I Am Not at Home Here. (page 4)

snowbird

That's what I'm talkin' 'bout!

That's the spirit, CoCo!

Sylvia

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Dear Snowbird :

Thanks so much!

Today I ran into a former work aquaintance who will surely become a good friend; we are kindred spirits.

More later ...

Love,

CoCo [beautiful reflective image!]

BurnTheShips

I Am Not at Home Here.

This is not my life

This is not my home

This is not me

I hate this!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3qwznOOH28c

BTS

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Thank you, Burn.

It's always a pleasure hearing from you. Please return ...

CoCo

The lights have dimmed.
They have been extinguished.
So, too, He, though this is no cause
For undue concern as His transition to a

Higher, more noble estate, has long been in
The offing, as man's temporal journey is but one
Step up on the ladder of life, death and sure renewal.
He is ready, gladly awaiting those joys long ago promised.

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I wander without aim, without resolve, through this monolith of wood and stone. It is time to sit down and take stock of what is to become of me.

It is Rose Red, save for the fiction of sheer storytelling. Persuaded by the others to come enjoy myself in a manner to which I could never become accustomed, I packed my solitary bag with the few clean duds I could find in my sparsely populated chest of drawers and also some valueless but cherished trinkets to remind me of the little home I felt I was abandoning like some dear and faithful old friend.

After many days here feeling so hopelessly lost - I do not have the blueprints in hand to give me some meager clue as to my whereabouts at any given moment - I am resigned to settle down in a study that rivals our little public library for size and volumes and read and write.

Perhaps a story will develop as a result of my protracted stay in a house that could never be called my home....

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I spent my entire childhood climbing up mountainsides, and, when not up to that daunting challenge [for whatever reason], I would settle for climbing a tree. What little boy doesn't love to climb? To see what lies beyond his tiny province? Perhaps a tall ship's sails looming on the distant horizon promise escape to that faraway land where Peter and Wendy and Jonathan and Michael now live. A kid's got to have adventure in his heart, if not in his own neighborhood, otherwise he'll shrivel up and blow away.

Well, my dad was a salesman and it seemed everyone in his district already had a Fuller brush of some sort as well as a stock of J.R. Watkins Natural Vegetable Oil Soap. His regular customers liked him for his friendly and honest manner and bought freely from his traveling store. The time came, however, to pull up stakes. Since my parents never had the capital to buy a home of their own, it was no big deal vacating a rental and locating a new one. Of course, the little apartment or house we bid adieu was left sparkling, all spic-and-span. That was Mom and Dad's way. It spoke well, too, of the products my dad hawked.

When I said no big deal leaving behind a dwelling, I was not talking about the pain of being uprooted from the neighborhood and its beloved denizens, whether two-footed or four-footed. It seemed that just when I had made my nest in the crook of a favorite tree or discovered a poison-oak infested mountain trail leading to hidden treasure twenty paces to the north of hangman's tree, I was admonished by my firm but not totally unsympathetic father that there were new hills and dales and seas to discover ... in a new town.

I didn't realize at the time of my agonized, perpetually uprooted youth that Dad had ever been a kid. How could I? He was an adult the entire time I knew him. Now that I think back on it, when he was out watering our sparse patch of green at my most-favorite-ever cottage, he always had this huge ear-to-ear grin on his face when I hooted and hollered and scrambled up the old Maple in our front yard.

Dad never told me so, but I have a sneaking suspicion that when he was a kid he loved to climb trees and mountains too.

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A friend just wrote to say that one does not need to be the Sequoia in the forest, this after a mutual lament that we cannot accomplish creatively all that we aspire to ...

Your thoughts?

CoCo

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Your thoughts, please, on the sentiments expressed in post 7310?

CoCo

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It is good to be home again, to sleep in my own bed and to cook dinner on my orange 1970s electric range.

I do not require 6 gas burners under a gleaming copper hood in order to prepare a satisfying meal.

Do you?

I Am Not at Home Here.

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