Oh, alien home of my quiet breath; familiar still, all our quiet passings.

November 29th, 2013, 5pm

You ask, Where is home? I tell you, I have traveled and uprooted the comforts of place and food, left the casual confines of cohabitation and of marital security, disabused my body of habits of thought.

Yet leaving all this, I find myself. In this being here. Alone in the not-so-very-silent wild. Here, where what is familiar and human is no reduction of this indifferent and ancient desert to some anthropomorphised construct of the mind, but is instead a “being in” — beyond acceptance of — the antehuman, the prehuman, the alien.

Here is impermanence. Here is the good smallness.

You say, But are not even these words a kind of taming?


John, Craig, Jess and David Wade said thanks.

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Lora Rivera

where words matter -- and don't

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