Home is where the heart is, so they say. And to a large extent I have begun to believe. I believe not because I need to, but because I want to. At one point I admitted:
I simply wish to return to San Francisco and satiate my eyes with the beauty of the Pacific Ocean. Sadly, for all I have attempted and done, I will return there to live and die. I miss it terribly – there is no place like it. It is home. And I am now able to accept it without shyness or shame, for I know that the cosmopolitan man can have a home though he is a citizen of the world. Thus I say, my home is San Francisco.
I suspect at the time, I honestly believed this to be the case — San Francisco was home. I was Odysseus en route to Ithaca, anxiously craving to set foot anew upon my ancestral home. No longer.
With impudent haughtiness I would voice my Californianness when residing in New Mexico. No sir! I may be brown but I am a Californian! My accent betrays me: I do sound Californian. And it is grotesque!
But I no longer identify myself as a Californian — I shall let others identify me as such.
After the shipwreck, I dragged myself unto the primæval coast of New Mexico, forsaking the actual ones of California. New Mexico will always be dear to me; it represents unbridled freedom and loneliness. Perhaps these are qualifiers embody with honesty my human condition.
But now is the time to let my life be shaped by a new set of initials.
I honestly don’t care much for these posts where I reflect on the past — they are ever so bothersome. However, I have nothing else to say; this time the paucity of experiences and therefore of material is to blame. I, unlike the Demiurge, am unable to turn dust into living flesh. My breath is not so potent.