One contains multitudes. One has always known this. We have considered ourselves a peculiar sort of box, kin to that made for Pandora, filled with voices and ephemerals, clawed invisible things, shades of demons. The actual, the imaginary, the ideal, the useful and the dead. A walking casket with hands to carry its own keys.

Trouble is, with so many stacked in there like that, it's damn hard to find what you're looking for sometimes.

So sometimes you stop looking, and there it is, sitting right on top, glinting like a cat's eye marble or a toy sword, like it has always been there, just waiting for you, and how could you miss it anyway?

But that's always the way. With homes, toys, loves, and any such thing. I was having a discussion with my favorite blue morpho this morning, about people who feel like home. And one realises why one has not wanted nor cared too much about seeking a lover in these promiscuous days, for one has that, in at least one present form-- one's comfortable Wench, who sleeps even now in her own room suffused by cats-- and electronically and via voice-communique the others: Said Morpho, Our Green Fairy, Our Duke. Our Godson. Our Rifleman, to the extent that he isn't breaking off and building his own. Our cats. And others, to a lesser extent. Four walls and some windows, all in their various places, building some sort of intangable but palpable temple and tabernacle at which I can pray and by which I can take comfort, be peaceful-- have a home.

And now, now, now that I am, apparently, to have masonry to go along with the living dreams...

Well. There's something, isn't there?

<<agé chose>>

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