home. if only i could tell you what home means to me!
often i have been asked about home and even more often i have not know where home is. i keep on looking for home, and sometimes when i look into your eyes, it is for home that i am searching.
home? home.
returning home to angels. writing pregnant sentences. regretting kierkegaard's regret. wishing to not wish. experiencing all of it. i was born there, and then got kidnaped by that illusion that we do not call the capital reality. yet, we ough to call the grand illusion, the capital reality. i am tired of marx and engels, i am tired of hegel and kant, i am tired of them all. i am even tired of chomsky and eco. i am drilling into bateson and varela. i am particular tired of abusing the scientific method: academia needs a new context. i am also tired of hyperlinks and hypertext that is not automatic, and i am tired. tired. tired and empty. i feel empty. empty and scrubbing the walls of my being with the tenacious remnants of that nasty piece of experience which was my childhood. while my life is good, childhood left the walls of this being scarred, tarnished and in a confusion as to what home might ever be.
it was another day of me, myself, and i still struggling with the other side, or this side of emptiness. it is the other side of something that i do not know, or at least of something that i do not recognize. is it freedom or is it an endless abyss?
i feel your teaching embracing me, and then the call to do what i want to do is stronger than ever. today, yesterday and for months now, i feel paralyzed and uncapable of sensible action. why the paralysis? why the impotence? knowledge seems so damned useless! i want to be able to look into your eyes again and see home, that home that allows me to purge my mind of the nightmares and the horrors. i want to look at you again and be able to once more know that my world is intact, and nobody, not even you will ever rob me of this world of mine.
i think of the nightmare that i had at your house. that is home, your house. under that leaky roof of yours, i feel nurtured and embraced in your love; it is a place where i can have a nightmare and feel safe. home is a state of conscientiousness. but what am i doing here burying my head in the sand and feeling invertebrate, powerless, meek, without a conscience and not conscient? impotent!
it rains, it pours, and life goes on. humans die and are born. the cat plays with the dead mouse and i drown snails in beer traps. i am starting to wish for the conscience of the cat and its freedom from judgement just tossing that carcass of a once cute living rodent. i feel bad about a few drowned snails! why do i care? why do i want to care? is the cat less of or more a being than i am?
the difference between the cat and i is that it does not know your teaching, and it does not appear unperturbed by his natural predator instincts. why is being human such a repressed anomaly? is this a collective psychosis of our times?
home is the place where i untangle my fears of that abyss that i call delusion, hypocrisy, megalomania and phoniness. this is the place where i am now, home.
