I feel icky today.

I feel tired. I feel bloated. I feel ill at ease.

Not sure why?

No physiological reason I am aware of that I should.

I think I am allergic to my job. This is better than being allergic to my life, but still, cold comfort, since I must make myself present at said job on most days.

Unfortunately, I also have a sneaking suspicion that I am just allergic to work. That just will not do.

I have to work. I have to be able to support myself. Ugh - the need to support oneself.

The job also has not been pressing of late. Hardly. In fact, the pressure has diminished so much lately that my motivation (and ultimate follow through) to get into the office every morning diminish further and further. Somehow I manage it, but not without a lot of mental wrestling and cajoling to get myself there.

Feel like that last guest at a party. I know it is time to leave. The hosts are playing nice and not telling me to go. They are chatty and focusing as best they can at the late hour. But I know. I know it is time to go. Where is my cab already? Everyone is looking at their watches at one point or another. Should I call again?

However, in my metaphorical scenario is different from my life/search for purpose-driven employment in that: (1) I have the number to the cab company, (2) if I didn't I could call 411 and they could give me numerous numbers to numerous cab companies (though they would then connect me directly, so I, without aid of pen and paper, would not be able to call again without incurring the $1.49 charge or whatever it is), (3) worse comes to worse, I could call someone to come get me, and (4) (and this is the most important difference) I would know where I was going. I could tell the cab to take me to a particular destination. Take me to the corner of [______] and [_______]. Take me to that place that is not the Marina. Take me home.

Is that it? Am I search for "home"? It is yet another word that I have attempted to define within the confines of this blog and have been unable to do so in a way that would resonate any further than some platitude that should be stuck on a limited edition plate issued by the Franklin Mint or perhaps just a Linens n' Things dish towel.

I know home is not just a physical place because I have lived places that were not "home." Home is not just a metaphorical place either because otherwise you would only get yearnings to be with certain people or to have certain feelings and not to be a certain location - which while many times is the case, is not always the case.

Home is something built. Developed. Evolved.

I think.

But then, how do you explain the "Start Spreading the News" phenomena: That moment when you step off the plane, and wander past baggage claim, rubbing sleep from your eyes, trying to figure out what method of public transportation will get you to where you are going (though ultimately you know you will spring for a cab) as you foray out into the confines of a new city, and the moment the fresh air hits you (be it a cold blast, a light warm breeze, a torrential rain, or overwhelming humidity) as you stand at the busy airport sidewalk, you know. You just know. You feel it through and through. This is my town. I can be home here. I will always feel the familiar here. This place will always be a part of me. It always has been.

Chicago did that for me. Wherever I go from here, whenever I go back, whenever I return, for however long, it always comforts and reassures. Every landing at O'Hare a familial bearhug. The solace of deep running bloodlines and history evoking a sunny warmth even on the most arctic of February-days. Odd, however, given there are no actual long running family ties to the area. I did not grow up there. I spent three years there. Not all that long in the span of my slightly over a quarter century life. Even more odd as it felt that way the first time I got off the plane in Chicago when I arrived to live there. Absolutely odd in that it struck me even deeper the very first time I even ventured to the Second City, for a two day visit my senior year in college.

Then again, maybe I was just struck by the stark contrast to what I felt, or did not feel about my college town. Boston never inspired any love from me. On the other hand, neither did it inspire loathing. There was nothing there but indifference. I always just felt my relationship with Beantown to be one of convenience. It worked out for both of us, but then after four years we went our separate ways. This could explain why six years have gone by and I have not been back to see her. It also certainly explains the inner-surprise I registered during the journey of the Red Sox to the World Series victory this year when people would ask me who I was rooting for. I, like many out here on the left coast, was rooting for the Sox, but because of the sentimentality and beauty that the story would evoke, and, well, because it would finally shut up those oh-so-smug fans of the Evil Empire. But most, upon hearing who I was rooting for, said, of course, that makes sense, because you went to school in Boston. Every time I heard this comment, my id did a little double take. Reasonable explanation. I let people carry on in pleasantness of having seemingly made an unprompted connection between the threads of my life. But they were disparate threads and really not connected at all. The city of Boston and I never entered into the relationship of passion (or even on of easy going affection) necessary for me to have sustained an interest in the Red Sox over all these years. Truth of the matter is, I have greater affinity for New York City (where I spent a summer). And this may be what fuels my intense hatred for the Yankees.

New York City intrigued me, with its hard edges, and its moving parts. And the underlying, dscernible yet indecipherable magic that keeps it in constant locomotion. Its matrix always changing so that my daily walk from mid-town all the way downtown was never the same. Each say a new journey, each stroll a new adventure. I never looked up and never went underground (gawking at skyscrapers and poring over subway maps being two dead giveaways of tourist-dom - though I suppose my summer sweaters and anti-fashion savvy were probably just as glaring at the time), but I never missed out. Looking straight ahead in the City that Never Sleeps provided an endless visual repast. Despite the dispmayed looks it garnered from my friends when I told them about it, the walk always seemed too short.

I always like to say that I have recently entered my Forrest Gump phase of life, but I guess that is not true. I have always been a bit Gump-ish. Growing up in the 'burbs bought me plenty of time in a mini-van, but it never allowed me to explore true neighborhoods up close and in person.

Guess I have been missing that all my life. Now I take it up in earnest. It started in New York. It was certainly true in Chicago. Now, I love to walk through San Francisco. I love to walk home. I will walk pretty much anywhere around here if given the opportunity. Hills are no obstacle to me - on the contrary they provide better views and greater opportunity for exercise - it is only time that defeats me. I don't always have the time to walk from here to there, as I would like. Doing the "to and fro" thing by foot is a time consuming process.

I suppose this is why I could never live in L.A. or in Miami or any other place where driving is mandatory, and walking is considered a waste of time. Not that walking doesn't get you looks in San Francisco, but it is do-able, and not wholly without precedent.