Daydreams and A Home That Never Existed

I sit on an imaginary hill that probably exists somewhere in this country and remember the time I sat on a train from Brussels to Amsterdam, thinking, this is why Rembrandt painted. Skies here hang low, the sun shines orange, the grass is lush. And somewhere in the stratosphere, a dandelion seed finds itself in the ether. It thinks, maybe this is my home.

But what is home to someone whose home is everywhere, and thus nowhere? Your apartment changes. Your friends move away to New York City. To Milan. To Bangalore. To The Bank in London. They put on suits and a face, or they put on jeans and a backpack.

Space and time.

She said, it doesn’t matter where I live. I’m excellent at becoming a part of strangers’ lives. I am beautiful and people love me. My job gives me money to spend and my job’s salary depends on where I’m stationed and frankly, I’ve had the better end of capitalism. Family is a concept I adhere to reluctantly, but sometimes I feel I’ve been orphaned while having four parents.

In a way, my only real constant home is the cybersphere. People have followed me for years, and they’ve watched my thoughts and my smiles for longer than anyone in my life. So fuck you Plato, fuck you and your cave. When the cave becomes more real than reality, then it’s time you call off your Pygmalion experiments. I am more real and more wholesome on my monitor.

The pessimist leaves. A cup of Rooibos and I talk to Dani about how we want to finally settle down. Buy furniture that’s not assembled. Not have cardboard boxes and immigration-size suitcases become part of our décor just because we don’t know what will happen next year. To own dinner sets, with curry saucers and egg whisks and plates with decorated rims. To be a minimalist by our choosing and not our of practicality. To not be perpetually aware of the shipping rates for parcels in the country we live in. To not have to write down your bank codes and names because you keep opening new accounts every six months.To have a bar you can call your “regular spot”.

But whether it is a dream that is fully mine, or something that popped into my head as “fun” just because I have never tried it, I do not know.

 

 

 

 

All boundaries are conventions

“So, here you are
too foreign for home
too foreign for here.
Never enough for both.”

Poem: Fragment from “Diaspora Blues” by Ijeoma Umebinyuo
from Questions for Ada (2015)

Sixsmith. I climb the steps of the Scott Monument every morning and all becomes clear. Wish I could make you see this brightness. Don’t worry, all is well. All is so perfectly, damnably well. I understand now that boundaries between noise and sound are conventions. All boundaries are conventions, waiting to be transcended. One may transcend any convention if only one can first conceive of doing so. Moments like this, I can feel your heart beating as clearly as I feel my own, and I know that separation is an illusion. My life extends far beyond the limitations of me.