Home

They say home is where the heart is

But maybe it’s more than that…

It's more than lone souls wandering on cold cobblestone tiles

It’s the air in-between us which zips and buzzes like simmering chai spills

It's what froths and foams from our open mouths

It's the compliments and stories

It's the warm hands and close bodies

It's the patience we choose to take with eachother

It's the Emperor, the Empress, our grounded Fathers, our loving Mothers

It's neither me or you alone that gives “home” its many titles

But it's all of us, those who choose to stoke the fires, to enrich our blood soaked vitals

Blood may be thicker than water, but nothing is denser nor richer than the living space shared between friends

For as long as I have live in the presence of community, I am at home in these lost, forgotten lands 

A sacred matter of material

Why oh why am I so drawn towards the materials at hand? What of my lead glazed pottery of my highschool days? What of the crystals received from bound lovers? What of a tarot deck glazed with the memories of spilt drinks and ashed cigarettes? What of the fired ceramic necklace I wear to remind me of distant close friends?

These objects, these known motifs, they link to auras held within. 

Why do I turn to these items of fixation?

Perhaps while my body ages, while my cells die and my form adapts, these objects remain true like testaments of old, waiting for life to be breathed into them. They are constants and that is sacred for while I am sacred I am not constant. I live in the depleting ether of life's journey, a journey that knows only inertia and knows only change. These items surround me like the treasures of royal tombs. They extend my very essence and enhance it with the memories bound to my soul. 

These items are sacred to me.

Saintly and powerful they are, relics to me but not the masses.

A tomb of my own, items set into decorative motion, items never sitting passive.