This is all I know of home. My father told me it’s the best place to talk to God  and where you can hear God talk back to you. he and I have much to talk about and sort out. I don’t yet claim to know him in the way that others do, and know that I speak perhaps only to myself, subconscious but here I find center. Here, I still believe he is paying attention somewhere, compassionately laughing at his wayward son.  I, being of the thickest skull, unbroken and dented by the greatest wrecks, have much to stir about and ponder. Skulls are made thick in errors of confidence and ambition. I’ve been a  hard- headed heart-broken daredevil for far too long and discovered a more difficult pursuit and softer sport.

I’ve been pining, digging and searching for signs of significance as I have known  in the past, some sign that I am still loved. There is a divine, a magic to the world, a natural way where random events are woven together into something beyond coincidence. I wish I could forget it now and trip over it again as a middle aged family man.

I’ve played the alchemist, impatiently trying to reproduce magic, artificially and fool myself into giving up the genuine dream for the ones that would simply do. No man made effort potion could replace what is pure, naturally evolving and fulfilling. I know that there is meaning, a story and rhyme scheme, a natural way back into grace. I am worn out with lies and tricks. I will search for  greater purposes to serve until the answers come back into my life. I’ll venture off the deep end and will wait for something to catch me and if it is the ground and it’s the dirt I kiss first, at least I’ll go out on the right path.

There are few trails out here, just a hand drawn map riddled with metaphors. I’ve seen wonders, I’ve kissed a few, tasted them, I chase again and adventure finds me. I’ll break myself over and over again hoping to get back to those wonders.

I didn’t grow up with home cooked meals and comforts. I grew up in hard places, the middle, neglected in the foggy gray threshold between mountains, clouds and city lights. In the high ground where the clouds and mountains kiss gently with moist lips, I find more comfort and passion here than on city streets. I didn’t grow up trusting the warmth of homes, chapels, beds or bodies as the ones I opened my doors to left, betrayed or were taken from me. I’ve walked away from them too, hesitating to trade them for the unforgiving indifference of nature. I can trust that it will never live with intention or complication beyond life itself. The complicated natural symphony lives in simplicity.

I am a man of many words but my native language can never make it to page.  You must simply see and experience it to understand. Know it as you come to know the man, first hand. I grasp at words and throw them in the air like a handful of dirt gently let go in the wind. At best I can only apply loose translations that cannot capture the way eyes do, all that I am and all that I feel. I give it in a look. Here, I need not write or stay up all night, dreaming how to set it up right to convey or lure you to me or this place.

You know it with some- those who can look to see you and meet your eyes. Those looks and faces you don’t need question, you can read volumes in the stares, glances and subtleties. Believe it or not, my songs are but the desperate substitutes of expressions given intently in split seconds. I compensate at length out of longing for those looks and that language. That look where you can read everything you need to know and see dreams and intentions in speckles, cones and pits in Iris of the eye.