In other people's houses

If you spend your whole life

in other people's houses

you don't know

it isn't your house

until you loose your set of keys

and you've left the oven, the heat, the lamps on -

but the locksmith

is legally prohibited from opening the door:

it would do too much damage

to someone else's property.

In other people's houses

I have lived my life

Father, mother, friends, sisters, lovers

universities, landlords, elders

strangers, travellers.

The guest who did not leave

the young woman in need of help

the figure caught in transition

The victim of circumstance

the reality of radical, off-the-map pathways.

Many masks, one form:

other people's houses.

Pleased when I could entertain guests

give lovers (who for some reason could always fix things)

a place to stay

friends and ministers food and drink ....

even if i payed the rent

it was always

in someone else's house

if this act

was political:

defiance against ownership and property

against rules of society

constructs of reality

then: more power to me.

or if I was a gypsy

a nomad, a wanderer, a cattle-herder - then perhaps....

but really

none of this was born of critical consciousness

or purposefully chosen global exploration

simply a default modus operandus

Expressing a particular construct of how-to-get-by

as if this form of survival was the only option

under-earning

debting

to the kindness of strangers

and the needs of markets -

Temporary accomodation

resting spots

no roots here.

Ensnared by short term thinking:

Financial markets, unsustainable societies, and me.

In other people's houses

I entered their minds sometimes their hearts

Living out their dreams and lives.

father's rules, mother's hopes

compliance compliance laced with defiance

Camilleon: I can do this and that and that as well

but is this mine

when is this mine

where is this mine

who is this

who is this woman

who lives in my house

my body

who tells me to go here and there

who feeds me and nurses me and clothes me -

who is this woman?

living in my house

my body

placing it in his arms

on her floor

shaking

who is she? surely, this woman, she is not me?

sometimes

i go out.

to the House i discovered

a long time ago.

the house with no walls.

just stars and wind and the call of the coyote.

pungent earth and grassy wind.

i know i am home.

But these days

in this country

of dark nights and rain-soaked days

walls, floors and ceilings

to care for my books and my papers and my heart

seems to necessitate

learning the art of architecture

electricity and plumbing

of building

a structure meant to last.

or so i say.

but my hands

are soft.

those hard skills -

not yet mine.

Some whisper Promises.

that i can find the keys to my own house.

that it is already built.

but first i have to remember

where i hid them

back when it was not yet safe

to come home.