On the bus an older lady and little girl get up and move from their front row seats for a man in a wheelchair. The lady tucks into the last open seat on the outside of a pair, the little girl holding her hand, unseated. An older man across the aisle slides over to give his spot to the little girl. She looks at the stranger and starts to cry. Her lady pulls her close - keeping her safe from the stranger but allowing her to stand, half between her lady's lap and the seat, and half in the aisle.
Another lady comes down from the back and takes the open seat next to the man - she must be family, because the first lady hands the little girl over to her and she picks her up and holds her enclosed in her arms - next to the man but now safe from him. At home among strangers.
Of course one could argue that the ideal thing would be to teach the little girl not to be afraid, and not to expect someone to keep her safe. But then again, maybe she has that luxury. Some people do.
It'll probably just be another moment none of them remembers anyway.
It only matters to me because I saw something in that moment. I saw the raising, the social education, of the modern american woman. I saw fear, perhaps unnecessary fear - depends on the stranger. Or is that just my own fear talking? No, no, it happens. Everything happens to somebody.
I have to be careful not to let myself get carried away by what I wish was reality - that's the curse of positivism. That's the problem with belief. And then I swing so hard in the other direction - or is that just in contrast to society's hyper positive position?
I just want to be where I can be completely myself.
To be myself without insulting anyone. Without boring anyone. Without depressing anyone.
Without having to fight them. Without feeling it is my personal responsibility to refute them.
Or at least to be able to do so from the distance of a computer - that way physical violence is an impossibility.
I must have seen two hundred houses yesterday. I walked and wound through neighborhoods from Hawthorn to Hollywood. I was down on Foster where things seem up-and-coming (there are cafes and late night shops selling board games among the convenience stores and concrete that reminds me of 82nd). I was seeing an apartment there - I'm still unsure if I'll take it. Bused up to Hawthorn where every ten steps is some whimsical surprise or picture perfect hipster and started walking - searching for apartment buildings hidden among the homes of every imaginable size, color, architecture.
These houses are beautiful. Each one has a personality of its own. You imagine the inhabitants. You imagine the background stories. A million dollhouses. All those homes I built in The Sims as a kid, come to life. Some of the homes are so big that I am skeptical as to whether a single family could even occupy the whole thing. A home so tremendous it must have four families in it - but an old fashioned car makes me think otherwise. How do you even have enough stuff to fill out all those rooms? How do you even have time to use it?
I wonder to myself: what the hell did they do to get a place like that? How?
I catch myself feeling surprisingly hateful and angry when I see a giant mess through their big beautiful bay windows - what a waste, what a waste. And I say that being a mess myself. (Please let me grow out of all the things I hate about myself...)
My heart leaps at the sight of an attic window, especially the ones that sit above porches with wind chimes and rocking chairs. With touches of care and beauty and good taste. Vines and flowers spread across a yard, a swing hangs from a tall evergreen, a cat paws the moss on a rooftop - I imagine being inside - you could forget entirely that you were in the middle of a city.
Along the sidewalks little libraries and notes on telephone poles and sweet small shops and coffee spots that sell bicycle bells. With the sun peaking through the clouds, a burst of heat, someone's art sculpture garden tinging in the breeze, casting rainbow shadows along the ground through broken beer bottles rearranged into mobiles of jewel colored glass; you feel so pleasant you could almost fall in love.
They tell us we'll want children when we're older, but so far I just want a place of my own.
A place I can be myself without hurting anybody's feelings.
A place where I can imagine the world is exactly how I think it is
and it could be exactly how I wish it would be.
I wonder if that's what we all want, no matter what it is we believe.
If that's what 'feeling at home' means - or could.
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