Tuesday, January 19, 2016

home. HOME.

i'm a home maker, that is what i have done for the past ten years, babies, home.  and now, i have to let go, and spread home to some other place that i may never see, with their dad. and i am having a great deal of trouble with this changing definition of home.
there are thousands of thoughts on home, what it is, who it is with, and i am conscious of that, but i am stuck in singularity.
and that is a weighty sentence, and another weight is not exactly what i am looking for these days. shedding and winnowing are where i would like to be.  but  they are words that i am not happy with. coldness and wind.  i am trying it out, stretching more and more when i thought my times of stretching my walnut heart were through.

winter .   and as always, spring seems far ahead.

there is so much here, i could be days in the thinking and processing and ... i just can't... but here...
I am reading something rather perfect for this ... :

Inside Out

by Stefan Kurten, two dots over the u, painter. and also Rebecca Solnit, writer.  My god, I obviously do not know how to make a link show up anymore.

This is good writing. Non-fiction, its more of an essay on women and definitions of home, and men, and things domestic and material.  It is really good writing, though of a more casual style than say, Dostoevsky.  (i write this with a hysterical burble, i mean, DOStoeyvsky?!) For instance, this is one sentence, and whacked at the end, read it slowly.

"It often seems that the house is an extension of the female body, the car of the male body, for thus go the finicky and exacting arenas of self-improvement, the space that represents the eroticized self, and in these female interiors and male rockets lies the old literary division of labor, of travelers and keepers of the flame, of the female as fixture in the landscape the male traverses, conquers and certainly historically men had far more mobility than women. Until Odysseus comes home, but then the story stops. "

There is more, and more, and it is worth the slow read that will get you through the whole fifty six pages. It is interspersed with the paintings of Kurten, with those damn dots above his u.  The whole is a modern, bleached out California postcard.
I've got another Solnit to read, called Wanderlust: A History of Walking... and i am very much looking forward...


MotherOfGooses said...

Thanks for leaving those breadcrumbs towards Solnit. I am feeling hungry. Lately I have not been home , I have been the one roaming and it not easy to find home out here, but sometimes when I am home I do not feel at home either.

Kate Hall said...

i feel all b52s towards you now. Roam.
i am never sure anymore, where i feel at home. i know what is most familiar, and that is not neccesarily the same thing.