if i knew where calypso bloomed

a year ago tomorrow, in an entry i deleted for political/wildlife management reasons and i swear i'll stop bringing it up soon, i wrote the following about a paper journal entry i'd written the day before:

...and [i thought] about how, when you pile story upon story in a certain place, the less the place becomes about the story and the more about the place itself, again.

and i want to revisit that thought.
that entry mentioned a rainy day spent in gov't housing at toklat, drinking too much coffee and writing a long meditative journal entry about the measurement of personal growth against a fixed location, which, aside from the movement of monstrous amounts of gravel and water (some by gravity and glaciation, some by federal stimulus dollars), remains geographically the same, as does this particular housing unit.
but it's been a different sort of summer for me, so much so that i'm still a little in denial that it's happening at all. i work and sleep and pull weeds from the greenhouse. a.s. said last week that i'm growing up. i said i'm definitely saving money by letting my social anxiety control me, which wasn't the point.
i'm reading this book, chris kraus' i love dick, which sort of set the tone for yesterday's morning drinking coffee and writing in my mostly abandoned journal at toklat, trying to reconcile identity and desire and biking that same road over and over again. kraus writes that "It was interesting, though, to plummet back into the psychosis of adolescence. Living so intensely in your head that boundaries disappear...Kind of a useful place to move around in."
i was obsessed with those boundaries once, creating and then crossing them. i had a conversation recently about the adolescent tendency to avoid (or return to, maybe?) the places which were loaded with emotional significance, on which grounds i excused (to myself) my avoidance of my high school math hall, certain flagstaff parking lots, and the NAU music building. it seemed like such a desperate necessity at the time.
but what i've learned since then is that sometimes a road is just a road and it's better that way. that a fixed point will never turn around you, and you'll see it better if you turn yourself. that lynx like old cowboy songs. that the boundaries are rarely where we think they are.
and dear lord i've got to stop.