The Alan Sondheim Mail Archive


i'm always trying to find a home away from illusion and
misrecognition, somewhere i might be comfortable, with good
friends, community. when i leave a place i'm always taking with
me dozens of 'homeland' photographs, as if they can pull me back
to a dwelling that will hold me and azure forever. i'm always
failing at this as well, everything seems illusory and the world
is far harsher than i could ever have imagined as a child, and
as a child i had a picture of the hydrogen bomb by my bedside.
it was scary but it was distant, it didn't gnaw from within. now
the world seems colder, more violent, with great sadness and
upheavals everywhere, i'm thinking of so many species plunging
to extinctions, a planet which can only be described, now, as
trashed, and the feeling that there is no place called home
anymore. i can't live in illusion, grace and life itself are
illusions, i'm teetering, can one fall into light, i don't know,
i haven't heard of that but i'm listening, ear close to the
ground, listening for the slightest signs, hoping against hope,
that somewhere in the universe, for someone, something, is a
dwelling place of eternal comfort, homeful and hopeful, if only
a tiny place, a small hut, small community, something outside
the illusions of the light of day.

Generated by Mnemosyne 0.12.