creative nonfiction

The Coming Home

/ wvfurandroot / 2 Comments

Are you a tourist or a traveler?  Is it a trip or a quest?  A journey or a destination?

These days, I’m a tourist more than a journeyer.  I did my journey early in life.  I was on a quest for years before coming home to myself.  Coming home to my heritage.  Coming home to my genetics.

That sounds kind of sad, but I don’t mean for it to.  A year or so ago, maybe two, I was playing around with some video software and did a digital story about my house.  I often don’t know what I think, until I start writing.  The montage needed a script and so I wrote one.  In the course of writing, I discovered I had reached my destination.  The journey was over.

Now when I leave home, I’m a tourist.  I’m not looking for a place to live or find happiness or fulfillment.  I’m simply out seeing the sights.  Kirk Judd wrote:

I thinks
one reason
I be leavin'
alla time
is 'cause
the comin' home
feel
so good

–Kirk Judd

The comin’ home.  Yes. 

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I love…

/ wvfurandroot / 1 Comment

I love puppies.  I call all dogs, regardless of their age, puppies, but in this instance, I am talking about newborn puppies.  I love their glossy fur, round bellies, and milk smell.  I love the little noises they make when they suckle.  I positively chortle with delight when they try to walk or jockey for position to reach one of mama’s nipples.

The Creator was in a good mood the day puppies were made.

I love coffee first thing in the morning.  Fresh and piping hot.  I wrap my hands around the mug and hold it like it is the Holy Grail leading me to redemption.  I love the aroma and will breathe it in with the steam.  Once in a while, I will pour heavy cream into it until it is the color of dark caramel.  The richness of the cream coating my tongue.

Morning coffee is my daily ritual – my must for starting the day.

I love the beach in summertime.  I have a low chair that allows me to dig my feet into the sand as I stretch out, my mug of coffee with me in the morning, and a ridiculous umbrella drink in my right hand in the afternoon.  I sit there and I watch people and I watch the ocean and I meditate on the sand.  I do not read.  I do not write.  I do not think.  I just sit and let negative ions from the crashing surf pour over me until my skin begins to redden -the signal that I need to get out of the sun. 

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My Fantasy Self

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If I could fly, I would soar to Mexico

If I could soar to Mexico, I would bask on a beach with a margarita.

If I could bask on a beach with a margarita, I would think of nothing.

If I could think of nothing, I would find my breathing deep and relaxed.

If I could breathe deep and relaxed, I would think through all these problems.

If I could think through these problems, I would have a plan.

And if I could have a plan, I would work it and work it.

I would work that plan and create the life I’m striving for. 

But real life keeps intervening and derails my planning.  If I could, I would.

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Calypso

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It is cold as shit in here and I have a Calypso earworm in my head.  Daylight come and I wanna go home.  Like reggae, it’s impossible to be anything but happy when the music is blaring.  And blaring it is.  I want to go home — home where things are organized and orderly and sane.  I am home, but my home is anything but what I need it to be.  Still, I’m oddly cheerful.

Photo by Stéphane Juban on Unsplash

Greek mythology says Calypso was a nymph who kept Odysseus on her island for seven years promising him immortality, but he preferred to go home instead.  I can understand that.  I want to go home too, but technically I am home.  Home is just not very homey right now.

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