So, what is it that we might get ourselves up to pondering this evening? The thematically pervasive idea of gratitude, as comes with the seasonal celebration pert near upon us? Or to play to the contrarian that is ever residing inside me, shall I go on and on about the vast array of indignations I seem to be perpetually harboring, in this form or that, or another?

Since I have almost no scribblings of ideas to work from, I suppose it will all just have to be sorted out as we go along. The day was mildly manic enough to keep much philosophy at bay, aside that which stays upon the superficial surface of my being. All the digging will have to get done now, now long after sunset, as though I were some vagrant pillaging the crypts of my own consciousness.

I suppose the idea of home is especially inescapable as we enter this time of year. A concept that takes a great many forms, both in physicality and cerebral natures. So many of you out there, preparing or already arrived upon and within childhood dwellings and hometowns, while some are already in residence in such places awaiting the return of others to such destinations. Truth be told, I could probably count on the digits at the end of my hands how many times I’ve returned to my ‘hometown’ these last five years. And that is something I don’t see as quite a tragedy. A young man left that place, quite a while ago now, determined not to be returning to what in those years felt like a cage. He has, more or less, succeeded in that- though certainly not in the way that the  more optimistic, or foolish chap had dreamt up. And likely, better off for it. The selfishness that would have prevailed would have been a detriment to both himself, and others.

But here he is now, sitting before you in written form, wondering about that idea of home.

And he has one, meaning a home, meaning me, meaning I- and it is quite the place, confirmed from multiple outside sources. In fact, the only one who has been having a hard time in this place, as of late, would be the fellow whose name is upon the mortgage. Again, meaning me, meaning I.

Part of that has to do with ghosts and memories lingering about, for sure. But another aspect has more to do with what is beyond these walls. You see, necessity forced the relocation to this middle of nowhere. Because of decisions I had made, albeit as a much younger man- but if everything were exclusively up to my choosing, this would not have been the place selected. It’s nice enough, don’t get me wrong- if you don’t like good pizza or bread and are fine with the insane behavior that is not selling beer in goddamn gas stations. But to not damn the place entirely, I didn’t much care for where I grew up either.

So, I’ve been testing out these theories of home by returning as much as possible to the areas I spent in between childhood and now. And it still feels to me that those places still feel like home to me.

So, what is it then? Am I doomed to reside in an area that makes me feel homeless?

As wonderfully theatrical as that might be, I know that to not quite be the truth, either.

See, I’m thinking now that this seemingly aloof notion of home isn’t so much a symptom of locale, but rather, a condition of heart and mind. And though those are both fickle organs at times, it is their cohesion with a space and time that allows the idea of residential belonging to take its stand. That the comfortable inclusion of self is what matters, that and a community of varying sizes to hold as cohort. And that is something I know to be true for myself in various places, with various peoples, all throughout and ever onward in this timeline of my life.

And perhaps the trouble that is being had with that homestead ideology has a bit more to do with myself than anything else. That the perspective is a bit off or failing, as happens from time to time. There is still grief and guilt about my being, and those can take certain lengths of this eternity to process. And though it may be hard for me to see, the incremental steps away from feeling destitute and deprived have been occurring. And there are certain recollections of self that have been better indulging the furnace of my identity.

I didn’t write it down, but I’ve been thinking about something the last few dozen hours. You know, not all that long ago, or perhaps a million years ago, a most remarkable person, a friend, once called me the most interesting man in the world. Granted, there were plenty of hints of sarcasm within the statement, I’m sure- but not entirely. And though my own self-deprecation keeps the hubris from ever quite believing that, I still think of what that means in the moments I find myself in now.

See, scratching out the vanity aspect of it, I wonder what it means to be interesting. And the word that I think better fits the way of life I aim to get at would be ‘interested’. To be interesting, to me, seems so very superficial. Yet, to be interested- well that strikes as one of those essential ideations to a life well lived.

And when I think of the recent cycles of my life, it is when I am genuinely and deeply interested in this experience of existence that I feel most myself. Not some façade I wish to portray, but the person that lives inside of me when all the adulteration fades away. It is in these moments that I feel most alive, and really, most at home. No matter where it might be, or when- when the honest capacity for intrigue is occurring in this here writing and rambling fool, the sense of lingering homelessness falls away.

And that is something I am learning to find within my sentience again, and surely, not for the last time either. Tragedies continue to happen and as long as I’ve got a soul or spirit, or what have you, a toll comes due. But as long as I can keep stoking the embers of interest, the way back to a strength of identity is likely to be found. And maybe that isn’t the case for everyone. Might be there are those that would like nothing more than the sort of regularity that I would consider mundane. Those that have their unchanging favorites for each category and genre of experience, and hold no desire to expand beyond that. What a horrible thing, to think you’ve already seen and heard and felt the best that the senses are set to perceive. A pity, as I would see it. But to each their own.

Yet, I- oh, I crave that interest and find myself at my most disheartening when such paths and provocations cannot be found, or find themselves out of reach, even if temporarily. It is why I can go to bluegrass swing dance lessons on one evening, and a New York hardcore show the evening after, and enjoy them both respectively and respectful of what they are. Even if my innate dancing skills are more inclined to the latter than the former.

It is also how a free admission form led to the incomparable collegiate experience I ended up with, lifelong friends and eternal memories and the like. How letting go of my insecurities enough to engage with the live music occurring before me, granted the ease of courage to start a simple conversation that eventually led to a weekend in Copenhagen I’ll never forget. Or talk of literature and religion with a fellow former summer waiter then years later brought me to a suburb north of Dublin, witnessing a Sunday cèilidh in a pub where the front door is locked, but those in the know were aware the back is wide open to all those with the knowledge.

Or how asking a most compelling and magnetic man what he was doing on Arbor day led to the greatest of friendships, that will always have a home in my heart, no matter how far gone from this plane of existence he is now. A cataclysmic hurt, well worth it, just to know the joy and love those moments would bring. Someone I’ll never stop missing, but would pay in this pain to have known him. Every. Damn. Time.

Excuse me, a moment. These aren’t tears, just allergies or onions or something.

I’m not crying. You’re crying.

Apologies for that. So where were we?

Right, the idea of home and my eternal quest to find it not only in space and time, but within the very flesh and bones that hold whatever it is this consciousness of mine is. And I know I will stumble, and faulter, and fail. I already have more times than I would bother to count. But if it weren’t for that interest in life, I would never have had any of these experiences that have filled my spirit. And it is the fight for further interest that will keep this foolish, old poet going. That there is still so much left to do and be. That there are sights and sounds and other such sensations out there, still yet uncovered and discovered. And not only being intrigued within my own experience, but sharing in that with the others I hold dear. Something I see every day as I watch my daughter, once this helpless miniature mass of human now a fascinating young woman, and constantly growing and accumulating her own identity and grandeur. And in the friends and family that I will always find the will to fight for, even when, or especially when difficult.

So, onward with the quest, knowing that the roads ahead will always hold its tribulations. In fact, I would have to say that I even prefer it that way. For the easy road and an easy life is something I find infuriatingly boring. I hold no interest in such mundane perspectives, and sincerely hope to never call such a life home.

But that’ll do for now. There is work to be done still, as I prepare the domicile to host a feast later in the week. And I hope for you, that whatever interest you have is never lost, even if it must be adapted. That is, if that’s the kind of thing you’re into.