Author Archives: james

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About james

hoyden will follow the free tendencies of desire hoyden is a pill dropped in a glass of water hoyden is an illusion on a surface of memory hoyden is a finger resting on the controls of a broken machine hoyden turns as she pleases toward all horizons hoyden is perfect sadism, at least as a method hoyden is a beautiful chimera hoyden crouches to intercept shadows hoyden is not in the habit of saluting the dead hoyden will always find buyers hoyden is at most a thinking reed hoyden writes sad and ardent love letters hoyden is a door someone opened hoyden is a dark intention hoyden never waits for itself hoyden leaves an exquisite corpse

thanks

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There is a meme going around where people post (on Facebook and the like) “28 Days of Thanks” and write each day about something for which they are thankful.
At first, I thought it was a little annoying because some folks were writing things like “I’m thankful for being a nice person”, but then some friends wrote things like “I’m thankful for my family” and I got to thinking about it and realized that this is a practice that is not foreign to me.

Almost a year ago, I first moved to the small town in which I now reside, I put a bowl in my windowsill, a little pad of paper and a pen next to it. Each day I would write something on one of the pieces of paper about something that pleased me that day. I was determined, that even if I had a bad day, that there was something in which I could find a bit of pleasure or happiness. It was a great exercise that I unfortunately stopped doing some months ago out of nothing more exciting than forgetfulness.

The idea for “28 Days of Thanks” is to write one thing you are thankful for each day.
Today, I had two things that were rumbling around my head:

I have been working a lot lately and it’s been making me a bit grumpy at times. But the fact is, I am supremely thankful to have employment. Being out of work, or underemployed, is ridiculously stressful, and I am thankful for not having that stressor right now.

My friends are wonderful. I am so lucky to have such amazing people in my life. They have helped me move multiple times all my boxes, tools, and concrete gargoyle Zim, they have taken care of my critters when I’ve been out-of-town, they have answered my anxious calls at 1:30am. They have kept me fed, curled up with me, and kept me company on twisty rides.

Those are my two for today.
I hope you have some too.

Thank you for reading my ramblings.

.

travel

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I dislike flying, but I really like airports. I happily arrive more than the one hour recommended pre-flight. In the process of looking at the Big Board for my gate number, I peruse all the other flights. Where else could I go? What other flights to unique and interesting places are departing around the same time as my scheduled flight? I consider throwing caution to the wind and I want to jump onto some random trip to a foreign-to-me location instead of my regularly scheduled program.

Instead, I find my gate and commandeer a somewhat comfortable spot (usually on the floor next to an outlet lest my iPad run out of battery and I can’t watch a movie on the plane. Whatever did I do before this technology? Read those archaic wood pulp things called ‘books’?)

People watching is one of my favorite past times and airports are some of the best places to do this. Especially big international airports like John F Kennedy airport in New York. This huge city is home of some of the most diverse clusters of people anywhere on this planet. It amazes me that not only do all these people manage to move around each other with relative ease, they are often friendly and helpful. From the outside, one would easily assume that the small over populated Island of Manhattan would be less like a helpful community of oddly synchronized and interesting individuals, but more like hungry, angry rats scrabbling for the last bits of bread. The movie “Escape from New York” comes to mind.

JFK is a microcosm of the boroughs it borders. There are travelers from all over the world. They are transported by lengths of people movers and caffeine. At each gate there is a (cell phone) charging station. I’ve seen more than a few people plug their phones in and walk away, only to return a short time later to retrieve their phones. I am too paranoid to do this. Obviously, I am not a native New Yorker.
While there is definitely an overload of crime here, there is also a distinct faith in an honesty of human nature that includes a friendliness we usually think is reserved for Rockwellian small towns.

As I people-watch, I switch from wondering to what new travel spot I could go, to considering the people I’m seeing. That guy with the snappy pointy wing-tips, t-shirt, and sport jacket…the woman with the stroller and squalling grub seated inside (I hope they aren’t on my flight!)… the man sitting next to me madly typing away at his laptop, a spreadsheet and email open on the monitor. I wonder about their lives and from where they came, and to where they are going.

My people watching stops as soon as I board the plane. I crawl into my headphones and concentrate on my media as distraction from the noisy, crowded, and sometimes bumpy flight.

home

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I’ve been somewhat of a nomad most of my life. Growing up, my mom and I moved every few years for a while. We finally settled in with my grandparents where I stayed for my longest stretch of time at six years. In my adult life, the longest I lived in one city was for eight years. But during those eight years, I lived in six places.
I can’t seem to sit still for too long.

Since I visit so infrequently, the town where my mom still resides that I have always called “home” feels like it is losing its nostalgic grip on me.
When I started to realize this, it scared me a bit.
If that isn’t ‘home’, then where is?

What makes a place a “home”? Where you have friends and community? Is it where you reside? Where you have your job? Is it where your birth-family lives or the town you grew up in? Technology makes the idea of “community” much broader than it was even as recently as my childhood. I have friends all over the world with whom I’m in touch with almost daily. However, there is definitely a difference between my online communications and spending physical time with local friends.

How does one make a place their home? If a person loses their job, why do they struggle to stay in their same locale instead of seeking employment elsewhere?
Is it because moving sucks? It’s a pain in the ass. An awful lot of us have friends in many cities, so having a social outlet probably isn’t too difficult if moving becomes necessary. We usually adapt and adjust fairly quickly to new surroundings, and yet, the struggle is there to stay put. To stay at ‘home’.

I queried a friend of mine yesterday why he’s stayed in Prescott for so many years. He said because he loves that he can go out and usually run into someone he knows. He has some uniquely good friends here, the weather is great, and the countryside is beautiful and easily accessible. I asked him why he didn’t move to a place like Boulder, Colorado. Sounds similar, right? He said he might like it there, but this is where he is and it fits.

But there are a lot of places like that. I’ve lived in a few cities where I’d move back and settle in for a while if there was cause. Having the knowledge that I could go anywhere makes me feel unsettled at times – like I have no solid home base. I have some truly wonderful friends in the town where I now reside. Does one choose to make a place their home and set about creating it consciously, or does it just happen? One day you look back and realize that you’ve been in a place for so many years and have built a community of friends and have history in that location – that you have unwittingly created a home.

Is home as Robert Frost wrote in his poem “The Death of the Hired Man”?

‘Home is the place where, when you have to go there,
They have to take you in.’

(or perhaps it is more like what The Tick says:
“Interviewer: Well, can you… destroy the world?
Tick: Egad! I hope not! That’s where I keep all my stuff!”)