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I give to you a dialogue in eleventy-one words...

Home is where the heart is.

Where is your heart?

Not sure. I need to find it.

Don’t you always tell me that if you don’t know where you’re going, you should stay where you are?

Do as I say, not as I do.

Hypocrisy?

No… Maybe… I guess so. But with good intention.

The road to hell.

To heaven.

That’s not how the saying goes.

The saying is wrong.

How do you know?

I’ve seen it, lived it.

Arrogance?

Experience.

Go, then.

I will, and it will hurt.

Why go, then?

Because it doesn’t hurt yet.

That’s absurd.

I’m leaving to find something.

What do you think you’ll find?

Home.

Dead History

‘But history isn’t dead.’


‘No, it never is was will be. It’s when none of those exist.’

‘Philosophical mumbo jumbo.’

‘No, history isn’t dead.’

‘Then what is this?’

‘It’s just something else they haven’t named yet. Maybe they’ll call it post post modernism.’

‘Seems unoriginal.’

‘A tongue in cheek shout out to the post modern.’

‘Sounds more like 1984.’

‘A little of that too.’

‘I think it’s something else. A coming to terms with. A puss ridden silence spelling the end of a festering wound. A returning. A fed uppedness.’

‘Maybe. I wouldn’t count on it.’

‘I’m not. I’m just saying how it feels.’

‘I get it. Another beer?’

‘Of course.’