So I decided to record here as an appropriate musical score two of my favourite tunes concerning the topic of coming home: the classic "Green, Green Grass of Home" [which is actually a bitter in-negative version of it] and Bruce Springsteen's "My Hometown" [which is in many regards by no means sweeter for that matter].
The point is to prove that no homecoming is either simple in itself or ultimately altogether fulfilling.
In a very precise and in many ways obvious way you never quite actually come back.
Homecoming [and "Home-being" for that matter] are both complex, intrinsecally problematic experiences involving rejection for one thing and in unavoidable sense of deprivation, of irretrievable dispossession for other.
In point of fact you don't just come back: you come back from and then you have to consider the inextricable twin question of coming back to.
Choice, choice, choice.
Loss, loss, loss.
Quite often like elephants and whales you come back home simply to die.
To die in a more comfortable familiar environment.
To make death a bit more of a relative 'thing' than it usually is, I mean.
I don't know why I came back home in this particular circumstance.
I guess I'll find something it eventually though.
It's a risk I have to take.
Still a question keeps haunting me to which I definitely have to answers for the moment:
is Death what I am experiencing from it anyway now?
Is Death what I will ultimately meet 'at the end of the corridor'?
Is Death what I really hope to win in the end---my own comfortable, wise death?
I don't know about that either and it is just as well, I suppose.
Death I guess either it is the death of your body or that of your soul is just a task you have to perform,
In a way a mission you have been confided upon,
a delicate object which you must not mislay or above all corrupt.
A job you have to do:
You might as well do it right, don't you think?...