Here in my new apartment, I’ve just reorganized a bit, moved the piles around so they make more sense. By piles I mean what little I took from my last place to make it thru the month until all my stuff comes back to me from its restoration facility in New Hampshire. Living like this has not been good for me so far. After all I am sort of a wannabe OCD person, always wishing my life had some irrefutable order to it that would practically arrange itself. And your home should best exemplify this. When I get frustrated or particularly unfocused, I tend to start doing dishes or some other form of cleaning. Putting things into their place and taking some solace in the order around me that I perhaps cannot ever attain internally. Its a broken record response but it seems to make me feel better too, so whatever.

Now, here, nothing makes any sense. My dishes have no place. What clean clothes I have sit in piles ontop of my opened luggage, tomorrow all the rest of my clothes come back cleaned and I presume in bags, which is where they will stay, because I have no shelves or sets of drawers to put them into. I have several boxes of smoked belongings I have no intention of dealing with anytime soon. I even have 3 sealed ziplock freezer bags containing spindles of data DVDs that are still sitting in black water. Each one has to be hand cleaned….  when would you have the energy for that? I still haven’t dealt with my computer, or my claim spreadsheet, or even built all the furniture I have since purchased. It’s distracting. It’s depressing. But…  I like this place I live now. I could deal without the frigid drafts (at least tomorrow I get my slippers back) and I could deal with stores being closer in this awful below freezing weather. But I have 15 foot ceilings. I have more space than I own art. I have some new stuff I really am happy having chosen, like this drop leaf table that will become a real dining table when my desk legs arrive. And when its not 10 degrees by them, I will move this table to the windows and I will eat breakfast in the sun every single day. When the spring comes I go out on my deck and grill and drink cold beer while listening to the city. In the summer I will go down and sit next to the Charles which is closer than the T. I will hit the Paramount in Beacon Hill for pancakes at least twice as much as usual, seeing as I can walk there now. Potential is the currency of hope, and I am rich with that.

But in the meantime, my favorite word has become discombobulated. And so yesterday, I took one room, my bathroom, and made it mine. I fixed all the crappy installations people had tried before. I build and installed a case for my toiletries. And I put up three pieces of my stuff, one piece of art and two of personal artifacts (my map to the post office outside Tokyo and the 4 CDs I retired from my early music geek days). Then I closed the door and sat on the mat on the floor of my bathroom and felt like I was home. The most since I have gotten here. It has been nice to start eating my normal breakfast again (two organic eggs, Joe’s Os with TJ Soy Milk, sencha). Its nice to have a bed and my Japanese paper lamp next to it. Its nice to have my music playing again. And while I miss my movie theater terribly, and I miss my pantry and pan hooks… sure enough this place will make sense to me. And as soon as I install my towel shelf and the replacement shower curtain for my old wonderful one (hooray I could find another one) my bathroom will be complete pretty much. And in the main room I have spread out my art, not hung where it will necessarily end up, but out and visible. Each piece calming me just a tiny bit every time I see it. As much as I dislike the Fight Club realization of how “the things you own, end up owning you” I cannot express how meaningful it is to have my stuff talking to me again. How much the place I live reflects me to myself. And while I have no doubt in any way I could live in the woods with nothing but my wits and hopefully some handy gear… here in the city, all these little things that mean something to me – more than they possibly could to anyone else in the world – they are my support system.

Home redefines itself as your life stretches out. At first it is your house, the place your family lived. I loved that house, loved my room in it, the neighborhood, the park across the street, the connection I had to most everything I could see. My parents sold it and I was pissed. Home is supposed to stay home I thought, independent of all other factors. But life is not a feel good movie like that. It was sold, and the new owners put up a decorative faux fence in the front yard that my parents would have needed to have been brainwashed to even consider. (my parents actually fought the local political groups over their “gentlemen’s agreement” not to put up any political signs in the front lawns of the town – and replaced our Dukakis ’88 signs after annoyed local officials stole them in the middle of the night – welcome to yuppy suburban CT) Then home was a rented place with my name on the lease, and this was fine – but that first place never really took off for me sentimentally. When I got to Boston is when my real nesting began. And eventually home is no longer where your parents live (further proved when they left my even earlier childhood home in the North Shore for sunny smoggy California) Home is then where you live. And while it can be wonderful and peaceful being around my folks, or my sister, or one of the empty places I once spend some serious life, your compass centers on your bed, your good tea, your friends you can depend on like I’ve had to in the past two weeks, your stores, your routine. And the great thing is that this can always be rebuilt – always be moved, even under such great duress. And as you get older there are more things soaked with sentiment that you can utilize for this effect. People, places, stupid little things like a tin of smooth stones from some distant shore. Everything emits this kind of magnetic affirming energy. And maybe most of these things were destroyed like they could have been for me so very recently… maybe one thing survives – bruised and beaten – well then it goes on my mantle. Home is where that thing sits for me to look at.

So in the next few days my postcard art is going back up near my bed. When my desk is built I will rebuild my wall of geniuses. Whenever I can get a ladder in here I will fix my curtains, affix some handmade paper over the big window above my deck door. I will hang Paul’s painting, and Victor’s crate front, and Grandma Stuart’s Wyeth print, and eventually my screen again. Some day soon … home will be totally home again. Albeit expensiver and drafty.