I had this thought in my head and now I want to transcribe it onto the page. The thought was simple - This place that I return to each night that I call home is peaceful. This repeated itself and I wanted to meditate further on it. This place that I return to each night that I call home is peaceful. It is quiet. The ocean is immense. The wind is consistent. The sun always sets. There is a light rain which makes its way northwest. The hills behind and to the side are green and vast. They shift the wind around the mountain.
The idea of home intrigues me and leads me to questions. When does a new place become or feel like home? Or is home where you sleep at night steadily? Why is a bum considered homeless if he sleeps under the same bridge each night? Is home a roof and walls? Is it a return trip back to one's own country? Is it on a warm beach under the stars or in the deep thick woods or on top of a snowy summit? I don't know these answers, but I have feelings of certainty about some aspects of what Home is, or part of what Home is to me.
But what if home is imaginary, false, idol worship. Is home only where we are born? Does it not exist without familiarity? Is a dancing pink purple and orange sky only meant for those born under those colors? Does home haunt those who lose it, and can it be truly lost, or instead temporarily misplaced? Is home a desire or is it innate? A want or a need, can it be wholly neglected?
What I think is most important is home is whatever it means to you and that it is better to be thought of positively for health and peace of mind.
Home is
A curving wind brings us a tale
of a breeze that pushed one towards the edge
and a mouse that crawled through it
Under this hole we lift a canvas
spread like unraveled yarn across the sky
depicting a heart at its core
with curved blankets guarding its secular soul
belonging to the blind infant
free to see what matters
While a wild breeze beckons the gopher
to fly towards the sky from the fertile earth
to fill an unused unnurtured potential
The universe awaits us halfway
Hungry is the wolf after months without prety
Hungry is the lion when the gazzelles migrate
Thirsty is the bedouine when the well dries up
Forthright is the soul when destiny awaits
Passionate is the heart who wields the body
Home is where man lives with the land
A writer is meant to speak their thoughts onto the page, uninterrupted, unedited. To write the mind and the welfare of society and the state of the human race. To write of immigrants and nationalists and abandoned youths and wars and enslavement. He is supposed to write what he sees and how he feels about it, unconcerned with everything else. A writer must write and architect must design, and a man must pursue his dreams. And when his dreams are unknown, he must pursue life with faith, or else he will cease. Something must keep him ticking. He thinks too much about Time. Not just now, but the past and the future and how they operate. He does this more when he is alone, but he does it too, when he is around people and animals. He connects with animals as they understand much and care too. He is happier when he cares. He is scared to disappoint so he lets himself appear a mystery to most, even himself.
The Writer
he marvels at the human race
its childlike war influenced comic book imagination
and its conviction
to kill a fellow man and plant a garden
to swim alongside a dolphin
and fly through the mountains in a 747
to hunt meat and prepare it for a family
and then argue about the mundane
to sleep or not sleep for days straight
and more than anything
he marvels at the races ability
to love
and to not love
Quick update of my life:
Moving to walking distance from a town with a population over 1000 for the first time in a few years, will hopefully be able to write about this change, as I find myself more alive and inspired to write when in the state of transition. Reread Kafka on the Shore by Murakami and read All the Pretty Horses by McCarthy for the first time. I'd like to be recommended a living American author who writes better than Cormac McCarthy. Relieved to have sold my Subaru and might be buying a truck soon. Working at Flatbread still and am excited that I'm training to bake this week. Sierra Nevada's Bigfoot Ale and a ginger beer mixed with 10 Cane Rum are both very delicious. So was the Carne special last week, Bleu Cheese cream sauce with bacon, tomatoes, spinach and mushrooms. Am finding myself closer to commiting to spend summer 2012 in Alaska on a fishing boat (unlikely to be crab). Stoked to have an oven at my new place and will be getting back into baking, bagels and challahs and cinnamon raisin breads here I come. Still on the lookout for mainland job opportunities in Oregon/New Mexico/Colorado. Until then, getting back into the aloha spirit that I misplaced for a minute. Congratulations to my friends who just graduated and I wish you all luck on your journey which begins now.
Summertime, and the livin' is.
- Matthew
And an excerpt from All The Pretty Horses on "fate"My father had a great sense of the connectedness of things. I'm not sure I share it. He claimed that the responsibilty for a decision could never be abandoned to a blind agency but could only be relegated to human decisions more and more remote from their consequences. The example he gave was of a tossed coin that was at one time a slug in a mint and of the coiner who took that slug from the tray and placed it in the die in one of two ways and from whose act all followed, cara y cruz. No matter through whatever turnings nor how many of them. Till our turn comes at last and our turn passes.
She smiled. Thinly. Briefly.
(A few pages later)
It's not so much that I dont believe in it. I dont subscribe it its nomination. If fate is the law then is it also subject to that law? At some point we cannot escape naming responsibility. It's in our nature. Sometimes I think we are all like that myopic coiner at his press, taking the blind slugs one by one from the tray, all of us bent so jealously at our work, determined that not even chaos be outside of our making.
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