[Written away from home.]
Being away for a longer period of time from what was one's adult home for nearly two decades makes one reflect on what a home is and its value. Particularly after a nasty, but symbolically rich dream in which one was never able to get home. (A dream that would make a splendid, absurdist European movie.)
As a person gets older, the roots are dug deeper into what constitutes home, till finally, it seems, the senior citizen merely dozes in his or her favorite chair by the electronic warmth of a TV monitor. There is contentment to an extent, though shadowed by the anxiety of impending death. We are born into security, seek change and adventure starting in our teens, and then, once past our forties, become ever receptive to being at home, cozy and snug with the possessions that give us comfort by their familiarity and evocation of nostalgia. I don't know if this inevitable fate is the one I want for myself, but I feel these impulses, which are, after all, natural to the human condition. I'd replace the TV monitor with a crackling fireplace and a book resting on my lap--and I'd be set. Still, even in such a passive old age, I'd want some excitement. But would dreams be excitement's only channel?
More to come....
