I've got a funny life at the moment. It involves a lot of cover letters, fried chicken, some post-christmas christmas cards, ever unpacked bags, and a little bit of feeling like I'm home, but only in the most uncanny of ways. I've come into my uncle's house in London for the holidays and, although they are only cousins, he has the same hands as my father, I'm sure of it. Probably drinks as much tea, smokes as many cigarettes. And then there are all of the same sayings, the same offerings--warm milk with honey before bed, almonds--and it all makes me feel just a bit homesick, because it is so close, and yet of course, still so far.
But it is good to be among family, to speak of the familiar, all those faces that could be lined up between ours to show some sort of evolutionary resemblance. And we had ourselves a lovely little Christmas feast, and we took ourselves out shopping on Boxing Day. And we remind each other to say our prayers when its time. And everyone refers to the guest room they've set up for me as mine, and they apologize that it has the only old TV in the house and I tell them I don't mind since I don't watch TV, and then make them listen to the buzz of it through the wall, through the night.
Because this room, my room in my uncanny home, has the only bed in the world that I can sit in all night and never get sleepy in. I can write or read until dawn and never even doze, but when I do decide to sleep, I have the best dreams ever, and let myself have them until noon or later and wake up so much happier.
