So I have to make do. I have been forced into a state of “home is where the heart is”. In the effort to conserve my happiness supply, I am officially a nomad. My home is where I am. Right now my home is on an airplane, in a holding pattern,(negotiated) window seat. I despise aisle seats. Especially when the middle seat is occupied. The stray arms, bags and asses that knock into my shoulder, head, arms and locs...Good Lord... it's just too much for this mostly calm yet eagerly excitable Bull......... "eagerly excitable" Does that make sense because I know what I mean but do you?
As I am already a bit on edge and distraught at this pilgrimage of sorts….. what’s causing a bit of an annoying distraction to my suspended state of belief of home being home no more, is the man who occupies the seat next to me..well thankfully..next, next to me. He has the aisle seat. He is the keeper of the key to my exit. I am trapped next to a sedentary mountain man. With his salt and pepper beard and Darrell Gwynn (car) racing cap. The courteous and thoughtful parts of me sometimes really get in the way. I usually wait until the aisle seat gets up for his or her walk or trip to the bathroom……this dude is not about movement. And his hateful energy is kicking my ass. I’m not saying he hates me. But he’s definitely suffering from some sort of ethnicius hatius virus. Poor thing. It oozes from his pores. I can smell it and see it. Every other capillary in his pale face is ruptured (gross) It is in my opinion these things come about if not genetically or from alcohol, then by advocating hate and contempt for your fellow man for no real reason besides a quiet, hidden inner jealousy. He takes naps and then continues with his choice of plane reading material: “His Excellency” a book about George Washington. Who owned more slaves than honest, "cherry-tree chopping", George Washington? .......not Thomas Jefferson ..Not Andrew Jackson. Apparently George Washington owned 316 at his time of death. Sounds about right to me. Although there are certainly a lot of Jacksons and Jeffersons in da' hood. But I digress...
I need this guy to move. I need to handle my business. There is still one more hour left on this flight. But I don’t want to talk to him. From the initial rolling of his eyes as I asked “Sir, can I slide in here please?” (and it’s not because he was hoping for a whole row to himself.) To my constantly having to hold my breath when he inhales, exhales or moves about a bit because he has the age old stereotypical white male smell. I thought it was a myth. Never believed it, as some of my best friends and relatives are white men, but dude….Maybe the "smell" which I have had the displeasure of getting a whiff of only once before in my life (on a bus leaving New York and heading to New Jersey) comes from the same thing ruptured capillaries come from. I can accept that. I would even like to believe it….. A sort of natural punishment for ignorant and hateful ways. Yeah, I like that. Because I’ve never experienced that odor on one of MY beloved peoples of no color. God bless the guy, but I don’t trust him enough to leave my things…he may, as a slight or a way to alleviate his disappointment with not having enough money to charter his own plane, by blowing his nose on my sweartshirt or wiping his boots on my computer bag. Or maybe he’s just a nice guy who’s energy I’m reading wrong because I’m doing what has been done to me….Judging a book by it’s color or lack thereof. NOT…It’s the energy that caused me to take a good look at him anyway(once he dozed off of course.)
Some might say I’m paranoid but I’m not. I’m in tune with my environment and I actively work at being in tune with emotions and auras. It’s a gift and a curse but it helps me lighten the load of trouble from houseload to garage-load.
As of late I have been putting my feelings first….the result….I am in purgatory..some kind of strange cleansing ritual I must go through before pure bliss is allowed to surface. I believe bliss to be a constant state of being that lies just below the surface (whatever surface) and at times unblissfull things pile on top of our bliss causing it to burrow deeper under. A ritualistic clearing and cleansing must go on before it can resurface. The more fortunate and wise of us go through cleansing process much more frequently. The martyrs, mothers and writers of the world, I would guess…….let a whole lot of unblissful things pile up before they pull out the souls scrubbing Loofah. I for sure will brood and wallow and do the backstroke in blissclogging gunk. It will be caked under my nails and my hair before I realize I need to find my Soul Loofah. And since I go so long without using it, it’s certainly a bitch trying to find it when I need it.
So I’m on my way “home”…The home I’ve known for the first leg of my life….now begins the next. I will no longer pine for “home”like a little girl at sleepaway camp (although I loved sleepaway camp). I will act as an intelligent grown woman who has been provided with the proper foundation to go off and make her own home. I’m officially grown. And admittedly a bit horrified with the idea of “last trip home.” From now on whenever I visit the New York/New Jersey area it will be just that….a visit to the east coast. Not my home. Just a cool place where the seasons change and you can get a decent hot dog and slice of pizza. And what's even better and stranger all in one is that I'm currently reading "Wicked" and loving and I mean loving it. It's beyond words and just what I needed to help me deal with the painful realization of "HOME". I plan on reviewing the book when I finish. Home shmome........actively creating numerous homes.
