My Disappearing HomeIt is hoped that we think about certain things our whole lives. We do not move to new places, meet new people, and carry on without ever wanting to connect our old lives to our new ones. I have to believe in the human tendency to incorporate new knowledge into a familiar schema.
I was born in a small suburban town outside of Dallas, Texas. The house in which I was raised is cracked, and altered, and everything about it is so jammed or defunct that people who have not been trained by a longtime resident cannot successfully lock the door, turn on the lamps, close the mustard yellow refrigerator, and so on. Our pasts are private, crumbling things that require this private finesse within us to light them up. It is hard to convey something so miniscule. As a general rule, I don't like meeting people I don't know. When it is necessary, I am always glad to have made the acquaintance but I wind up repeating one of my own remarks under my breath to see how many times it will make me wince as I consider that I said this to someone I just met. "Eight times. I wonder if that is below the threshold of being a noticeably stupid remark." A single monologue answer that contains our whole lives in shorthand is the standard for meeting new people in this world, something like, "I grew up in Utah but now I am a masseuse. I met our mutual acquaintance David at the State Fair." However I tend to prefer people who still, after so many years, seem unprepared or incapable of telling someone about themselves. It shows a person is trying to give a genuine response to a baffling question, one right up there with "What are you doing right now?" and "Who journeys there beneath the heather?" Perhaps it is some sign of a cluttered mind, but I breathe the same sigh of relief when I see another person who leads a cluttered life, because I will feel at ease around them and cozy in his or her tableau of juxtaposed objects. Frankly I too have never felt the compulsion to hide the things I own, and only my shelved items ever know the privilege of organization. But about these curious strangers who want to define us: They do not know the meaning of the things we might like to point out about ourselves. The entire discomfort of that demand "Tell me about yourself" lies in trying to look over the inquirer and figure out what would pass for interesting response. My life is so rich and vivid with glowing mornings, sweet-smelling Christmases, beloved pets and childhood secrets I forgot without ever divulging. But I come from a small suburban town outside of Texas, grown in a house that is crumbling now, and if it is night time the visitors have no hope of turning on one of the finnicky lamps that require my fine-tuned touch. I am still baffled by my own circumstances, even the insignificant ones. |