"Honorary Boss" you said.

Life seems to be a cycle of little or big births-deaths-and-rebirths. There are half-births. I died again this friday and spent this weekend being born. I went to centerville virginia. On the way down from Baltimore I was listening to some music and there was a line in a song that mentioned coming home. "I'm going home" or "I'm coming home", those statements have never meant so much to me as they have this past year, a year, and a little more, of being homeless. I like to be home when I can but it's difficult when you have no home (which is why sentences about coming home or going home have taken on a new meaning). When you're homeless it seems you find home in the most peculiar places, unexpected. Home becomes a state, an awareness, a position in time effected (and I mean that in the sense that it's spelled) by the people surrounding you, the circumstances, the words said, the looks given, and most of all, your willingness to accept it. I've found in the past year that you can be home, in the proper sense, without feeling like you're at home at all. In fact, at times being home, in the proper sense, can feel like a visit to such a foreign country where the rules have all changed and there is no love and no care taken with anything and the physical space of home is merely an empty shell of a space where you can't even call what you're doing there living. Subsisting, maybe. And so home becomes something else, not that apartment or that house, not that box, but something more transient. The emotional and spiritual space created by family (and I use that word very cautiously)is home, whether it's in Richmond Virginia, Chicago Illinois, Peoria Arizona, Fairfax Virginia, Centerville Virginia, Baltimore Maryland, Johnstown Tennessee. . .
It was good to come home this weekend, it's been so long. Thanks guys.