My Name is Driftwood

Last night I enjoyed a couple glasses of Walker Red while watching Futurama and folding my last bits of laundry, preparing them for transit in my massive, red suitcase. Something about that moment felt genuinely therapeutic. Was it the smooth Scotch whiskey flowing down my throat? Was it the zany antics of a cryogenically frozen, well-meaning loser and his hooligan robot best friend? Neither. I think it was the laundry. It felt like gradual closure for my time here, each fold a testament to the end of this experience and every crease a reminder to prepare myself for the choices and challenges ahead.

I’ve been moving around a lot, more so than I expected, especially in the past three weeks. Last weekend I played tourist one last time. On Saturday I saw the International Spy Museum and the Jefferson Monument. The entirety of Sunday was spent at the National Gallery of Art where my back started aching after so much indefinite meandering. The weekend before that, I spent in Vegas. This visit home was somewhat of a surprise, as my flight wasn’t confirmed until late Wednesday afternoon (My outbound flight left Thursday). Surprise or not, it was a relieving breath of fresh air to be home again, even for a short time. I always look forward to seeing every familiar, beautiful face and absorbing every precious moment at home. Finally, three weekends ago I was in Philadelphia. I almost feel guilty about how amazing my time there was. I must have saved a bag-full of drowning puppies while curing polio in a previous life to deserve such an amazing weekend with not one, but two of the most adorable girls I've ever met. I just hope I wasn't too much of a drunken chore.

So that was my three weeks of transience. Now my flight leaves tomorrow for Boston, where I will be picked up from the airport and immediately road-tripped to the Adirondacks for a weekend in a mountain house encircled by serene lakes and thick forest. After getting reacquainted with nature, it's one week and a weekend of bumming around in "Beantown"(Seriously, can there be a lamer nickname for a city?). I'm hoping for a rematch with those Russians and Eastern Blocers across from Harvard (getting pwned for sure, but whatever doesn't kill me...right?). In the end I'll return to Pittsburgh for a fresh semester. A very minuscule, microscopic part of me is looking forward to this trip. Regardless, I know it's a trip I have to make.

So much mobility has focused my attention on the concept of home (again). There's this great scene in Garden State where Zach Braff and Natalie Portman are sitting alone on one side of the pool. Braff brings up his thoughts on 'home'.

"You know that point in your life when you realize that the house you grew up in isn’t really your home anymore…all of the sudden even though you have some place to put your shit, that idea of home is gone...it's like you feel homesick for a place that doesn't exist…or maybe its like this rite of passage…Maybe that’s all family really is: a group of people that miss the same imaginary place."

I guess I've been going through the same thing. I suppose it takes some time to establish that 'new idea of home'. You know how a crab technically brings it's house wherever it goes? How's it's always moving around, but still encased in it's personal comfort zone. It feels like I'm that crab, except I've misplaced my original shell and am now scavenging the beaches for old tin cans, seashells, and grande Starbucks cups to serve as makeshift homes until I find that one shell that feels like home again. I just hope that what I'm missing wasn't imaginary. Holy shit, did I just simile myself into shellfish? Yea, I did. Wtf.