I guess in many ways I don’t know what “home” means to me. Home is where the heart is, they say in cheesy Walmart plaques. That sentiment might actually not be totally, rabidly off necessarily.
All my life—since I left home at the carnal, vitriolic age of 19—it seems I’ve been running; from life, from responsibility, from family, from love, from myself, from adulthood, from the idea of home. Externally, I was constantly moving; in 2008 alone, when I was 25, drinking and living alone in San Francisco I moved five times just in that year.
Things haven’t changed all that much since then, on the outside. I lived in S.F. for two years, then Portland for eight months shortly after getting sober in 2010, then Oakland, then El Cerrito, then New York City, then Santa Barbara (when Dad got sick with cancer), then Lompoc (after I fell in love with Britney), now Portland (because we bought a multi-unit here) and soon, in five or six months, Spain (Madrid). After that who knows; we’ve discussed the East Coast (NYC again, or Boston, perhaps Vermont), and eventually probably Santa Barbara to take care of my mother who in a decade will be getting on in years (she’s a young whipper-snapper now at the age of 73 and inside more like 55).
So, the story of my life in many ways is the story of moving, of movement in general. Moving within one city; moving from one city to another; moving from one state to another; and soon from one country to another. That’s just how it’s gone with me. The polar opposite of my half-sister, 13 years my senior, a bastion of roots and stability, moving only a handful of times over the past twenty years, with two kids, a husband, and a lovely home.
But there’s another side to me, which there is for all people but which is probably stronger than most in my case: My deep inner life. Not just imagination—though, yes, that, too—but also my ongoing monologue and dialogue with myself, my keen sense of observation, my self-awareness (too much of it, really), my thick self-consciousness, my ongoing tender feelings of shame and guilt, my self and interior “moral reputation,” to use a phrase from Philip Roth’s My Life as a Man (1970), a brilliant novel I am currently rereading right now.
And from the perspective of my inner life, I’ve changed, or “moved” much less often. There’s always been a stable “me” there, moving from here to there and back. I drag myself—my corporeal self—through the mud and the jungle all around the place, chasing some deeper inner meaning all the while knowing that this inner meaning has always been here , within me, and always will. Smart and self-aware as I like to think I am (which is both accurate and not fully true), I still fall for that oh-so-human of frailties: Thinking if I move somewhere else yet again I’ll magically find something worthy, good and crucial, something that will somehow change me for the better. And who knows: Maybe that’s true. But I doubt it. Because change—which is rare for most of us anyway—comes from within, not from without.
AA is a great example of this: You don’t just stop drinking; you do the 12 steps, which are all connected, even the physical ones, to thinking about your life from a new perspective. Only when you think about yourself, your past, your behavior, the way you treat others, etc, and you make that inner change, can anything truly become different. Yes, it starts by acting differently, but at some point you have to believe in what you’re doing, otherwise it won’t last. And to believe you need true, genuine change, and for that you need sincere introspection.
All this is to say: Home, for me, has never been “a place,” but rather an experience, a feeling, a vibe, a passion, a sort of encapsulation of love and acceptance. It’s the people and animals around me. It’s the ability any given place gives me to do what I love, in my case writing. It’s a sensation of safety. It’s being able to take long walks at night, exploring the neighborhood. It’s either a chaotic constant noise (Manhattan) or else total silence (Lompoc), both of which can creatively inspire me in different ways. (I wrote some of my best prose in Lenox Hill, Manhattan, with sirens whirling and raging, people shouting, dogs barking, people angrily honking and telling each other off; perhaps this was because NYC is the “mecca” for writers and you simply absorb all those generations of authorial insight, blood and tears.)
In other words: Home is…not where the heart is…but where the inner life can flourish, which is close to anywhere, really. I myself, I suppose “am home,” because I’ve been here all along, that egocentric, sometimes narcissistic, smart, deep, insightful, passionate, alcoholic, 25%-crazy, adventurous, wild, brave, terrified ME or “I” or however you want to refer to it. Women, friends, family have all come and gone, been there and not been there; but I always remain. (Of course now there’s Britney, my other half, and she’s always there, too. Plus Lucius. And our other two cats. And formerly, our dog Franky, who passed away 9/3.)
The word “family” has always confused me just as the word “community” has. Maybe because in some ways I’ve never truly felt like I was part of a family, and I’ve certainly never felt a part of any community. The family piece is fairly simple: My mom’s mom set off a figurative A-bomb which devastated my mom’s life when she was a kid in the 1960s, and which still reverberates through our family to this day. Mom was 19 when she had my half-sister in 1969. Later she married my father and had me on the last day of 1982. My life was much more privileged than my half-sister’s, but that didn’t mean it was all easy. Family cycles are called cycles for a reason. The wounds are granted constant rebirths. The familial wheel turns and behavior is passed down, genetically and environmentally.
And so, growing up I didn’t know my grandparents well; I wasn’t close to them. My father felt emotionally detached, and my mom made up for that detachment to such an extreme degree that I often felt as if I were choking. There was prestige, privilege, private schools, the works…and also trauma. Cycles don’t fold that easy. Denial only works for the person doing the denying. There’s always a giver and a receiver.
Our small family was always divided up into little semi-warring camps. That’s a dramatic, almost theatrical way of saying it but it’s largely true. And between it all I myself always felt detached, apart from it all, on my own. For a long time—most of my adult life away from home—I saw my family once per year. Sometimes twice. Usually only Christmas. And that was enough. I loved them but also craved my solitude, space, inner life, my own hallowed routines and choices.
Since my father died on 6/2/23 this has felt a little different…but honestly not much. And the divided factions are more separate and divided now than prior years. So I do my own thing. I’ve seen my mom a lot more the past three years due to my father’s sickness. But that ended and now we’re in Portland. Being in Lompoc around Britney’s family was a shock: I liked it and was also afraid of it. She has lived her whole life in that small town, and most of her family is there. Three strains of family: Her mom, her dad, her step-dad. We’d go out anywhere, anytime, and almost always seen at least someone from one strain. In some ways it was nice, comfortable, heartwarming. In other ways it scared the crap out of me. Because for me family has never exactly equated with safety, warmth, comfort. I’ve traditionally never felt like I can be my whole true self, express my deep inner me. That’s never really been welcome, with the possible exception of my uncle when I was younger, and more recently my mom. (Which is nice.)
And so, partially rejecting my own clan it felt strange and alien to accept and be accepted by Britney’s family. And yet they did and I did, for the most part. I am like no one else in their family, all three strains. Britney, to be fair, is also very different from most of them in many ways. She’s somewhat of the “black sheep.” It’s been that classic push-pull with her family, wanting to see them and then not wanting to, feeling connected and then overwhelmed. Just like how I am with almost everything in my life, including love, romantic relationships (not so much with Britney), friendships, family, etc. (Not writing; that I almost always want to do, full-tilt-boogie.)
So in other words: Home, for me, is not a place but rather an idea. It’s a certain kind of knowing, a certain kind of feeling, a certain kind of sensation. Some places I feel like home but still want to move; other places I don’t feel like home but it works for me creatively. Lenox Hill in NYC was like that. East Harlem, NYC, never felt anything like home; I never felt safe and yet I did write incessantly (including a whole novel during the early months of Covid).
In NYC I never fully got comfortable, and left far earlier than I planned, due to my father. Lompoc I felt ironically very much at home…but also, at the same time, like I was in jail. In Santa Barbara, externally a gorgeous paradise, I felt trapped and desperate, angry and alone, single and sexually ignored. Whenever I’m in Ojai, the small town I grew up in (north of LA in the mountains) I feel like I’m home, internally and externally. Ditto Ventura, where I was born and lived my first eight years. Ditto the Bay Area, though the Bay Area now feels to me like My Big Past. Living there now would feel like stepping backwards.
Home, for me, means going forward, means living in the moment, means accepting things as they are, means being with those I love, humans and animals alike (Britney and the cats).
One day, I know I’ll stop moving around so much. We’ll settle in one spot. That will be nice…and scary. Because like I said, I’m a runner. Always have been. But you know what they say: You can run all your life and not go anywhere; or, Everywhere you go, there you are.
Me. The indignant “I” I mentioned. Michael. Always here. Always that inner voice. Always looking for something called Home.
Yasher koach, dude. That means "right on" in Hebrew. Fuck yes. That means "hell yes" in my lingo. :)
So true, wherever we go there we are.