gingerbread season

where is home?
is home a precious territory, bound by walls? is it also a yard, a street, a city? does it vary depending upon the place, upon the person? is it an origin, a belonging; is there some magnetism that pulls us toward it? does matches then belong at the center of the earth, on the basis that he is relentlessly pulled towards it? what if there is some obstruction, some hard thing in the way that stops this natural persuasion, this tendency downward? can that be considered meant to be, such that he can become complacent where he is sitting now...this chair and this ground existing as he does, with feeble and also intricate attempts at composing purpose? or should he be grabbing a shovel just this very moment and spading his way towards the earth's core? it is a valid feeling, this gravity...it is inescapable. it is a feeling much like the longing for home; it wrenches the stomach sideways and pangs with fear when one rebels against it. but since we speak of physicality, let us imagine matches breaking free of his orbital relationship with the planet (hereby you are implored to imagine this, with all dues paid to comedy and terror). free from its both gentle and generous tussles and tugs. this is conceivable at the moment...so it must not be like the longing for home, which ever aches in some remote corner.

is home then a feeling wrapped in both hands; a mug that is filled with steaming peacefulness and carried around to chase off the cold? it does seem like this feeling arises most often when the turbulences and frosts of the world spill or chill our spirits, so perhaps that is more spot on. closer to home, as it were. cringe. this is a troubling admission, though...because if home really is more of a feeling than a physical place, then home is nowhere. how discouraging~ but also everywhere; how uplifting! yet sadly, the nowhere seems in this occasion to obscure the everywhere. at least if a fixed point of home were to exist, it would be no logic puzzle, no soul-seeking to decipher the presence or absence of the feeling. the remedy would be swift, and if not, at least tenable. matches submits that there is no academic buzzword more open to complication than the word 'feeling'. this is troubling territory, if we want to get anywhere, which it should be assumed we do. or perhaps m is alone in his journey to forge a ring of steel. no matter~

if home is a feeling, then what is to stop it from being accessible at any time, in any place? how comforting that would be, and also, how disturbing. what could shatters one's western conceptions of life more than to hear that every place is just as special as another? how is it that matches comes by such unrest, living in different places? clearly there is more to the equation than some fickle neuron-switching...there are elements of home, brushstrokes and arpeggios, that swirl the sediments of life into a content clamor. for one can never be content without movement...and while that may seem in direct contradiction to the ideal of a home, it is moreso because there is a great deal of misunderstanding involved within that concept.

"and i tell you, one must have chaos in oneself in order to give birth to a dancing star."
~ nietzsche

ah, matches despises quoting foreign authors, for what justice has the translation done to their words or their intentions? it cannot be told. but what can be said of a home? time cracks and shatters all ideas about what it may have been. it exists in the past, on some separate frequency. matches is just having trouble transposing this tune into the present~ home can be found...it exists just as it did previously, in feelings. it may not be as potent as it once was, surrounded by familiarities and family members, friends and futures. but matches believes that we can nurture the elements of home by making them foremost in our lives...surround yourself with good friends, love, curiosities and interests, passions and ponderances. heirlooms of the heart; these things are not to be sold for any price. they are age-old patchwork quilts, with warmth beyond the capacities of technology. think merely of the first, and already the world looks a bit brighter, a sliver more snug and inviting~

"one may have a blazing hearth in one's soul and yet no one ever come to sit by it. passersby see only a wisp of smoke from the chimney and continue on the way."
~ vincent van gogh