Louis Rhead:
I diverted myself with talking to my parrot (1900)

"Another Exile might be in all of our near futures."

These Exiled Stories have not just been about me, but actual PiecesOfMe. Everywhere we landed on our twelve-year odyssey, PiecesOfMe sloughed off and were left behind. By the end, I felt as though I had been pruned to within an inch of my existence. Though I supposed I was supposed to return with treasure, I returned immeasurable instead. What had I gained but some stories? What had become of me in my absence? Who was I supposed to have become? I returned dumber than I left and likely no wiser, either, for I had been absent the entire time. I'd learned a raft of things that have no practical application back in my homeland, even as generalized abilities. How could I apply my learned facility with public transportation in a place offering little of that? How would my learned tolerance for high humidity serve me when living on the edge of a vast desert? I returned with very little to show for my absence but stories.

Did my extended absence at least make my heart grow fonder? Yes, I suppose it did, but even there, I returned to somewhere other than the place from which I departed. That was gone. Forever. I'd pined after the unrecoverable, a futile if not tragic expenditure. I was sweating little bits of myself there, too, discarding minuscule parts without really being aware of what I was doing. I could proclaim that I spent the entire Exile dozing, not necessarily dreaming, either, but absent from even the places I had supposedly landed. No, I didn't bring you a tee shirt.

I imagine that if I had stayed put and not been Exiled, my stories might have remained more continuous. I might have delved more deeply into my local history and found connections that might have rendered me more exquisitely connected to the center of my universe. But I was off galavanting instead of worrying about my center. I essentially became a periphery of myself, floating through uncertain space. I survived after some fashion. I also died in other ways. I was never courageous. I almost exclusively sought paths of least resistance.

I left unfinished in ways I couldn't have described. I returned perhaps more unfinished than I departed, but in ways I might be better capable of explaining. I might have expanded my horizons while Exiled, which was an essentially worthless gain unless or until I start moving in some discernable direction again. I returned from my Exile determined to stay put, to inhabit my home, not to continue roaming out, in, or around again. The rootless life featured many attractions, but none I ever considered essential in the way that I consider my home. The Muse retains some wanderlust. She speaks of excursions to Alaska and Italy while I try hardest to focus on inhabiting this place from which I was once so rudely removed. I wonder if I can ever unselfconsciously wander again or if I will forever obsess about whatever I left behind. PiecesOfMe mark my passage. PiecesOfMe also seem to greet me when returning. I have been actively exfoliating, discarding layers, and perhaps working my way down or into some essence.

I am most decidedly not the sum of my Exiled experiences but gratefully much less. I returned carrying less baggage than I left with. I hold a few boxes I have as yet been unable to unpack. I suspect they hold some long-forgotten PiecesOfMe I'd intended to leave behind. My shelves seem cluttered since I returned. I'm learning that I need not hold every possession as if it were necessary. Some might necessarily be left behind, even when I'm not moving on or further into some Exile. I can feel alienated anywhere, even here, near the center of my universe, where gravity actually works as intended. Given the recent election, I feel freshly upended even here. Another Exile might be in all of our near futures. Wherever that might take me, I'm reasonably confident that I will be leaving PiecesOfMe behind.

©2024 by David A. Schmaltz - all rights reserved

Tags: #Exiled, #PureSchmaltz