to the stickiest of all sticks

I told him, warned him really, that sorry, I just don't ever want to live in 'the sticks.' Then that robbery happened. A man in my house. A skinny black stranger. Rooting through my panty drawer. Throwing stuff around. Stealing my things. Making off with my Macbook. My bag. Wallet. Passport. Every scrap of personal identification. Meanwhile, upstairs, trying desperately to make that 911 call, the phone wouldn't work. It was like a slow-motion nightmare, a scream you can't scream, a run you can't run, a frozen terrified heart-pounding fuck you, you fucker of all fuckers. You violating scum, how dare you come in here. If I had a gun, I'd kill you, in one breath, in one quick regretless click. Days later, I consider the reasons for your theft and I'd feel compassion. We all have mouths to feed. Who were you trying to save? What life were you trying to live, certainly not the one you're forced into enduring. I'd waver on these emotions. Back and forth. Fantasies of his face down on the floor, gun drawn. Fantasies of bringing the big banks down and ending this horrible disparity between us. But I digress.

Lately, many days spent in the country, through rolling gorgeous vineyards and farmland, amid tiny, hippie, sweet towns full of artist-types, and away from a dark, hostile, nothing-to-do neighborhood now bring me clearly identifiable endless calm. I look at the late day sun and the moon and stars and trees and plants and wildlife and outdoor quiet in the country and I think: yes. Yes, please.

It's not the sticks. Or as I call it 'the stickiest of all sticks.' It's something else to me now. A sense of place. A change for the better. It may seem like an escape, a surrender even. But I see it more a kind of unexpected evolution. I grew up in the country. In a small, charming town. But the moment I was old enough to leave, I left with vigor. For the big city. For another big city. For city after city. Town after town. Searching for something to make me feel connected. Or important. Or cool. Or whatever I thought I was supposed to be or do.

San Francisco was a move I always thought I wanted to make. And, indeed, it is a city in which I could easily live. But it's chilly. And I like the sunshine and warmth. Don't really mind a good sweat. My blood is still thin from years in Florida. Being half-naked all the time so as to ward off the impending, inevitable wet that one lives in from moment to moment, resigned to a constant, insistent heat, the sultry kind that beads at the back of the neck and trembles upon the brow: that intensity immerses you at all times. And I honestly miss it. I weirdly crave it's oppression.

But I also love the dry and easy warmth that is unfolding here now. After a long winter filled with sickness and cold dampness and loneliness and a pervasive sense of treading water, just keeping my head above it, just barely not drowning in the overwhelming aloneness, and only one tiny shift away from becoming a full time cat lady. One tiny move away from being a full on weirdo who embraces their oddity and voluntarily drowns it in cheap wine and shots of brown liquor that somebody at some friendly bar buys as a very intentionaly happy gesture of rounds, one for you, one for all, one for everyone of us seeking to feel just a little bit....less.

But the warmth embraces me now. I can breathe again in a way I'd forgotten I could even breathe. I feel safe for the first time in years, the sort of safe that one feels in a twin bed at one's parent's house. (Except with requisite nudity and passion, oh thank you, hell yes). And I look forward to seeing this person now when the weekend comes and it's not just some coworker, not just a person with whom I can vent and booze and bitch about an office situation or a lack of man in one's life (thankfully the assfire phase is over), but someone I look forward to seeing. Genuinely. Excitedly. Warmth that isn't a season or a temperature but a wholly encompassing reason to live.

The moment we met, and hugged, and said hello, so cool we have this friend in common and how great to meet you too, in that small lonely hearts and emo-kid bar full of overpriced mixologist drinks and snail-slow service, at the moment I saw his face all lit up, always so lit up with aliveness and thoughtfulness and humor and well-read wit mixed with goofballness, with an infectious smile, I knew, right then and there that I liked him and yes, probably, ok definitely, I'd sleep with him. I told him this very thing. It takes about twenty seconds to size these things up and they are unconscious. And eleven weeks later, after a weekend of small joys, he asked me to marry him. And it just gets warmer every day.

Hello country, hello sticks, how are you? How have you been? I do believe I am coming home. It's been a good long while. It'll be nice to know you again.