Here’s a scrap from one of my journals of youth. A page written when I was twenty-one, and newly out of college— my first summer spent in Brooklyn, as I’d always gone back to the farm in between the school years. Few of my schoolmates were in town that summer. I was broke, looking for work, renting a furnished room in a sublet with two roommates who were rarely at home. It was a lonely summer. (It was when I first began taking long solitary wanders in this town.)
I can see that I’ve apparently always had a penchant to write in all caps (when not too hurried), and a flair for flowery or not very day-to-day wording, though over the years it has seeped into my speech. When they say write the way you speak, I wound up doing it the other way round, haha.
Anyway, as I shall be back at the farm in less then 48 hours, a little homesick nostalgia seemed a timely do-dad to pull from the archives for this Winter Solstice post.
2 thoughts on “The subtle mental nausea of homesick”
I’m glad you’re able to get back to your farm for a visit. And I think it’s great to use some not-day-to-day wording, we’ve got us a great little language goin’ on here, may as well use some of it. There are people in my generation who get by on roughly the same 39 words, every day. It is monotonous. Happy Solstice!
Haha! Thanks so much! I’m very much looking forward to getting back to the farm. And, I agree, 39 words is far too limited a lexicon.