths of words.

I could never have even conceived of such word combinations, let alone the concept behind them. Matheson crafts language in a way that makes my own word-smithing look like the scribbles of a child.

 If you ever get a chance to read Matheson's short story, "Pattern for Survival" you should, because it's fabulous.

06 April 2013

transplant Transition

It's good to have a home. Yet, I still find it hard to relax into it.

I've lived a nomadic life for years. My entire adult life, in fact. It was perhaps under the guise of permanence, but underneath it all, I knew better.

Everywhere I've been since I was 18 has been temporary. Everything I owned could be stuffed into my car; boxed up and carried away. I kept boxes at the ready and spent my life waiting until it was time to leave again. Eight years, just short of a decade, of transience.

After uprooting myself the first two or three times, I just decided to stop putting down roots.

How many times did I move in those eight years? ...1...2...3...11. Eleven times, including this last move.

The last two or three years I struggled with an elusive wander-lust and an ache for a home that didn't exist. I had called many places "home" but I had never felt that I was home. I was searching for a feeling that I hadn't felt in so long, I wasn't entirely sure I would know it when I found it again.

Now I find myself in a situation of solidarity. The promise of permanence. I have received my cue to get comfortable, settle in and set up a root system.

Truly, I'm thrilled beyond words. This is what I've waited for. This is what I've been looking for.

But it's still hard to put down roots. It's hard to trust that the ground beneath me will still be here a year from now. Six months from now. One month from now. It's the only way I know how to think.

There are no assurances I could ask for that have not already been received.

I'm surprised at how unnatural this feels.

I've seen plants thrive in the flower pot, but upon being transplanted to the raw soil of Mother earth, the system goes into shock and fails.

I do not anticipate failure, but I understand now the shock.