I'm at it again. Tackling one of my favorite subjects- the idea of home, the archetype of home, and more precisely, why I don't have one.
This time, I'm approaching the topic from a saturnian perspective. Am I finally getting worn out by living in spaces that I describe as grad student apartments?. They're not quite as bad as student ghetto housing but one step above. That means no noisy parties or chaos, but walls thin enough that I can hear my next door neighbor snoring. Not surprisingly, these places never represent home. My role in them is caretaker- I'm the one who calls when the electricity goes off or in my last dilemma, when squirrels had nested in the cable box and eaten the wire to my modem.
No, these places don't constitute a home. Home is still the white farmhouse in Varysburg, New York that I visit in my dreams like an exile. Around me, friends have long been established in homes or just recently have bought a condo. Is that ever going to happen to me? Iara Lee, the filmmaker said she couldn't find a place to start a garden. A garden and a cat? Are they in my future?
From my last visit to Barcelona- a poem I'm working on.
Pill bugs roll into balls
at the flick of a finger,
vineyards follow the semi-circle
of the crescent moon.
The Via Romana crosses
continents searching for
wine, garum, and oil.
The space between
sea and sky
falls into one
glass gray mass.