Self-deprecation is worth its weight in smoldering phoenix-ashes and baby unicorn tears.
Published on May 7, 2008 By SanChonino In Blogging

14 Apr 2008.  3:43pm.

Some days I miss home - real home, not Tarragona-home - more than others.

Today is one of those days.

Maybe it's because I don't have anything to occupy my time - I should've bought my return ticket for Sunday night rather than tonight because 1)nothing is open on Mondays, and 2)I'm broke anyway, so I wouldn't have been able to find anything free to do besides exactly what I'm doing - still chilling in the park.

Maybe it's because all this 'alone time' the last few days has made me extra pensive, as solitudinous days seem to have that effect on me.  I don't have an annoyance to channel all my thoughts into trying not to kill.

But perhaps I don't really miss home.  Maybe I just want to relive memories of home.  Because the home I left is not the home I'm going back to in July.

My family will be essentially the same, thank heavens.  They'll be about the only constant.

My workplace will have changed drastically.  My boss is quitting, and I don't really like the person who's replacing her.  Another dear coworker will be gone, redeployed with her Air Force husband to heaven-only-knows-where.  The whole bank is going to have a totally different vibe, and I don't even know if I'll want to work there any more.

Then there are my friends - or what will be a conspicuous lack thereof when I return.  My very best friend Tahnee is getting married next month and moving with her husband to Nebraska.  So I'll probably never even see her again.

The two people who used to be my best friends are getting married to each other two weeks before I come home.  And that hurts.  I was supposed to be his best man and her man of honor, but instead I'm not even invited.  And while they might not be moving away, there is still that impenetrable wall of awkwardness between married and single people.  So I'll probably see them once or twice and the insurmountable weirdness will be the end of that.

I've always been the kind of person with plenty of friendly acquaintances but few real friends.  And, upon arriving home, I'll have Peter (5.000 kilometers away in New Hampshire) and the girls.  I wonder what friend the new me will be?  Will I continue to play my cards close to the chest, with few true friends?  Or will I open up a bit, finally melting some of that coldness that grips me and that keeps people at bay?

And how much of that can be changed, and how much is hard-wired into me?

I miss my dear mother's cooking.

on May 07, 2008

Don't mind the Final Fantasy pictures, it's the highest-quality version of the song I could find. And I want to post it, because these guys are bad to the bone.

Ignorance is bliss no wise woman's failed to mention
and surely some koan suggests 'neglect leads to perfection'
but the more I turn my face from the crowd
the more I feel my backs' increasingly compelled
for the sake of escape, to turn a knife on itself,
a knife of relief, from all the petty insight
and finally I'll sleep, I'll sleep through the night.
Bored as f*** with this street corner-cover.
study of a face in a figure. surveying this language as a game
surveillance of this language as the plague.
the dimension of persistence condemns.
This portrait of karma, crafted in accident
text book seduction, minus the text in the language of ghosts
and so we ran, like the wolves were biting,
the inhibitions of their prey kept them from screaming
"scratch my back and I will stab you in yours"
so I chose to live this life alone, without the teeth marks
but I predict, I'll have to sink my fangs in someone else's heart to heal my own.
just a victim's split, one part for the wolves, one part for you.
but I'll grow weary soon, weary of this fractal code,
weary of this hallway lined with ghosts.
just a scratch upon the skin, a drop of blood to let them in
their words will cause the sweetest fracture from a stone's throw
just a scratch upon the skin, a drop of blood to welcome them
parasitic, viral critics, or lovers, like spirits mingling in the mist
that we crafted, a starving jury, let them eat s*** from our trembling hands.
The heat for heat's sake, on this Barnard block of Congress
deductively speaking, the polar of progress
well maybe I put too much faith in the accident
entranced, we danced toward the ripest display of escape
let the starving ghosts feats, from this flesh, from these bones,
let them all feast. In this chess game of language, forced to sit so I play all alone, watch the bathos drift forth like the petals from a wild crafted rose.

Circle Takes the Square, 'Non-Objective Portrait of Karma'
on May 07, 2008

We miss you, too.  Tons.



on May 07, 2008
Awww . . .
on May 07, 2008
on May 07, 2008
I don't get it. Call me dumb, but I'm just not seeing the funny.
on May 07, 2008
I think SanCho needs a hug.

on May 07, 2008

I enjoy my solitude.  But I do understand how you feel.  Being so far from home and alone is enough to give anyone the blues.


on May 07, 2008
I think SanCho needs a hug.

What if I just gave him some karma, and a long distance internet hug?
on May 08, 2008

Well, you know you always have a home in NH (as long as we are here: another 4 years) as well.  Take care bro.

on May 08, 2008

Thanks, all.  Nice to have the lovin'.

CB:  Who said it was supposed to be funny?  Buttercup Festival usually isn't.

BD:  Thanks for that.  If I have any dinero left over when I get home, I'm planning a visit. 

on May 08, 2008

Like Maso, I love solitude but who knows how I would feel being in another country. Even one as great as you made Spain sound.  ((SC))

Who doesn't miss their mom's cooking? I'm missing it right now.