There and back again

There and back again; an endless homecoming

I have often and with no lack of presumption made reference to myself as the worlds greatest Tolkien groupie. As it were, I have once in a blue moon stumbled upon fellow aficionados who have, to my dismay, proved more skilled in the art of spontaneous film quotation, or who, like myself, spent the countless hours of nonage slobbering through the non-alphabetized pages of an Elvish dictionary, yet none to date have come within a stone's toss of embodying the spirit of a true Baggins (perhaps even a Took, I daresay) to the same extent as yours truly. Because, despite my giggling propensity for being shipped off in the blink of an eye on the most improbable of adventures, my general love of travel, and the contentment I feel whilst recapping said experiences before a throng of wide-eyed 15 year-olds, I am infinitely more fond of my time spent gallivanting down the sidewalks of memory lane; attempting endlessly and often fruitlessly to capture the most facile details of that place I hitherto and evermore call home. And, daggumit, that is why I'm a Baggins.

As a child, (and I should perhaps clarify that in my mind's eye 'childhood' if a reference point easily extended to 15 or 16 years old) I was lucky enough to live in the most ideal of environments; a small island with enough inlets and woodland to provide the security and peace of mind my mother's puttering heart so greatly required, and, inversely, the right dosage of thrill needed to keep mine revving. After taking to the high seas aboard the most knightly of Kirkland signature paddle boats, I would proceed sans reservation to quench my thirst for adventure by charting and naming the different "regions" of Lake Tapps, replete with descriptions of their history, inhabitants, flora, fauna etc. 

While charting each and every inch of that island, every stone lining its coast, I systematically (and shamelessly) stole the names of the idyllic lands portrayed in the works of Tolkien (my inlet being the Elf haven of Alqualonde, of course, and the woods behind the Barfoot residence bearing in my eye a striking resemblance to Tom Bombadil's old forest) And in that way, despite the cramping immobility of adolescence, I lived every day as a journey; for as much as I dreamt of foreign landscapes, exotic tongues, and general alterity, and for as much as I have since fled the shores of North America in search of greater thrills yet to come, my greatest fortune resides, and always will, in the interest I took in my humble island- in absorbing its every arcana, the most mundane details of my surroundings having since become treasures of inestimable nostalgic value.

Considering my sudden departures and reckless abandon of family members, I should think myself bold in saying this, but it would seem to me that, of all children, deepest delve the roots of a he who takes his home and creates a model world from it- of he who truly loves that terrain on which he frolicked through the huckleberry moments of youthful dictatorship- when kings were made and neighbors (more frequently than not) forced into a humble, if not humiliating state of subservience- (P.S.- At 22 years old, I am ready to apologize for my adolescent bossiness. I will pay you all for your services the day I win the lotto.) (P.P.S.- Never let me run for elected office. That wouldn't bode well for the future of democracy.)

I wanted to preserve it all. Record the dates when, year after year, the first guppies would follow a happy sunbeam and emerge from beneath the dock, only to find themselves face to face with predators, neighbor kids,  and all the bitter reality of piscesian adulthood. I wanted to graph the explosion of the blackberry bushes who, at the first breath of springtime would break the chains containing them to lifeless hibernation as though provoked by an errant hunter, and throw their heads back in a fit of ravenous growth.

This may sound like a whole crock of flower power, but remember- I'm not a hippy, I'm a hobbit. 

And with each word I wrote, with every new venture in fictitious cartography, those lines on the paper turned to arteries; roots binding me inexorably to that island. And those roots grew ever more vast in the waters of Lake Tapps. I can still feel on my skin the way the turquoise waves seemed to pile upon one another, eventually barring out the chaos of the surface, whose face was endlessly gashed and scored by boats and breezes, creating a safe haven beneath the progressively cooler layers of calm until at last I would come to rest upon the murky bottom. There, at absolute zero, the water would turn to smoke and all motion ceased. The suns feeble rays can barely make it down to you and their warmth has long since been extinguished in the tumultuous descent through endless strata. Up above, you watch the turmoil as two worlds collide- a border dispute, if you will- with the lament of jet skis and motor boats resonating through this empty world.  

In my ear I hear the soft echo of a Corinne Bailey Rae song- who's sweet words will always remain engraved in my fond heart as I think of my home in the waters of Lake Tapps- "cause down here theres no fear, no cause for panic, just bright, cold calm"

I would like to call it beauty. yes, that's it.

Worlds will end, and new worlds will begin, and I swear every year I'm here is a lifetime of men. Which is most certainly how Tolkien would have things done- life is not linear, nor is it literary, nor is it a Joyce novel; Life is the Thousand and One Nights, its a finger lick and a page turned and the pang of surprise to see the final paragraph of a chapter you thought would ramble on with the stubborn persistence of tradition. Its a glance out the kitchen window in late afternoon when the glare of the sun hits the lake water and, despite the released floodgates inundating you tear ducts , you're certain you can see a giant brush outlining a stage over the horizon-perhaps even an amphitheater- on which new stories will be imagined, written, played. And that's how I intend on maintaining this blog. Story by story, with no logic, no current guiding my train of thought. Sorry!

After ten months in France, fondly spent in the company of today's Bieber-loving, burger-eating youth, my story in the land of the Flems will shortly come to a close. Curtains drawn, may the after-party in London begin!

Each night in my under-heated jail cell, as I slither into a 5 euro sleeping bag and lay my head down to sleep (on an Ikea bed, mind you- Now wasn't THAT and interesting life chapter!) I thank that creepy little 12-year-old me for the contribution he made to my general epanouissement. For making me at home wherever my mind and memories find a quiet harbor in which to cast anchor. 

Rip tide. Apprehension. 

In the evening, my beating heart falls into anxious cadence with the waves of anticipation rolling in at low tide, swallowing me as I await my up-coming departure for the cradle of humanity- Africa; most mysterious of frontiers, and my current adrenaline-high.

Sometimes I can't really breath, so I turn to my right and think to open a window, only to realize I'm underwater- lying precisely where I left myself at the bottom of the lake over ten years ago- that anchor holding me steadfast, blanketed by those same undisturbed layers of quiet blue and murk. And with a flick of the light switch, wrapped in the dark of my bedroom and all the synthetic warmth provided by polyester bedding, everything returns to…bright, cold calm. 

Crisis averted.

I shall soon join the ranks of the true adventurers who, like myself, were fooled by youthful pretension into believing that a few years in Europe would be enough to change, educate, elevate them. I will be leaving the old continent in just over a week, and more than ever I am sure of where I am, sure of who I am. Traveling through my 23 years has always been motivated by a yearning for knowledge, as though some surreptitious rite of passage awaited and I would one day awake as an enlightened individual. Indeed I still maintain that it has taught me everything I know, including the most important lesson of all: that I already knew things.  That I come from a place, and somewhere as wondrous as the shores of Bretagne, the fjords of Norway, or the sands of the Sahel. That I already was an individual, and not even a dull one, at that.

I am a journal writer, and consequently unaccustomed to the demands of a literary public. As such, I will strive to replenish this well of egocentrism as often as downtime permits, sharing whatever anecdotal    observations the day-to-day in Africa is sure to bring about.

So my faithful readers (hi mom), I say to you now- pour yourselves another glass of wine, light up a pipe of the finest South Farthing leaf, and follow me down this rabbit hole. I would be honored to take you along for the ride.