Tuesday, November 29, 2011
bistre lustre (you can't go home again)
They say you can never really go home. Who are they? I don't know... I read it somewhere sometime, I didn’t realise I'd have to take notes. Anyway, that's what they say, or said... I don't think it's entirely true, but then I think you never really leave home. I think your home is something that you carry on your back like a snail, wherever you lays your hat, and all that jazz. Sometimes our idea of home can be crystallised, though, located in space. There is a place I used to live in and call home. It was warm, and familiar, and all my stuff was there. That's a pretty adolescent concept of home, but when I lived there I was an adolescent, so there you go. Well it wasn't always warm. I was in a family that came together, rolled along, and blew apart there. So I guess it wasn't always familiar, either. I could never figure out my father (actually my stepfather, although I never never called him that), he could either be warm or cold, kind or mean, and I never knew from one minute to the next which it was going to be. That was very hard, very unfamiliar (and what does unfamiliar mean, as opposed to family?). But I did call it home, for eleven adolescent years. Is eleven a lot of adolescent years? I think I started early, but hit a developmental trough at about nine, in which I was trapped until I was fifteen. Anyway, that particular repressed trauma is not the current focus. Home. My old house, where all my stuff was. I went back there one day and it wasn't like going home at all. I found myself stacking wood in the front bedroom, with my mother's current boyfriend. A large room, an empty room except for the pile of split logs we were building in one corner. It used to be my room, and yet standing in it that day I felt quite alien, like I'd never been there before. I used to play drums in that corner there by the wardrobe. I shot half of my bursary photography portfolio based on the way the light played through that window. When we moved in the front bay windows were clad in corrugated iron hammered flat, and the morning frost crept across the floor, inside. Then it was lined and insulated. Now it was a wood shed again. That might have something to do with it. Where there used to be a wall to wall decoupage of pinup posters, stickers, idols cut from comic books and magazines, sport stars and rock stars and monsters, the gargoyles gaurding every teenage dream of the 1990s, there was now just an expanse of sun fading yellow and brown, broken by sellotape scars, bent nails, thumb tack holes.