October 18th, 2006

(no subject)

What exactly does the concept of Home constitute? Is it a place where one feels more comfortable occupying than any other they can imagine? Maybe. Is it the only place one can truly thrive as themselves without any sort of limitations or censorship of their true personalities? Parhaps. Is Home simply a matter of where you place what you know and how you see who you love? It may be that, too. I find myself constantly trying to contemplate a vision of Home and a definition that can satisfy what it really means to me. I do not feel that the place I've called Home all these years is necessarily that anymore, because I've come to realize that there are other aspects to a lifestyle that make it possible to find yourself in such a place at the end of the day.

The bus rides to Petaluma are long but relaxing. I sit there with only a slight clue of where I'm going, where I am at any given moment, or how I'll know when I'm where I'm supposed to be. I listen to my music in silence without a care in the world for the fact that I know everyone within three seats can hear every beat and every word that blasts from my headphones. I see more of my reflection through the dark windows than I do the scenery that is little more than brown grass, bizarre factories, and the occasional strip mall and Panda Express. Northbound busrides are somewhat deceiving, and I find myself forgetting that I probably won't really be in Petaluma until the following morning when the Brozone is complete and the Petaluma Radiophonic Workshop is in a state few get to see it in: total silence.

It isn't until the Southbound bus ride that I realize where and what home really is at this point in my life. In Vermont, no matter where you live or what you do there, Burlington seems to be the home. And very rarely can you find a place so different from Burlington that is serves as a necessary escape, so most escape the state entirely when it's what they feel they need. In California, though, a two hour bus ride North takes you to a place where there's no trace of city living, and you're left to wander around endless pumpkin patches and get lost in corn mazes. There's deer in the back yard, an outdoor cat that comes inside for his food, a landlord downstairs to bring the mail to every day, a hillside through the kitchen window, a crooked living room floor to skate down, and grain factories to drive by on the main roads while you're listening to electronic jazz in the busted Dodge Dart that gets around the town just fine. At moments like those, the Brozone is silenced only by the perfections of a small town life that some aren't lucky enough to have as their retreat from civilation every once in a while. At moments like those, two hours North of the city, home is truly defined by the feeling.

Petaluma has become more of a place where a workshop resides. It's more than the elementary school that is the Brozone, more than the place where rickety floors are the perfect representation of rolling hills on a ride around the block, and more than the only place in the world where an incredibly interesting and amazing person is for me to hang out with. My time spent with Damian in the back-road town of Petaluma serves as the two-day hibernation that everyone needs in order to feel true feelings of home. It's an escape from the taxi cabs and the constant ringing of sirens and the never-ending buzz of people. It's a break from sky scrapers and Adobe Illustrator and bums that frolic the streets for crack. It's a time for me to sit back in the sunshine of another world and feel as if it's just one long breathe of fresh, unfiltered, unpolluted, untainted air that will swirl around in my lungs for a few days and make me feel alright. The concept of home is just that for anybody; without a place like Petaluma to retreat to and live a life that is entirely opposite of the one I live when I'm at Home in San Francisco, one might lose track of that beautiful feeling completely.