When I moved to Los Angeles, this song by Deluka resonated with what then became my definition of home:

“In the bright white, of the headlights
Bouncing off the edge of the sky
Your energy, dancing around me
Keeps me warm it keeps me alive…”

It started with one person, someone I’d really only known a short time, offering me sanctuary during a time of transition. I had quit not just my job, but an entire career with a clear upward trajectory, to chase a mad dream of working in the music industry. Days were a hustle as a writer, an office assistant, a social media consultant, earning half my old salary combined. Nights became an anxious roulette of other people’s couches. I was just starting to question my life choices when an artist I’d met a few months previous landed an apartment next to my office job, and offered a roof over my head during the week.

“You feel like a place to sleep when it’s late
Somewhere I can close my eyes.
When the world went cold you were brighter than gold
We built this city overnight…”

His cat kept me eyeballs-deep in allergy medication, but he filled my days with music. I couldn’t believe my luck. He showed me the hiking trails at Runyon Canyon and introduced me to a local 24-hour diner, aptly called Kitchen24. We spent afternoons in his tiny garden listening to records. I painted my nails while he dug his hands into the dirt to plant tomatoes. That garden became my sanctuary whenever I needed an escape. After a few months, I got my own place in the same building. Even when we spent less time together, we were never physically far apart. In my mind, he will be forever associated with my time in the City of Angels.

The concept of a person instead of a place being “home” to me is not a new one. During those couch-crashing days, my girlfriend at the time was my anchor. She lived an hour away, but was the one I went home to on the weekends, the one who kept me sane when I wasn’t sure about anything. My family is the same. I know they will be there for me, even though I devastated my mother when I eloped to Colorado in the previous relationship. I still haven’t forgiven myself for it, especially when that ill-fated marriage nearly destroyed me.

“So let me go home…”

Deluka was one of the first bands I saw and really got to know during my Hollywood phase. They had recently made the move to the west coast from NYC and played a show for the music magazine I had started writing for. I immediately fell in love with their electro-rock vibe and Ellie Innocenti’s ethereal voice. Some of their songs became the soundtrack to those early days, trying to find my feet in a city constantly rushing towards the “next big thing.” Some of my fondest memories include falling in and out of love while listening to “Dead of Night” and dancing along the Walk of Fame to “Never Alone.”

The band is currently on hiatus, so I asked Ellie what “home” meant to her these days.

“‘Home’ was written more about the idea of home rather than the literal sense. Being in a band for all those years was very nomadic by its very nature, so I became accustomed to clinging to the smallest versions of home I could. Taking comfort in the familiarity of those around me, taking my own pillow wherever I went! Home was more of a feeling than a place, I think it still is.”

Co-founder and guitarist Kris Kovacs started with a different take, but ultimately came to a similar conclusion.

“Well, the song was written about how we would have to make places very quickly a ‘home’: any random number of NY apartments, our tour van to a certain extent, hotels for one night, and finally LA. Still, from all these things, I’ve concluded over the years that home can be anywhere you decide to make it. It’s more (about) where you feel happier and with whom you feel happiest. It’s not where you were born, or even where you grew up. But where feels right for you.”

“I’ll meet you at the bridge.
We’ll talk into the night
Take the first train home
And in the morning light
We fall asleep, in each others arms
And when we wake up…”

The song continues to resonate, perhaps now more than ever. Over the years, I’ve attributed different lines to different people – both friends and those more than. However, during the course of writing this, what it actually boiled down to became clear.

For me, simply, home is love.

Love is a rock solid foundation and a work in progress at the same time. Love isn’t stagnant. It lives and breathes and grows. Love isn’t anchored to any one place. You can take it wherever you go.

I never dreamed I would be where I am right now. No longer in California, no longer working for someone else’s gain, no longer trying to make more than I need, or chasing ambitions of touring with musicians. Instead, I’m sitting in the middle of the Midwest, in the middle of a writing program, doing something I’ve always done and can’t seem to help doing. I started two new jobs, both entry level, doing things I’ve always done and often seem to end up asked to do.

The difference is that now, I’m surrounded by love. Chased a bit by ever-present anxiety and fear of the unknown, sure, but ultimately anchored in the knowledge that I’m walking through this life with someone who will catch me whether I fly or fall. Someone who will let me do the same for them. Someone who encourages me to do the same for myself.

I don’t know how long I’ll be in this town. I don’t know if I’ll ever find a place to “put down roots” or if I’ll continue to keep moving. What I do know is that wherever I end up …

“We will be home.”

The post When Music is the Muse: At Home with Deluka appeared first on KRUI Radio.

Home sweet home.

But what exactly do we think of when we say, “Home sweet home”? Do we think of the house we grew up in, our hometown, or our home state? Perhaps it depends on where we’re coming from, and how far we go.

This familiar phrase has an equivalent word in Japanese—the noun 故郷, “furusato.” As opposed to its English cousin, it’s not something you whisper to yourself as you get off at your home train station, or walk into your parents’ house. Instead, it’s an interpersonal communication thing—while I think it’s pretty rare for Americans to ask each other, “What’s home sweet home for you?” It is a more doable thing in Japan. “What do you call your furusato?” “Do you have a furusato?” “I’m going back to my furusato.” Though used like “home,” it comes with the strong nostalgia and sense of belonging in “home sweet home.”

“Furusato” is also a popular theme in Japanese literature, music, and poetry. A couple of my favorite short poems (called “tanka”) about this topic are written by the author and poet Tawara Machi, popular for her book Salad Anniversary.

It feels like collapsing an umbrella

As I change trains

And find myself at home (from Te no Hira no Taiyou)

We smile about nothing

Laugh about nothing

Nothing really matters

That’s why I love my home (from Salad Anniversary)
Particularly with the second poem, it’s because Tawara Machi uses “furusato” that you can quite freely surmise that the speaker is a loooong way from home—which does not come out as well in my (feeble) translation.

A staple in children’s songs is, appropriately named, “Furusato,” with these wistful lyrics:

“Chasing rabbits up that mountain

Fishing for little carp in that stream

Even now those dreams come back

About my home that I can’t forget

…

If my wishes could come true

I would be going home someday

Home is where the blue mountains are

Home is where the streams are clear”

The word “furusato” is not without a little controversy, however. There tends to be a strong association of a rural setting with the word, which some areas in Japan have used for commercialization. In northern Japan, for instance, you’ll see haphazard billboard signs advertising the area as someone’s “furusato,” also hoping to lead you towards some ma and pa merchandise in the souvenir shop below the signs.

Regardless, this popular image has led to some interesting studies—one survey asked native Tokyoites if they considered Tokyo to be their furusato. Nearly fifty percent said that they did not. This was in stark contrast to the answers from people coming out of Tokyo, approximately eighty percent of which answered that they did have a furusato. Of course, there are Tokyoites who will fiercely insist that there is no reason to not call Tokyo their furusato—however, the rurality of the word still remains.

Yet we’re also in a setting where it was common for country dwellers to leave their rural homes to find work in Tokyo, to the point where this emigration to Tokyo also has its own word—joukyou. In this almost three-hundred-year-long pursuit of economic promise in the capital, “furusato” has become smoked with these flavors of long-distance exile and nostalgia, together with a stalwart sense of identity and attachment to one’s homeland. This also seems to speak to the individuality of Japan’s different prefectures—there’s now even a Furusato Festival in Tokyo every year, where you can go and get the unique experience of what Japan’s different prefectures, or should we say furusato’s, can offer.

The post Matcha, Manga, and Mayonnaise: Coming Home in Japan appeared first on KRUI Radio.

Megan was the first person I approached on my adventure that day. I walked up to her fully expecting a curt “no,” or a cold shoulder, as I had experienced many times before. Instead, Megan was warm and receptive, and allowed me to share a tiny part of her time.

Megan and I obviously connected over the fact that both of our names are Megan. We also agreed upon the matter that people who spell “Megan” with an H are just crazy and need to rethink their world views. Get your lives together.

My short time speaking with Megan led me to believe that she was someone whom many University of Iowa students could relate to. She shared many of the same fears and joys that each of us encounter every day.

She told me that she was worried about graduating and fulfilling all of her class requirements. Megan was looking into graduate schools, both to continue her studies and to begin a life outside of Iowa City.

An existence beyond Iowa City is daunting for many, but especially Megan, who has called the city home for her entire life. Megan was born and raised here, and always knew that she wanted to attend the University of Iowa. She grew up here, learned here, and now is getting ready to move on to bigger and better things.

We talked a little bit about what it was like to transition to the University of Iowa after living in Iowa City for so long. Megan shared the same fears her first year that many freshman feel– she was nervous about finding classes, dorm life, and about meeting people she could connect with. Four years later, Megan told me that she felt glad that she had come here, and that she had met some of her best friends while living in the dorms.

Though Iowa City is Megan’s home, she is excited to start a new adventure. “I love Iowa City, but I always knew I was going to go to grad school out-of-state,” she told me.

Thanks for sharing, Megan, both with us and with Iowa City. Come back and visit sometime.

Iowa City Observations is a continuing column in which I venture out into the streets of Iowa City and ask people to inspire me, as well as make probably irrelevant observations about Iowa City itself.

This column was inspired by Humans of New York. Check out their Facebook page and Instagram account.

The post Iowa City Observations: Megan appeared first on KRUI Radio.