I love the sad Simon and Garfunkel song in the title. I love sad or borderline sad works of art about the concept of home in general. Or is it just me thinking they're sad? A wood print in my home's entryway features one of my favorite lines: "home is wherever I'm with you," from the song by Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros. That quote embodies how I have always felt about the people I love. This morning reminds me, then, that home can never be just one place. Today I watched my twin sister, brother-in-law, and newest baby nephew drive away to start an eighteen hour journey to their new home, and already that place feels a bit like home to me even though I've never been there. I am so happy to watch them embark on an adventure to a place I think they will really enjoy, but of course a little piece of what made Vegas home is making its way out of state along with them.
Laura and I both attempted to avoid tears, but those rebellious little jerks forced their way out (there's a pun in there somewhere). Avoiding displays of emotion is a family custom, but goodbyes are a special exception to the rule. This begs the question, what's wrong with day-to-day emotion? What would happen if we were to cry in front of someone who wasn't about to drive away or board a plane? What would be the next step to exposing our humanity? Since I was small, I had a vision of sitting on an intergalactic orange couch eating cheetos and simply existing with everyone in my family, suspended there in space. I feel fairly certain that the orange couch existed in this fantasy before it became a symbol for SNICK, but I could be wrong. We may have simply been suspended in space, eating Cheetos before the couch entered. Or perhaps the Great Orange Couch is a seldom-referenced archetype--part of the collective conscience. Only Joseph Campbell knows for sure. That simple vision is my idea of heaven, in a way: just to be content with all of humanity instead of always feeling the tug of separation. Of course, I was convinced that a cartoon duck-bill platypus was God around the same age when I came up with this idea, so I may be just a little spiritually whacked out.
I suppose it is good to have a reminder now and again that we feel more deeply than we let on. When Laura left for college, and I stayed in town with over-blown plans to go to school out of state a few weeks later, I remember brushing my teeth without her banging on the bathroom door or doing crazy calisthenics in her bedroom nearby, and crying for the first time over her absence. That experience led to the writing of a bad poem involving the above referenced, "Homeward Bound," that confused a creative writing professor who didn't see how the song related to my sisterly relationship. Looking at the lyrics now, it doesn't, but the ambiance is still there. Since then, each time one of us has relocated, I have felt the same tug of wishing we were bound for the same orange couch. Maybe someday.
