When the peaks of our sky come together, my house will have a roof.

—— Gaston Bachelard


The other day, the ops clerk at work inadvertently reminded me of one more way in which I am not truly connected to this place. This tropical paradise where I have resided for nearly eighteen years now.

It was a reminder of how subtle cultural difference can affect one’s experience of a space.

Surprisingly powerful at times.

In that one brief exchange of conversation, I saw how such connection can only run as deep as the conduit laid long ago. Those lines attaching foundations forged by folks and forces now discoverable by the random subconscious discernment of their progeny alone.

A junction with which transients (as is this writer) need not attempt to join. It’s not that we are not welcome. We just don’t possess the proper coupling. Our fasteners don’t quite fully function.


Since I first began walking this wide-open road of my youth (the terminus of which I only now approach) my boots have rested outside many different doors. The doors of many different kinds of rooms in many different houses.

And although many of those houses have contained the makings of many an interesting adventure story (some of which I have and continue to write) my connection to all of them has remained relatively tenuous… superficial even.

At best, those houses helped harbor my weaknesses until such time as I was ready for further growth. At worst, they facilitated constant fears of failure. Fears that flung me back onto yet another road, and then another.

Until I arrived here.


Here is a house of great healing.

Here, at the end of this bumpy, two-rutted, jungle road… is the house just before the house. The house to send me home.

My sweetheart will know what I mean, for she is the only one with whom I share this level of meaning.

The rest is poetry.