Home

When we are stricken and cannot bear our lives any longer, then a tree has something to say to us: Be still! Be still! Look at me! Life is not easy, life is not difficult. Those are childish thoughts. Let God speak within you, and your thoughts will grow silent. You are anxious because your path leads away from mother and home. But every step and every day lead you back again to the mother. Home is neither here nor there. Home is within you, or home is nowhere at all. - Bäume. Betrachtungen und Gedichte, Hesse

Home is a difficult concept for me to grasp. Is it internal or external? Both? Does it involve more than me? Other people? Does a partner help? Should a partner help? Understandably life shouldn't be binary as easy or difficult because there are moments where it could be both or neither at the same time, or transitory where it's one then the other.

Is it a physical location? Something more? Does time help develop and construct a home? Can there be more than one? Should there be a concept of home? Is it too complacent to have a home?

I was bicoastal for a short period of time; living in Seattle and also having a house in Philadelphia I would visit periodically along with my parents' residence in north New Jersey. I've been in Seattle for a year and granted my roots are starting to take water and grow, I'm unsure I could call it "home." I enjoy the activities despite the lack of art cities like Philadelphia, New York, Chicago, LA or Boston can provide. I'm healthier and career wise, there are opportunities but I if were asked if Seattle is my home, I couldn't confidently answer "yes" despite in the process of purchasing a condo. It's my current residence, yes, but a home, I'm still reluctant.

For a while, I considered Philadelphia my home though not sure when it started. After high school, I went to college at Temple University in 2005 and stayed till August 2012; seven years. I was familiar with Philadelphia; I had and have friends in Philadelphia; I knew the neighborhoods and their demographics; I knew the restaurants and their offerings; I had my weekly rituals; I had a house. I'm unable to pinpoint when the breaking point was when I thought Philadelphia was my home; at some moment I had likely, with ease, imagined myself to establish strong roots in Philadelphia and grow with the city. However, after moving to Seattle, with every trip back, Philadelphia felt less and less like a home.



My story isn't pleasant, it's not sweet and harmonious like the invented stories; it tastes of folly and bewilderment, of madness and dream, like the life of all people who no longer want to lie to themselves. - Demian, Hesse

Bitter Cruelty

“I was helpless in trying to return people's kindness, but also helpless to resist it. Kindness is a scarier force than cruelty, that's for sure. Cruelty isn't that hard to understand. I had no trouble comprehending why the phone company wanted to screw me over; they just wanted to steal some money, it was nothing personal. That's the way of the world. It made me mad, but it didn't make me feel stupid. If anything, it flattered my intelligence. Accepting all that kindness, though, made me feel stupid.

Human benevolence is totally unfair. We don't live in a kind or generous world, yet we are kind and generous. We know the universe is out to burn us, and it gets us all the way it got Renee, but we don't burn each other, not always. We are kind people in an unkind world, to paraphrase Wallace Stevens. How do you pretend you don't know about it, after you see it? How do you go back to acting like you don't need it? How do you even the score and walk off a free man? You can't. I found myself forced to let go of all sorts of independence I thought I had, independence I had spent years trying to cultivate. That world was all gone, and now I was a supplicant, dependent on the mercy of other people's psychic hearts.” 
― Rob Sheffield, Love is a Mix Tape

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“People speak sometimes about the "bestial" cruelty of man, but that is terribly unjust and offensive to beasts, no animal could ever be so cruel as a man, so artfully, so artistically cruel.” 
― Fyodor Dostoyevsky

__________

You, others, and me are all roots of the blame I have towards my parent's being robbed this morning.

My philadelphia house door ajar, my mother's purse visible from the street, the purveyor of classical racism acted on his impulse, ran into the house to take the bag, and ran back out. My father, seeing the act, ran after him. The purveyor falls, my father falls and scraps his knee and the palms of his hands while my mother runs as fast as she could behind screaming, "help help."

The perpetrator finally gave up and left the purse on the stoop and ran into a hiding space - whether it was his space or a friend, irrelevant.

Yes, it was agreeably foolish to think the neighborhood safe to leave the door open while the parents tried to transfer the luggage from the house to the car. Yes, the neighborhood isn't a pristine gated community. Yes, had my friends been more careful to care for the house my parents wouldn't frequent the house and expose themselves more to this gray environment. Yes, I should have been more attentive in rectifying my living situation in Philly before I leave. There are so many things I could point to but at the end of the day, I feel responsible. At the end of the day, there are so many action items I need to carry out and so many questions opened that aren't easy to close.

Despite all this, John asked me whether I want to punch the guy out for putting my parents and my little nine year old brother through this, interestingly enough I couldn't find an ounce of harbored violence towards the thief. I don't empathize for him, I do not feel curious or sadden whether he got hurt during his fall.

What I do feel is a sadness. A sadness that something unfortunate has been carried out for all parties involved. A sadness that my parents, in their old age, is caring for my assets when they really shouldn't be. A sadness that my nine year old's brother is tainted with this image of a city and it's lurking danger. A sadness that my parents fear might turn to resentment of their fear, an unsettled retribution.