Early memories have me watching "The Wizard Of Oz" with a "Dorothy Plate" complete with all the fixings that scares the hell out of a naturally cultivated vegetarian.
When Black & White went to Color, I, like most, was mesmerized by the visceral meaning behind all of it.
The place I call home is one I can never truly come back to. It's always missing something.
I came across HGTV the other day and got to watch the Cable Version of what goes on in Real Estate these days. Made me want to eat paint chips and wipe my posterior with home-made thorns. Then I read Active Rain and got a more real version ... of that place ... that's always missing something.
That Place You Call Home is the same abode I call mine. But it's more than six walls and a toilet or two, it's a forehead against a desk, peripheral vision that eyes a stranger in the dark, and a sharp elbow just to keep things in proper order.
A pious man once said, "Do unto me the same as I crap onto you."
And the one thing I don't want to miss is that place I call home.
*I lie about when I will and won't articulate things. It was supposed to be a month, yet here I am not thirty days into the joint and I'm smoking a blunt made of breeze. Angst still surprises me and goosebumps keep me kicking dirt. *