So, it's 3:00 am, 3 hours after Thanksgiving. I said the initial hellos, gave the greeting handshakes, 2-3 pat masculine hugs, faux cheek kisses, then tipped the glass and whispered the self-encouraging “here we go.” And so I went. Some cleaning, cooking, terrible football, good beer, dressing up, sitting down, uncorking and thanksgiving later, here I sit pregnant with turkey. I wasn't drunk, but I might as well have been, because everything tonight and the past few days has been surreal. I don't know how to describe it. Like a visit to the zoo? Snorkeling in a glass-bottom boat? Virtual reality in black and white 3-D? A late night pop-up picture book? I feel like walking up to somebody and asking, “Hi, my name is Benjamin, do you know a place where I fit in?”
Ever go to those places where you're living life on the balcony rather than on stage? When there, or here as it were, I mostly think back to my past: the mango juice in Ethiopia, the tea and curry in India, the carne asada backyard BBQ in Mexico, the crawdad buffet in Missouri, etc. No, I'm not hungry. None of the above were about the food. No dressing up or down was involved. It seems like I should be at these places, but I know that if I were there, I would feel the same way. Out of place. Not at home. Traveling. Transient. Passing through, if not around. I don't know what has happened to me. Did I climb a beanstalk somewhere? Who kicked me out of the plane over this place? It is so weird to feel as an alien in your hometown. Even without knowing my place, I feel so incredibly that this is not it. Perhaps I should just keep my bags packed.
And yes, I'm slightly terrified. Even more so because of the relative truth I recognize at this moment: I don't know who I am. Scary how my environment can make or break that for me. Most everywhere I go I surmise that if these people are my mirrors, then I'm in some sort of Fun House at a county fair. You'd think I would realize by now that it doesn't really matter whether I am the polka dot or the stripe, it just is. So I'm not really learning as much as realizing the vast amount of crap I have to learn and be if I am to belong at all. Sort of a 'pick your adventure' type thing. I'm still a kid, like most adults. I need some help, like a hint guide or a GPS Magic 8-Ball. Actually, I need a lot more than that. A lot more. I need someone or something to fill this void between me and everything else.
I need someone to ask me “What happened?” Just crack the flood gates a bit. Ask me a question. Approach me, offering nothing but me and my story. Hand me an empty spoon, glass, or bowl; give me an opportunity. A moment to tell all, as far as all can go in a conversation, and let it spill out wherever in may into the flooded low lands of mercy. I sit silently hoping for permission, an invitation or request, into the realm of listening that I long to be a citizen of. I am here anxiously awaiting a voice of open ears and eyes; drunk or sober, sane or fucked up, classy or bootstrapped. They don't even have to remember our conversation.
I do not know how long I can contain it. I do know who I can trust with it. I try, as always prior, to the trusting. Though I am left with few choices, I prefer it that way. So many have dropped and let shatter much of what I cherish, a tragedy we all share. I have learned that when standing at the door of potential invitation. I feel like a door-to-door salesman. Pathetic, but with a significant product. Pathetic, crying for attention, especially so much selfless attention, but just as real as old. Alienated in a 'I am me but this is not me' sort of way.
Then again, this reminds me of so much. Being out of the country for a year, readjustment, also known as just adjustment, has to occur. After a long trip, coming home is always the hardest part of leaving it.
