Home for Memorial Day

I'm home in Leslie, MI until this evening.


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It's such a comforting, sincere emotion to feel that I am really home.

I am discovering all the books and CD's that I have let slip from my mind while in Lansing.  How could Nick Drake's Pink Moon not be on my iPod?  Blasphemy.  Especially when the title track devastated me before my first driver's education lesson, the song pushing me forward to some adult ritual I hardly wanted to initiate.  Such a reaction fits well in my general tendency to abhor growing up, growing older, growing gray.

I have been feeling, in general, both very happy and very nervous about going to Brazil.  Health and safety precautions freak me out more than console me.

Humid air in Leslie is somehow more comfortable than humid air anywhere else in the world.

I find solace in a couple books on the I Ching I bought years ago.  I used to see them as mere instruments for fortune-telling, and not reliable ones at that.  After so many years away from these books, I now see them as very inconspicuous yet deep wells of a philosophy that, after so many quiet years on a forgotten bookshelf, has only grown more ripe and respectable.

I wish I could spend a lot more time here.  Every time I come back to Leslie, it's always in passing.  A night, a long day, an afternoon, then I'm back in what feels like my replacement home, an imitation of a true attachment to pieces of furniture, to painted walls or to sunlight falling on a staircase.

Here's to growing up: