Home is where the heart is, and the body should be.

29 09 2008

I’ve talked time and again about how, while I say I like my job, I dislike the monotony, boredom and general lack of satisfaction that sometimes come with it. Many times, I feel like I’m sleepwalking through the day, writing one thing after another that nobody outside of my office will ever read and be moved by. But I think the part that gets me most is the commute.

Sure, I only drive 45-55 minutes to what amounts to little more than a suburb of Kansas City, but it still doesn’t feel like home. It doesn’t feel like the community that, over the last 20 years, has embedded it’s self into my self and vice-versa. And that’s what makes me think, sometimes, that I want out. It’s what makes me know, all the time, that I’m only in this for the short term.

I want to go home. I want to make my place a better place. I want to pay taxes to my city and my state. I want to continue to soak up and reshape the old neighborhood. If I have to do sometimes unsatisfying work, fine. I understand not all writing can come from the inner depths of the soul. But if I have to write dreck, I’d like to do it in an environment that I am both comfortable in and affectionate towards. I’m tired of zipping down the interstate for what amounts to about two hours of my day just to do something I only mildly enjoy in a place that I am wholly indifferent towards.

William Wordsworth once wrote:

The world is too much with us; late and soon,
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers;
Little we see in Nature that is ours;
We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!
This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon,
The winds that will be howling at all hours,
And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers,
For this, for everything, we are out of tune;
It moves us not.–Great God! I’d rather be
A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn,
So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,
Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;
Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea;
Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn.

And all this in the 18th century. I wonder what he would think of me. Flying by the midwestern oaks and the streets and homes and people that I love at 75 mph in a car designed to shut out the outside world. All so I can go to a place where little in Nature is mine and invent new ways to keep the public “getting and spending.”

Yes, it does seem like I have given my heart away for now. Hopefully, one way or another and some day soon, it will soon return home.

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