Photos from ho-ho-home…

January 8, 2010

Snow falls and is gone by morning. The cuckoo’s chirp sounds at the hour, then at the half, then every minute. The morning commute merges with the afternoon rush. And I realize that my days are numbered at home in Stuyvesant, heralding my return to York. Back to a just-too-cold apartment, unreliable (and sometimes unavailable) funds and a noticeable loss of effective, real communication. I am happy at home, and that is not home. And the distance grows between York and I. Yes, York is a dream the morning after: it exists, I try and recall, but the details dissemble the harder I try.

In so many ways I regret the departure from here. Yes, I really do. The holidays do me like that. I appeased my eyelids and sated my deprivation, sleeping in my balmy bed ten hours at a time. Brewing cups of coffee for Ida while pouring over the Register Star’s crossword on Tuesdays and Thursdays retained the summertime’s sublimity. Sitting on the back porch and watching the snow fall with stars still visible, cigarette or tea in hand, sedated the disquiet of my mind or otherwise. I adore home (despite rumor of the opposite). I claim this quotidian registry, this traipsing through time, as my own. [What a sexy phrase!]

The sense of a coming home feels so strong to me. The universe placates me when I am here and enacts a masterful performance in which it corrects itself. I am calm at home. I am rational at home. I am carefree at home. Peter Pan never went back when he ran away: that home was not Neverland. But mine is. And I do not know when I will next return.

I failed to do all I could with these twenty odd days. But I am glad I had a chance.

One of my Christmas presents from Santa was a digital camera. It’s maroon and cute. I haven’t used it enough, but what I have I would like to share with you now. See what Neverland has to offer:


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