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Epistulae Ciceronis
A Perfectly Squiffy Jag Recent Entries |
| 01:53 pm - Home Alone 4, part 2. |
| 11:33 am - Write my Epitath. |
| 02:25 pm - Memories |
| 09:29 pm - Lymphoglandulæ subinguinales superficiales |
| 08:11 pm - Women: 01, Men: 00 |
(But I'm so soft!)
| 11:36 pm - Bloodbath. |
| 01:36 pm - The heart is where the home is... |
My intent was to spend Christmas at the Vietnam Memorial, go to dinner with my business partner and his wife, get a tour of the Pentagon,
I will see none of these places, however, as I'm still in Seattle. I'm not entirely sure what kept me here. Even up to 4:00 a.m., I was undecided. Nonetheless, in the end I chose to spend Christmas at my house, alone. It is a tradition of mine to spend the holiday at home with a book, bottle of wine and a cozy spot in front of my fire. I have a particular choice of Cabernet Sauvignon I've been saving for quite some time especially for this occasion. It was not, however, uncorked today. It remains on the wine rack, garnished with dust. Instead of externalizing my unsettled energy via displaced escapism I instead turned inward, stepping into my heart for a ( much overdue inspection ).
Later, without thought or feeling I find myself in my car, driving West towards Seattle, on occasion passing a dimply lit bar boasting an open sign, claiming refuge to those without family or spirit or hope. Those Godless heathens that cower in the apocalyptic wasteland of a Christmas evening alone. I disregard street signs and traffic signals, lanes, sidewalks; pedestrians. I enter the city through the spread limbs of the express lanes, penetrating a passage ran raw with the abuse of overpopulation and a disregard for self-constraint. A city that never says no. Later, by some time, I find myself at a table, alone in the middle of dining hall, eating fried eggplant and some variation of Tofu-composite-labeled-as-chicken; in the background, the muffled clanking of pans as a full staff continues about the routines of another day, a machine which turns out with predictable quality and pride that which I will call my dinner tonight, undisturbed by the religious overtones or modern consumerism which grips the day.
On my way home, I slowly partake of my fortune cookie, the bland dry material reminding me of communion. Upon arrival at my house, I unfold the fortune and read it: “The happiest circumstances are close to home” as if in asnwer to an unspoken question. I wonder.
In the morning I am awoken by a ghost of my past, once pushed away and forgotten but recently reconstituted through my confrontation of guilt and regret. I reach out in peace and am greeted by a cold stare, unrecognizing, abrupt. For a while I stare back, at a now abandoned post, down an empty street. And I ponder, not for the first time recently:
What is home?