Sitka or Bust: Commute The World

I am homesick. Well not even homesick, but just yearning for some familiarities. I walked by the harbor and the sea air reminded me of the beach back home. Now, when I lived in New England, I refused to go to the beach, but for some reason I can’t stop thinking about the tangy sea air. That’s one thing I always loved about the coast. Some people think it smells too much of fish and salt, but there’s so much more attached to it than that. When I close my eyes and smell the sea air I think of a tiny beach shack where I used to get fried clams in the summer, of visiting the tidepools on school field trips, of the clotting sand between my toes. I miss the ability to go and experience a summer of reminiscence. I want to brave the extreme traffic near the fourth of July, walk barefoot across the scorching blacktop, eat overpriced, but delicious slices of pizza. I want, I want, I want. But I can’t. Not right now.

My friend just reminded me that transcendence can only be achieved once pleasure is accessed while experiencing suffering. I suppose the truth is evident in that statement. I mean, if all you ever knew was darkness, it would seem no different to you than if all you ever knew was light. There is nothing to compare it to, therefore the definition is undefinable.

I don’t want to transcend if it means suffering until I find pleasure. I just want to be. Right now. I wouldn’t complain about my sunburn or the cost of parking, I wouldn’t drag my feet and balk at the idea of driving the short distance to the beach. I would only think of the crashing of the waves that has that soothing lull I had previously only attributed to the hum of car engines. Maybe the adult me will fall peacefully asleep at the crest of the ocean like the child me did on car trips or even listening to the dull thrum of the vacuum cleaner.  I have fallen in love with the sea and the new experiences that drift in with the tides, but I fear that the grains of sand will just keep building up against me, pushing me farther from the water and the sound of the lapping waves.

If I could change myself to fit the mold of the dock I would. Docks are built to withstand the rising and lessening of the tides, compressing and expanding their boards with the pressure of the waves. They weather the storms and the gales, the foot traffic and the push carts without releasing forth more than a slight groan or creak. If I could just watch them everyday and somehow absorb their perseverance I would be as strong as the thick boards and as salty as the sea.

I believe my sneakers are past their prime. In fact, I have no doubt because they have the look of being wet at all times and constantly dampen with very little provocation. I squish around unless I wear my doll shoes, but then I develop blisters. I have a fresh pair today from my jaunt to town for a much needed fax. I hope all goes well with that fax.

I know I’m also late with my posting this time. For the past few days I’ve been fighting with decisions that I hoped I would never have to make, at least not his summer. Alas, we must all grow up and make our own decisions.Mine are in the works, but meanwhile, shit has been hitting the fan at the lodge.

There is a little chomper on the loose at the lodge. The little chomper ate an entire sliced pineapple in one sitting and apparently a box of monster cookies. I secretly applaud you little chomper. You are my hero. Any time a staff meeting must be called to address issues of food stealing I get a good chuckle. I only wish it had been me to polish it off. I definitely don’t need a box of  monster cookies, by any means, but pineapple always tastes wonderful. I have my suspicions, but none that can be verified. People here know when to clam up about certain things.

Have you ever gotten so excited about something that you actually can’t sleep? I know people say that all the time, but I’ve never experienced it before last night. Of course, I was cranking out all these job applications and I came across one that just stuck with me. I want it. I shouldn’t, but I do. I told some of my friends about it and they just think it sounds like a horrible way to work, but I just told them it was part of my adventure. I’ll be experiencing something completely out of the blue for me if I take this job. I can only shrug off so many backhanded insults before I move on. Call me a reforming pacifist. I’m going to have my fight and then I’m going to have my adventure. I look forward to updating you on my status, but unfortunately the posting might become a tad more sporadic.

There have always been constant reminders of home. We as a population need to think of our homes as returnable and salvageable else we might lose all direction. Aren’t we spending our entire lives just trying to find home, whether its one we left or one we are trying to form? Sure, home is where you make it as Joe Dirt says, but it’s also where the heart is, where we rest our heads, and where we find the pieces of ourselves kept hidden. What makes a home though? Is it the people we always return to or the comfort we long for, the stability of constants or simply a kiss on the cheek and a warm greeting? We all have our own sense of home and, although some of us might balk at the thought, we secretly keep tabs on the homes we’ve left.

Adventure is one of the many reasons people leave home and one of the many reasons people never return, but it shouldn’t be faulted. Adventure brings us a new sense of our definition of home. We are allowed to reject and handpick what we want our home to be like, and many of us use this ability to a fault. My adventure was modeled, perhaps, after Jack London’s life long journey for the experiences of men. As a writer, you can look to those successful before you, those who had to experience certainties before they could relay the ideas to an audience. My adventure, like London’s, is my research.

On the last day of high school, my class went around in a circle and talked about our futures. When it was my turn, I shared that I was worried I would never write because my experiences were so limited, so naive and sheltered, that they would flounder in the cascading world of literature. I’ve found my fodder in Alaska, at least partly anyway. When Long Island provided the exotic and enthralling setting to early 20th century novelists, it spurred a dedicated following producing works like The Great Gatsby. The highlife was pomp and circumstance to its finest and wealthiest, the highest crust of wealth and society. But those novelists didn’t solely rely on the interactions they found in such “airs.” Instead, they traveled back and forth, journeying to the outskirts of American civilizations to find a different perspective on their own world. Forget Kerouac’s journey; that never would have been half as fruitful had he remained in the cozy nightlife of the big city lights. The final frontier has been expanded to include more of ourselves. Where did London go when he withdrew from the constant bustle and needed inspiration? Alaska.

I’m where the legends have stood. I can feel the draw that they felt. But have I ever rethought my home? No. Home is more of a draw than any inspiration because it is something felt by everyone, something that never really lessens. Even London, famously flirtatious, returned to Charmian Kittredge always. For him it seems, she was his only home. Because he had her, he wrote every day with no fear of being a constant wanderer, he wrote for those who were perhaps seeking their own adventures. Where is my white picket fence? Wherever it is, the gate swings open inwards.