my hometown is like one in the movies

it's the kind of place my classmates always shit talked

but i know they'll miss it once they're gone

it's the kind of place that even i miss

but it's the kind of place that is incredibly difficult to go back to

when i drive past my childhood home

i wish i could see visions of my old cat snuggling with me by the fire

or a brief image of my ex boyfriend talking with me on our back porch

i would give anything to even watch my mother scream at me for not practicing my piano one more time

but instead i see several moments during our last summer in the house

i see myself crumbling on the floor and clutching at my guts

wishing i hadn't smoked so much

or sitting in my bed late at night with greasy hair

wondering why he never listened all the times i said no

no matter how many layers of paint they cover my bedroom in

there will always be pink and orange and purple hidden down deep

and all my favorite songs written and kept away

in a time when i was still a child

Blue skies, wet streets. At night I find my old copy of Octavia Butler and read it to you in the bath.

We share a cup of tea on clean sheets, listening to the sound of rain, which will stop as soon as we put our raincoats on. Petrichor tastes sweet through the open windows, rising from the garden grass.

Now we walk to the bakery to choose pastries as big as your face, and we sit at a table and order flat whites and cappuccinos, or, any other combinations of ground coffee, hot water and milk, soothing reminders that it’s Sunday and there is no better place to be.

Fruit and vegetable stalls are open, and people walk that leisured way only those who are required nowhere else on earth, can walk. We walk that way, without rush or haste, and when the thunderstorm brews we run to take shelter in a paint shop. I love you, spells the painted draft.

We visit a museum where people have listed things that make them happy. Green spaces. The smell of my partner’s armpits. Chocolate biscuits. Wonky socks.

my hometown. it is--

it is a million little moments stored into

a handful of miles;

a million different pieces of self wrapped into

a variety of smiles;

my hometown. it is

on fire. it is green and brown,

orange and red, black and grey.

the trees reach high above our heads,

while we sit on the edges of dirty sidewalks and

apologize when people walk too close to us.

my hometown.

the library on the corner of

the street perpendicular with Main.

the array of shops that we drive by often,

where my mom says "don't look in the windows,"

not because we'd want to buy the things

they display so proudly, but because of all

of the

"eccentricity"

of the things within.

my hometown. i've lived in

one,

two,

three,

four different

houses in this town,

all between living in other towns or

in other states, and, let me tell you,

it's the running joke that

we always come back.

my hometown. i know it

forwards and backwards,

upside down and right side up,

i know it in my sleep and i know it in my

heart. don't ask me the streetnames.

tell me where you want to go.

i'll take you there.

my hometown. we're

burning up. a wildfire.

a flame. some things

come back, like we do,

and this is just another one.

my hometown. the church, an off-white

building standing tall. i have memories here, memories

of running through the parking lot

with friends. i remember standing still and staring at the

pavement, wondering,

wondering,

wondering if we'd

come back this time.

my hometown. i'm here, again. i'm

back.

my hometown. it is--

it is a million little moments stored into

a handful of miles;

a million different pieces of self wrapped into

a variety of smiles;

When you come into my town, it would be the best experience anyone will ever have.

No tall buildings. Mom and Pop stores all around. Everyone you see will wave, say "hello," and ask "how ya' doing?" No one will look at you as if you are some weirdo or alien that just crashed landed. Nope. Not my town. My town offers an abundance of smiles. Always ready to help even though you never asked. The air swirls of fresh baked goods and all around you see happy faces.

Barbeques in everyone's back yard while laughing children play. No one yells. No one fights. No one blames anyone for anything. Just one big happy town.......

I awake smiling but realize, I am in "my" hometown; I drag myself out of bed and look out my window and sigh. What a nice place that would be if we all could love instead of hate. I am going back to sleep..........

it’s funny, where i’m from most people have a stereotype of being rude. in fact, once, waiting on line in Foorth*, I overheard some women talking about people from my region as being ‘all from the mafia’. I thought that was funny, since i was dating the son of someone from the mafia, while my dad grew up next to the house that inspired the Godfather. they kinda werent wrong. and when i spoke to them and they heard my accent, they became very awkward. sorry, ladies!

anyway. here we run on island time. and everyone is pretty kind. no one wants bad for others, they just have a lot of stuff to do to avoid ‘bad’ for themselves. plus, theres so much to do here. want to hit the beach and surf? find a river to explore via kayak? fish? hunt? hike? love museums - both indoor and outdoor? laser tag? escape rooms? or are you a history buff and you wanna see where most of the US revolution was won? or are you curious for niche stores, holes in the wall that make you feel really fucking special, like a crack in an ancient chinese pot being filled with gold. want to eat anything you could possibly imagine? there are 8 different thai food restaurants near me, all mom and pops and originally from thailand.. authentic as fuck. there’s a mall half a mile away, yet i live on a fully sustaining homestead on 5.2 acres. other than the occaisional police/ fire siren, i’d never even know there were other people around. yet, im surrounded by hundreds of thousands. people who would give the shirt off their back. who would help as much as they could. when i was stranded on the side of the road in colorado, 89.4 miles from the nearest gas station, im sure someone would’ve helped me... but no one could. but here, when i sit down on the side of the road to do some ab work on my run, 8 people will stop and ask me if im okay. theyll offer me a ride, or to sit with me while someone shows up.

even though my region is known for a high cost of living, we all do things ‘off the books’ for each other to help out. i raised some chickens and gave them to a guy, who comes by once a month and fixes fences/ does electrical work. growing up, my dad (who publishes books and training courses) would give free courses and books to people to get me lessons. there is a major agricultural environment here, where i give my neighbors eggs and they give me squash. i give them compost and they give me watermelon. i give them mason jars and they give me peaches. and when we wanna party, we party hard in the greatest city on the planet.

*Name changed.

The concrete pillbox by the raised road, where the marrauders used to pounce, on desperate caravans, was only a lingering memory in stories by the elders. the rich waters beneath The eroded iron skeleton that protrudes from the remaining structure attracted me in the early days with their soothing froth. here i took happy excursions, rising out of the ooze, to lick the rust as my friends did, for the precious metallic flavor we were so excited about. here we played at Centepedesand Skalliwags, trapped the innocent, and devoured to our hearts’ content. stay away from the orange ones, was my only admonishment, the blues and yellows are fine and nutritious.

one day a friend was bitten by a scorpion and as he lay immobilized, we tore both apart and had a grand old time.

let me not forget the Upper Reaches, where the hedgehogs fornicated, dexterously avoiding the tar. how we enjoyed in those days to taunt such cappilary suction, while shunning ourselves the abyss.

i hardened my tentacles by the cannisters, slithering. lifelong lessons, I learned while experimenting with the shardes, learning to piece together what it was that they were supposed to contain. oh, the joy of success, as i learned long words of ancient writ, piece by piece, integrating them in the aforementioned taunts.

as i grew some barbs, it became apparent, that i will continue to play with the fragile succulents at my peril. from then on , i had to eschew much of the delicacies of the sunken truck. oh, the pain i felt, knowing i will hence hold such wonders only in memory.

the asbestos slabs jutted in beautiful shapes, and in their cool shade, i played with the mullosks and amphibiants, classifying, dessicating them upon barbs and hooks, like the shrikes above us. as those birds descended on occasion, i found my first early disappointment: they could fly with such agility, but failed to do so with just a single broken wing. a warning for things to come, which i could not yet know.

the observers, and naturalists that visited , were a consolation. how they entertained me with their attempts. the abandoned equipment, soon fascinated me, and i interfaced happily. what joy it was, to read of our part of the world! i did not know of the possibilities, of how the exposure i had, was in fact just a dribble in a quagmire of offerings and temptations. my friends warned me, of my passions. we went along nostalgic soujurns, revisiting the old haunts. trying to piece together our youth, as fragments of high-grade glass .

i was reminded of my old conquests and interests. finally, by the corroded bunker, we sucked on the tainted rebar as before, smiling sadly and knowing that there is so much rusty rebar in the world, so many unexplored cannisters and shardes, so many tar-entrapped hedgehogs. i left in tears, and hardened bile. bringing the pollution and filth with me, but learning to love the foreign flavors as well.

My hometown gained it's name after the gold rush and translates to ' First rest', as it was the places pilgrimmers rested after the gold rush. In apartheid this was where my kind was dumped after they had been evicted from their their home.

Today, this community is decorated by old houses and new, some carying history and other the new regime ordered by Nelson Mandela.

It is decorated with olive skins, ranging from lite to dark but not limited too. It is a place of culture and freedom where one can express one freely. Smile and laughter echo through the full streets as kids chase around balls and play hopschotch while inventing new games to be passed on to the new generation. The youth takes part in car shows, known as 'stance' where they shpwcase their cars interior, exterior, speed and compete on how loud their sound is. It's a place where people come together; old, young, poor and rich and lend a helping hand where needed. A place that creates great memories, yet motivates you to get out of it.

My hometwon is what makes me who I am...