It’s a strange thing to see how the place where you were raised has changed. Especially when it comes to the actual house. For those of us who are lucky enough to experience it, when your parents still live in the house where you spent your childhood, it can be a wonderful thing. Not necessarily for them, but for you the traveller, the one who moved far away. You get to come home and feel protected and 12 years old again. (if you want… assuming 12 was a good year)
But often, as many of us know, things change… sometimes slowly, as in my case. The parents have gotten involved with a shiney new cabana near the beach, way down in the south of NJ. Outside of A-Ren the great, beloved grandson, the new cabana has become there biggest priority. They buy things for it. They worry about it. They sacrafice time and energy for it. Hell, Im almost jealous of the dam thing.
And so during my visit, I’m attempting to appreciate it. Their project… their new love. But every free second I get, I come home to my REAL house. The one with a REAL neighborhood, and folks we’ve known for years. The one with CABLE and INTERNET, and TREES and RACCOONS. I look at my old house, the place that watched me grow up and took care of me… and I feel contempt for the new place. What with its shiney doodads and thingamajigs… IT MUST NEVER replace our house.
But who am I? I live in the ‘dam! Across the ocean. I have forfitted my right to complain and file a petition. Regardless of my theories and worries, it is ALREADY happenning. They are in love with the idea of the NEW HOUSE. And the old one seems more of a burden to them. Their burden is my beloved home. The source of so much of my, what in portuguese we call: “saudade.”
Fucking changes.
Today’s Sounds: Talib Kweli – Beautiful Struggle (learning to love it)