Going back home isn’t always what its cracked up to be, but it sure beats being homeless.
I have returned to my hometown of Shepherdstown, West Virginia, to seek some part-time fame, and some full-time fortune. In fact, all I do anymore is work and sleep. I began typing this during a stolen moment at work, still recovering from the sleep, and I am afraid that the stolen moment ahs ended.
When the Fall Semester ended at Maryville College this year, so did the lion’s share of my college education. I did the fitting thing to do for every unemployed, bewildered, postgraduate, middle-class, caucasian; I moved back in with my parents. I’m too old, and too free-spirited to live at home, but I’m doing it anyway. I’ve spent that last few years of my life getting drilled in one way or another on the finer points of seeking a calling life, rather than consigning oneself to drudgery. Now, in order to finance those lessons, I must consign myself to drudgery. Its a sick irony, really. (but this isn’t about work)
My home town of Shepherdstown, West Virginia is difficult to write about. Its such a very small place, in its mindset, I mean its cliquish, or close-knit. Everyone, it seems, who is here, is still here, and has always been here, and might die here. That’s changing though. Everyone born here who dies here will see it change from a rual place into exurbia. All they want to do is bitch about it. After all, “running them out on a rail” isn’t very politically correct anymore, although it is wanted, I suspect.
The part of this place that is home to me is the bohemian part, a dwindling one, to be sure, but still very much a community. Working nights, its a struggle to make it to the thursday evening poetry readings, the friday night jam sessions, the snowed-in art openings … this is all pretension, in a way, because, well, isn’t this West Virginia, after all? Who do these hicks, these, “outsider-artists” think they are, anyway?
Well, if you have to ask, then fuck you. That’s right, you can shove that weekend edition of the Washington Post straight up your ass and go back home where you’re scared to look the pedestrians in the eye. And for christ’s sake don’t fucking move here. It’s your fault that I can’t afford to live here, and wouldn’t want to. (This isn’t a rant either. Sorry about the cussing. I try not to.)
What I like about the climate here is that people simply follow their calling. It might be cheap, half assed, but it beats the hell out of bitching about not doing it. What I don’t like about the climate here is that I feel somehow out of place. I don’t feel like I belong. I’ve been gone for too long. I probably won’t stay very long, and why? I’m not comfortable with the idea of dying here. I’m called elsewhere, I guess, and that’s about as specific as I can be.